BUTTE-VAL MOTEL
BUTTE VALLEY, MONTANA
7:30 PM
By the time they check into the seedy little motor inn, freakish snow has begun sweeping up against its outer walls in deep drifts. Despite having booked adjoining rooms, the nervous little man working the front desk querulously informs them that they will be bunking together this evening, courtesy of the inclement weather.
Mulder glances down at Scully, sullen and scowling beside him, before taking the proffered key and curtly thanking their host. Things haven't been right between them for a long time, and he doesn't think this new turn of events is going to improve the situation.
They locate their room at the end of a narrow, grey-tinged hallway. Each asks only a warm room and clean linens, but when Mulder pushes open the door to their room he discovers that they are doomed to disappointment. Slipping under the arm that braces the heavy door open, Scully enters the freezing room and drops her bag to the dingy, vaguely sticky floor.
"God, Mulder, I've seen morgue lockers that had better heat than this." Her frosty breath hangs in the air between them.
He tosses his own bag onto the bed and slumps into the rickety lawn chair by the door, responding more caustically than he intends.
"Sorry. This was all they had here in Butte-fuck."
Scully grimaces at this piece of punning profanity and plops down on the edge of the bed, hands buried inside her deep coat pockets. Glancing around their meager accommodations, she observes the one television - a vintage black-and-white Zenith that would fetch a pretty penny in the retro boutiques of Georgetown - a rust-stained heating unit, noisily cranking out a thin vapor of steam, and a gaping black hole leading to, she assumes, the bathroom. Scully closes her eyes and inwardly groans; she doesn't want to know.
Mulder also takes in these accoutrement, but his more observant eye spies salvation - at least for himself, if not for his partner. A creaky little fridge merrily clanks away from its unobtrusive hiding-place in the corner; leaning out of his seat, he pulls the door open and discovers a veritable minimart of alcoholic libations: tiny bottles of vodka, scotch, rum...the odd Budweiser. Not great, but when in Rome...
"Hey, Scully, check this out."
She squints inside the fridge, rolling her eyes at his discovery.
"Great. We can get drunk, fall asleep, and freeze to death here on the bed. I'll bet that's what the Donner Party had in mind, too. When all else fails, break out the Chivas and knock off the weak."
Mulder's eyebrows arch.
"First of all, I'm pretty sure they didn't have Chivas on hand..."
She glares at him from under lowering eyebrows.
"Whatever. If you don't die in this godforsaken wasteland, you'll have to explain to my mother how you survived, and she'll kill you. Either way..."
This elicits a bullshitting grin from Mulder - the first one she's seen in a long time.
"Sure, Scully; I'll be happy to let your mom know I ate you. Can I tell her I had your permission?"
Scully's cheeks blossom red in the wake of the image Mulder's words conjure. In retreat, she stands and turns her back to him, reaching around her bag and yanking the zipper open. Only half regretting his hasty jibe, Mulder reaches into the fridge and retrieves two icy Buds, popping their caps on a rusty bottle-opener. He lightly taps the bottom of the bottle on Scully's hip, he hands her his peace-offering.
She pauses before taking the bottle in her gloved hand; she wishes, just once, he'd look before he leaps. His innuendo isn't as innocent as it used to be, and she doesn't know what to think, and she isn't sure how to react anymore.
Sitting back down on the bed, she clinks her bottle against his and takes a long swig. As she drinks down the watery swill, she hears him mutter under his breath, "At least you've put on a little more weight since the last time we had this conversation."
He nearly drops his bottle when she flings a little of her beer in his direction. Sparkling drops drip down his coat as they stare at each other.
"Ah, Scully. You know I love it when you're feisty."
Standing slowly, her eyes never leaving his, she covers the small mouth of the bottle with her thumb and shakes...
Two beers, two little vodkas, and three baby rums later, the well-dressed, slightly damp, and utterly soused pair spills into the Kon-tiki Lounge. Scully's arm is wrapped around her partner's waist and his rests on her shoulders, each supporting the other as they stumble down the shallow steps leading to the dim, sparsely populated ballroom. Mulder whips his ID from his breast pocket and flashes it at the dour, middle-aged guy manning the bar.
"We are F-B-I...and we hereby request a table at your fine establishment..."
Scully nods next to him, her ruddy locks falling into her face.
"Yesh..." she drowsily agrees, and the bartender shrugs.
"It's not exactly crowded. Sit wherever you want."
Mulder executes a sweeping bow, bringing Scully down with him, and ushers her deep into the heart of the bar's Early Graceland decor.
They come to rest in tight, velvety bucket chairs, and Mulder raises his hand high in the air. An aging cocktail waitress, clad in little more than a skimpy, worn French-maid outfit and bulky wool cardigan, appears at their table, pad and pencil in hand.
"What'll it be?" she asks wearily. She's been fighting a cold for a week now.
Mulder grins up at her, his eyes crinkling in drunken delight, and she feels a smile tug at the wrinkled corners of her lips.
"The lady will have...um, Scully, what will the lady have?" He taps his partner lightly on the arm. "Scully?..."
Scully, whose feverish forehead has been resting on the cool surface of the faux-wood table, looks up with bloodshot eyes and slurs, "Shcrewdriver. Lotsh of orange juice..."
Mulder returns his attention to the waitress and primly repeats, "The lady will have a screwdriver. Heavy on the orange juice."
"And for the gentleman?"
He ponders her question for a long, dazed moment, weighing it with a consideration he usually saves for deep philosophical matters. "I think I'd like to try a glass of your finest house wine..."
Smacking her chewing gum, the older woman replies, "We got red and we got white."
Mulder's eyes goggle slightly as his lips part in disbelief; the older woman finds herself vaguely wishing that she were this young redhead here at the table with him. She would know what to do with a hunk like this, and it wouldn't involve passing out in front of him.
"In that case, the gentleman would like a glass...no, make it a pitcher of beer."
"'kay. I'll be back with those in a sec."
As she sashays away, Mulder turns his attention back to Scully, who is now dozing in the small chair, her head hanging back and her mouth hanging open. Resting his chin on his hands, he watches her sleep, wondering - somewhere in the back of his groggy mind - when things came to be so strained between them. In his mind, nothing's ever changed; if anything, he thinks, *that's* the problem - nothing ever changes. After she went into remission, he and Scully had seemed to share a certain closeness...something more than what they'd had before. Maybe it scared him a little, but it felt, well, natural. Like something almost inevitable.
Then, almost without warning, everything seemed to grind to a halt. Scully turned in on herself, locking the door behind her.
Now, tonight, in his inebriated state, he's willing to admit to himself that it may not have been all Scully's fault. He thinks he can date the subtle shift of their relationship to Diana's arrival...and he knows, deep down, that he's used Diana as an excuse to back away from that gaping chasm of inevitability.
*Whew*
He slumps back in his chair and closes his eyes, rubbing his fingers over his aching forehead. This is too much to be thinking about tonight; it's just the booze, the case, *anything* but Scully and him.
From somewhere behind their table, Mulder hears the unmistakable sound of an aged man warbling away over a tinny microphone. Craning his neck, he sees a rotund, grandfatherly type - buttoned-down cardigan, thick corduroys, bifocals - standing at a microscopic table, mike in hand, merrily crooning to his sweetheart.
"...give me an answer
fill in a form,
Mine forever more,
Will you still need me?
Will you still feed me?
When I'm sixty-four?"
His companion - also elderly, also rotund - gazes up at him with sparkling, young eyes. As he finishes his song, she laughs and cries out, "But Hal...that's already ancient history!"
Hal places the microphone on the table with a reverberating *thud* and leans close to the cherry-faced woman. Mulder can't hear what he whispers in her ear, but his eyes grow a bit misty when Hal kisses her softly on the lips. She takes his spotted hand in hers and holds it.
Suddenly self-conscious, Mulder turns back to Scully. She's shifted positions; her head is back on the table, cradled in her folded arms, and her hair spills over her pale face. He reaches a long arm across the table, his hand hovering briefly over her still head before brushing her hair from her face.
She's obviously only dozing; this faint gesture wakes her, and she lifts her head, her face marked red by the seam of her scratchy coat.
"Wha...? What's going on?"
Yanking his hand back, Mulder stammers, "I was just...say, Scully..." he pauses. "You, uh, you wanna sing a song?"
This question gains her undivided attention and seems to sober her in the space of a second.
"Do I want to sing, Mulder?"
He smiles broadly, pleased with the success of his diversion.
"Yeah, Scully. Sing. Come on - I'll even go first."
"Mulder, why would I want to sing, now? Here, in public?"
"Come *on*, Scuh-lee, it's fun. What else do we have to do tonight? We drank all the booze, and all we have to look forward to is Chez Antarctica..."
Weakened by his wheedling voice - always a soft-spot of hers, though she'd never admit to it - Scully half-frowns and replies, "If *you* want to sing, go ahead. I'm not going to stop you."
Mulder stands and heads over to the elderly couple's table to fetch the mike. He calls back over his shoulder, "You'll have to sing, too, Scully; I'm not making a fool of myself *by* myself."
"Yes, you are, Mulder. I'm *not* singing."
Cordless microphone in hand, Mulder now heads for the bar, where a still-unamused bartender stands scowling, burly arms folded across his chest. Mulder leans over the under-lit countertop and mumbles his request; shrugging his shoulders, the bartender turns to set his song.
As sharp guitar chords rumble through the speakers, Mulder whirls around, whips his sunglasses from the breast pocket of his coat, and, with a flourish, places them on his face. He looks like a long-lost Blues Brother.
"I can't get no
Sa-tis-fac-tion
I can't get no
Sa-tis-fac-tion
'Cause I try
And I try
And I try
And I try..."
He bites his lower lip in a universal gesture of rock 'n roll coolness, brow furrowed, right arm flailing in an attempt at rhythm. The older couple seems somewhat startled at first...the bartender shakes his head slowly and turns his attention to drying the wet beer mugs behind him...the waitress has to maneuver their drinks past his lanky dancing form. Scully covers her eyes with her hand. Soon, her hand has slipped to her mouth, the fingers masking a growing grin.
"I can't get no
Sa-tis-fac-tion
I can't get no
Girl re-ac-tion..."
Scully's eyes widen slightly. She's probably just imagining it, but Mulder's voice seems particularly pointed here. For the first time, she hears a double meaning in his words, and she listens to the rest of his song with an ear for entendre.
"When I'm ridin' round the world
And I'm doin' this and I'm signing that
And I'm tryin' to make some girl
Who tells me baby better come back
Later next week
'Cause you see
I'm on a losing streak
I can't get no
Oh no, no, no
Hey, hey, hey,
That's what I say..."
As the song fades away, Mulder cups his hand over one side of the mike and makes a hissing sound that's supposed to double for his missing audience. The elderly couple claps politely as he plops back into his seat, a wide grin spread across his face.
"There, see? It's not so hard..."
He's pretty sure she's not going to take the bait, which is why he's surprised when Scully, a flash of fire in her eyes, snatches up the microphone and traipses over to the bar, still a little unsteady on her feet.
She stands on tiptoe at the high bar, her face softly lit by its light. The bartender seems slightly more satisfied with this customer than the last; he actually allows the ghost of a smile to flit over his face as he programs her request...pleased, perhaps, at her prettiness, or, maybe, at her selection...
Scully cannot, in fact, carry a tune; she's demonstrated this before and isn't looking forward to proving it again. But, at this particular moment and in this particular place, only one thing is worse than parading her tone-deafness for all the world to hear, and that's letting Mulder have the last word. Her song sounds over the speakers; she swallows, puts her own sunglasses on, and begins to sing, her voice a mere whisper.
"You walked into the party
Like you were walking onto a yacht
Your hat strategically dipped below one eye
Your scarf it was apricot
You had one eye on the mirror as
You watched yourself gavotte..."
As Scully's voice gains in strength, Mulder feels his lips purse involuntarily. He knows where this is headed, and he's not sure if he's insulted or amused. He hadn't meant anything by his song - he's almost sure of it. But he knows she does, and he feels like he's been misunderstood.
"...You're so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this song is about you
Don't you?
Don't you?"
Unlike Mulder, Scully remains at a distance, seated on a tall barstool, her short legs dangling in the air. He wishes he could see her eyes, and his mind races ahead of her words, trying to remember just what comes next.
"...You had me several years ago
When I was still quite naive
Well you said that we made such a pretty pair
And that you would never leave
But you gave away the things you loved
And one of them was me
I had some dreams they were clouds in my coffee
Clouds in my coffee and..."
She doesn't know if it's the alcohol racing through her system, or the strain of the case, or what, but she hears her voice break slightly at this point. She hopes Mulder can't hear it...she doesn't mean anything by this stupid song, and she's regretting having even risen to the challenge she perceived.
But the microphone - old and battered though it is - still carries incidental sounds well, and he feels his heart catch at the sound.
The elderly couple, their attention now focused on the young, black-clad pair across the room, seem dumfounded by Scully's performance. They politely clap again, leaning close and murmuring wizened observations, analyzing the couple from the perspective of their own happiness. The bartender seems suddenly embarrassed...like he's heard more than he should, and he looks away as Scully slips quietly off the stool. The waitress cannot believe her ears; she still knows better than this little hussy how to make that gorgeous man happy.
This time, Mulder meets Scully halfway across the room. They stand facing each other for a moment, eyes hidden by their sunglasses: Mulder looking down at Scully, and Scully, her neck craned upwards, returning his gaze. She holds out the microphone and he silently takes it, stalking over to the bar.
He leans his tall frame against the bar, contemplating his next move. He's not nearly as drunk as he had been earlier, and he wasn't really that drunk to begin with; still, he thinks, it's as good a cover as any. He turns to the hovering bartender - whose only thoughts are of beating the crap out of this wiseass if he hurts that little redhead - and begins to make his request. He hesitates, and all eyes but Scully's are on him. Finally, he leans close and mutters a title under his breath.
The bartender, turning away from the now-nervous agent, secretly smiles as he sets the machine.
Scully sits, her back to the bar, berating herself. She's not sure why she chose to make this personal; *ha*, she thinks, that's exactly what Mulder said, and suddenly she remembers why. She hates these feelings - these insecurities and petty jealousies she's felt ever since she came on the scene. It's not like her...she doesn't want to think about why it should matter to her who Mulder's old "chickadees" are. In her secret soul, she has a pretty good idea just why it matters to her...but she doesn't want to know.
Soft chords sound and Mulder's voice - its rock 'n roll edge washed away in a wave of sudden sincerity - fills the air.
"Well I know it's kind of late
I hope I didn't wake you
But what I got to say can't wait
I know you'd understand
Every time I tried to tell you
The words just came out wrong
So I'll have to say I love you
In a song."
Scully feels her heart pounding against her ribcage as she listens to Mulder's gravelly-soft tones. She doesn't see the microphone nearly slip from his sweaty hand; she can't see the fine perspiration that breaks out across his handsome face.
"Yeah, I know it's kind of strange
But every time I'm near you
I just run out of things to say
I know you'd understand
Every time I tried to tell you
The words just came out wrong
So I'll have to say I love you
In a song.
Every time the time was right
The words just came out wrong
So I'll have to say I love you
In a song..."
He finishes his song, not with a bang, but with an uncertain whisper. He turns to the bar and quietly lays the mike down. The room is quiet; its other occupants stare as he makes his way back to their table. He manages to all but obscure his features from view, hiding his wide eyes behind the dark tint of his glasses, hiding his inconveniently twitching mouth behind long fingers.
Scully turns away from him before he can look too long at her blushing face. She stands, hesitates, then walks slowly back to the bar. The burly bartender takes up the mike and hands it out to her, an encouraging smile peeking from behind his bushy beard. The waitress, having conceded defeat within the space of the previous song, brings her a glass of red wine and pats her softly on the shoulder. She looks out over the crowd, such as it is; the couple in the corner nod and smile, their own hands entwined.
Mulder's eyes seem trained on the door, and he appears poised for flight. She can't see the slight trembling of his fingers; neither can he see that of hers.
Scully considers her options - long, agonizing moments for her partner. Neither can quite believe how the evening has evolved, but their intoxication, weaker than either will confess, seems to spur them on.
When she whispers her decision to the bartender, he pats her lightly on the hand that rests on the countertop.
A hurt she can't yet let go of lends poignancy to her words, sung in her own soft monotone:
"Crazy, I'm crazy for feeling so lonely
I'm crazy, crazy for feeling so blue
I knew you'd love me as long as you wanted
And then someday you'd leave me for somebody new..."
Mulder bites his lip, and all he can hear is accusation. Yet, he finds himself less resentful than remorseful; he had no idea just how much his contrary loyalty to Diana has hurt Scully. Listening carefully, he begins to allow himself the luxury of thinking that, perhaps, this is more than a professional quibble.
"...Worry, why do I let myself worry?
Wonderin', what in the world did I do?
Crazy for thinking that my love could hold you
I'm crazy for trying and crazy for crying
And I'm crazy for loving you..."
Looking up at Scully, scared and pale in the dim light, Mulder removes his sunglasses. She looks down at her small feet, the hand that holds the microphone slipping to her side. She can't yet bring herself to look into his earnest eyes...
Scully remains frozen in place as Mulder approaches. The room is suddenly silent. Grandma and Grandpa's hands are now tightly clutched; having programmed Mulder's response, the *other* two coworkers remove themselves to a nearby table, not wanting to intrude on the little love story that seems to be enfolding before them.
Reaching down, he takes the mike from her hand, his fingers brushing against hers in a lingering gesture. Scully feels herself grow a little dizzy as blood rushes to her face; weaving slightly, she steadies herself with one hand on the bar. Mulder reaches around her and pulls a stool close, guiding her to it with both hands on her thin shoulders. She climbs up almost involuntarily, her eyes never leaving the floor.
Any other time and a completely different Mulder would be crooning the King; tonight, he means every word.
"Wise men say only fools rush in
But I can't help falling in love with you
Shall I stay
Would it be a sin
If I can't help falling in love with you."
Scully pulls her glasses from her face, and her hair falls over her face. Mulder reaches out and brushes it back; tucking it behind her ear, he continues.
"Like a river flows surely to the sea
Darling so it goes
Some things are meant to be
Take my hand, take my whole life too
For I can't help falling in love with you..."
She looks up at him, hot tears welling in her eyes. She returns his gesture; lifting her fingers to his face, she brushes a rogue lock of soft brown hair from his forehead. He smiles gently and takes her hand in his.
"Like a river flows surely to the sea
Darling so it goes
Some things are meant to be
Take my hand, take my whole life too
For I can't help falling in love with you."
The music fades from their hearing as Mulder brings his forehead to rest against hers. They look into each other's eyes, and much is forgiven in this glance.
A kiss seems in order, but the loud clapping and whoops of their witnesses distract the pair. Scully blushes and hides her head against Mulder's heavy overcoat; Mulder simply smiles, cradling her head in his hand and stroking her silky hair. Eventually, he joins her on an adjacent barstool, and they sit in shy silence for awhile.
"Well..." Mulder begins. Scully looks up, blushing, waiting.
"I see your singing hasn't improved."
Scully breathes a long sigh - a strange mixture of relief and disappointment - and smiles wryly.
"I could have told you that."
Mulder smiles and nods sagely.
"Still..."
They both look down, each wishing Mulder would just shut up.
"What?"
Mulder looks up and smiles - the bullshitting one she's missed.
"I think I asked you to marry me Scully."
She swallows her heart back into her chest and nonchalantly replies, "Did you?"
He nods - an exaggerated movement involving not only his head, but also his neck and shoulders - and continues.
"Yeah. So...so..." He has to do a little swallowing of his own.
"S-so?"
*shut up, shut up*
"So...um...whad'ya say, Scully?" Mulder reaches in his coat pocket, pulls out the key to their rental car, and begins fidgeting with it.
Scully looks up.
*you started this, not me*
"What do I say about what, Mulder?"
He pauses, then hops off the barstool and, to her complete disbelief, falls to one knee in front of her. He holds out the cheap aluminum ring that formerly held key to chain.
"Will you marry me, Scully?"
She laughs softly and covers her eyes in embarrassment; but when she looks down again, she still sees Mulder, altered only by the absence of his grin. He gazes up at her, his emotions playing in his eyes.
She smiles down on him and takes the little ring in her fingers. Slipping it onto her left hand, she answers, "Sure, Mulder. I'll marry you."
They never mention this night to each other again.
Epilogue
Spring, 2001
When their lips finally part, Mulder finds that Scully has been crying. His hands are full; otherwise he'd wipe her tears from her eyes. He knows they are expressions of her happiness, but he feels as though he's seen Scully cry enough to fill a lifetime. He wants the rest of her life spent on sunny smiles.
As if reading his thoughts, Scully's lips melt into a soft grin. She gazes down at the infant cradled between their bodies and strokes his downy head.
Returning to the world of the mundane, she looks up at Mulder beseechingly.
"Would you be okay keeping an eye on Will for a little while?"
He smiles again and mouths the word "Will." She returns his grin; right now, she doesn't think she'll ever cry again.
"I really need a shower; we've been spending a *lot* of time together, Will and I."
Mulder nods. "I think we'll manage okay, right, little guy?" Moving the baby's tiny arm with his fingers, he continues, "Yep. He thinks so, too. In fact, I think he's saying that mommy smells. Bad."
"Well, then," she says as she grins. "I won't be long." She gathers up a fresh change of pajamas and heads down the hallway.
Mulder sits on the bed. He glances around the bedroom - his, now, as much as Scully's - and is comforted by its warm, rosy cheer.
He doesn't know that Scully keeps a cheap aluminum ring safe in the jewelry chest on her bureau.
Looking down at the baby, Mulder is moved to song and begins to warble softly.
"Having my baby
What a lovely way to say
How much you love me..."
Scully's ominous voice calls out clearly from the bathroom.
"Don't make me come back in there."
~finis~