Disclaimer: I don't own the X-Files, they're owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, et al. This is probably a good thing, considering what mischief I might have wreaked upon it

Author's Note: This is what happens when crack-shipping goes a little too far. I'm not, however, trying to write a parody. Bear with me, I hope it's done as realistically as possible, considering the subject matter.

Beauty and the Geek

7:30pm Bistro Chez Francine

Frohike is sitting by himself at a table for two. The ambient darkness of the restaurant is dispelled only by a single white taper candle in the middle of the table. A woman in her late twenties is led by a maitre'd to his table and they regard each other cautiously.

"Hi…I'm Nicole. Are you…?"

He stands nervously, nearly knocking the table over in his haste. "Melvin Frohike. Enchanted to meet you at last. After all the writing we've done back and forth these past few weeks, I've been looking forward to finally seeing you face to face. Your profile picture doesn't do you justice." He holds his hand out to her with a big smile.

From the look on his date's face, he can tell that she is less than "enchanted" by their meeting. She doesn't even bother to smile back, let alone take his hand. Her face is an obvious study of disappointment. "Look, I'm really sorry about the mix-up…but I really didn't expect…I mean that you're…quite a bit older than I thought…" Frohike lets his arm drop back to his side, crushed. "You never said…I mean I just assumed, you looked different in your picture…Look, I feel bad about this, but we're obviously not a good match. Dinner's on me, but I can't…" She backs away awkwardly, speaks to a server and hands him her credit card. It's charged with an open tab. Once that's set up and her conscience is clean, she practically runs for the exit.

Special Agent Dana Scully observes this scene from a secluded nook. She takes a sip of water and looks back down into her folder with a sigh. He might be a creepy little nerd, but the least that girl could do is sit through one date with him, especially if they've been writing each other for that long. She thinks, giving the 'new' generation a mental eye-roll in disgust of their lack of manners. Looking up at him again, she sees him staring despondently into the candlelight; a single pink carnation lies across the table, obviously intended for his date. Scully feels something twist inside her, almost nausea, silently willing him to look up and see her. He needs a friend tonight…and so do I.

It's a busy night at the restaurant, and although she'd been seated over ten minutes ago, no one had come to take her order yet. She's patient, though; they can only do so much at once, just like any job. There's some small pleasure to be had, watching people.

The wait staff in particular—people treat them with little consideration, even outright rudeness, but they still do their best to appear friendly and courteous to any and all. The doors to the kitchen swing open and Scully can even hear at least one cook singing as they work. Even the downtrodden servants of the masses have the heart to sing. This thought comforts Scully from her previously morbid mood, giving her reason to rethink her own attitude. Just when she's considering knocking her glass over, Frohike chances to look in her direction. The effect is immediate: relief crosses his features, as anyone who, when in troubling times, sees they're not as alone and friendless as they might've thought. He smiles, and Scully surprises herself by smiling back with a wave. Frohike returns this with a beckoning gesture, clearly inviting her to join him. After a moment's thought it's one thing to ask someone else to do it, but now I'm getting sucked in to a date with Frohike? Still, she packs up her briefcase and makes way for his table. Along the way, she briefly makes eye-contact with her server, she points over at Frohike's table and the server nods, understanding.

Again, Frohike rises to receive his dinner date. "Agent Scully, you're looking lovely as always."

"I saw the whole thing. What a bitch," she bluntly observes as she takes her seat. A server brings her a glass of water and a menu, leaving them for the time being.

"Apparently I'm too old for her," he mutters, trying to look as though it doesn't matter.

Scully shakes her head firmly, "She's just a young'un. Do I want to know what you used as your profile picture?"

Frohike shifts uncomfortably, admitting, "Sean Connery, Diamonds are Forever."

With a knowing smirk, she changes the subject, "So, have you been here before?"

"I don't get out much, you know that. I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but I'm…very glad to see you."

Again, she smiles briefly in spite of herself. Is this what normal people feel when they're out with friends? "Me, too. It's my Dad's birthday today." Another wave of melancholy sweeps over her and she breaks eye-contact, looking very interested in the menu.

"Where is he now?"

She pauses, unsure how to answer without being off-putting. "Heaven."

"Oh. Scully, I'm sorry, I forgot."

She brushes it aside, "It's okay. Don't worry about it. I guess I just came out here tonight to…torture myself or something."

"Look, that gal left a running tab going, so order whatever you want."

With a dark smile, Scully replies, "Revenge is a dish best served…with black truffles." They both laugh wickedly, their eyes are automatically drawn to the more elaborate and expensive menu items. The chef's repertoire covered everything from elevated versions of country-style Bonne Femme dishes, to extravagant pieces inspired by Auguste Escoffier and other greats. A quick perusal tells Scully that she'll have to leave her strict diet at the door. She's in a real French bistro and will consequently have to deal with copious amounts of butter and cream.

"Who wrote the menu?" she breathes, reading the intricate descriptions of each dish. "It's like reading a romance novel." Now that his attention is drawn towards it, all Frohike can do is moan desirously.

"Yeah, the good parts," he agrees, equally breathless. He then turns to the wine list, intent on selecting the very best; after all, how many times does he get the chance to entertain Scully, especially when it's on someone else's account! Soon, a server stands over them.

"Have you made your drink selection?" he inquires, looking between the two. Either he's got something I don't see or I'm missing something here, he observes, evaluating the mismatched couple. Maybe she's his sister. Nah, she's too cute to be his sister. A niece, maybe?

Scully is the first to recover herself, "Do you have any recommendations?"

"Personally, I enjoy our peach aperitif. It's sweet, but not cloying, a good opener I think for just about any meal."

Frohike and Scully look at each other, "That sounds good," he agrees. "Two glasses." When they arrive, Frohike proposes a toast. "To your father: while I never had the pleasure of meeting him, I've always been a fan of his work," he says with a suggestive look.

"To family, and friends, even unexpected ones," Scully amends, already feeling better despite the feeling that he just undressed her with his eyes.

They look back over the menu, but it's nearly impossible to pick just one dinner selection when it all sounds so good. Scully ends up ordering baked squab in puff pastry, while Frohike orders the extravagant Tournedos Rossini. While they wait for it to arrive, they 'talk shop', dissecting the finer points of theology, modern science, and conspiracy theories all in one go. More than once, Frohike is rewarded with the sound of Scully's uninhibited laughter.

As Scully takes her first bite, her eyes roll up in her head and she nearly swoons. "How can people say there is no God, Frohike, when there are things like this in the world?"

He very nearly agrees, as the silken blend of choicest beef with foie gras puree touches his lips, there must be some proof of the divine on Earth.

They clink glasses again, this time filled with a dark red Cabernet. "1987, a very good year," Scully assesses.

"Where were you in 87?"

"I just finished my residency, actually. Became a 'real doctor'. Then, I figured that an MD was just my opening act."

"I'm glad you thought so. If you stuck with medicine without going into the FBI we'd never have known each other."

"I'd never have met Mulder, never…anything," she agrees, unable to imagine what her life would have been like if she'd never 'rebelled'. Her whole life was based on that decision.

"What is squab, anyway?" Frohike wants to know, changing the subject abruptly.

"It's French for pigeon. Here, try it."

"Pigeon? Like the ones that crap on my car?"

"Mm-hmm." She uses a torn-off scrap of pastry to soak up the residual demi-glace from her plate. She all but licks it clean.

He takes her offered sample and just about has another food-gasm. "Remind me to buy a shotgun and get a hunting license within city limits."

Scully giggles, feeling uncharacteristically feminine tonight, forgetting she's in the company of a distasteful, perverted, paranoid little troll because she's having too good a time having dinner with a friend. She receives a taste of his dish in return and nearly dies of pleasure. Someone on a rigid low-fat diet would never before have given over to the siren song of foie gras and black truffles, not to mention richly prepared red meat. Her unfettered reaction to it warms Frohike all over. In a moment of unforeseen courage, he reaches across the table and takes her hand.

Surprisingly, she doesn't withdraw. Looking at their hands with a short laugh, she squeezes back a little before freeing it to reach for the dessert menu. Fig tart with crème anglaise, and a side of Manchego cheese sounds just right after the meal she's had. Frohike opts out of dessert, and is simply content to watch his unexpected date enjoy hers. Hearing her describe the meal as "better than sex", he is given the guest check and marks that their server should get an enormous tip from this evening, all courtesy of Miss Nicole Total-Strangerface.

As Scully finishes the last bites of her dessert, giggling at one of Frohike's jokes that wasn't really funny at all, he asks, "Are you sure you can drive home all right?"

"I'm fine, I really am," she assures him, holding her chin in her palm. "Why do you have to keep all that's good about you so secret, though? You're a sweet guy when you're not acting like a letch. And I remember…that time back in Vegas when you got me away from those guys in the bar, when I wasn't…quite myself. You were a gentleman. You are when you put your mind to it."

"I try not to let that get out," he answers, unsure what else he can say about that. They stand to leave, both of them hovering awkwardly. He holds the carnation out to her which she accepts shyly. "Thanks for joining me tonight."

"I had a good time, thank you for inviting me. It's just what I needed, really, if you'll believe it."

They leave together and head for the parking lot. The whole way there, Scully is grappling with her wills. Just before she gets in her car, she stops short, looking lost for words. "Hey, uh…g-give me a call sometime. This was fun."

Frohike can scarcely believe his ears. He looks at her carefully, searching for some sign of sarcasm or insincerity. Finding none, he nods. "Sure, I…most certainly will."

The minute she pulls out into traffic, Scully's head snaps back out of the pleasant haze it had been in all evening. I just had a date with Frohike? And liked it? Oh, god, I told him to call me! She stops at a light, thumping her head against the steering wheel. The light turns green again and she gets moving, now letting herself remember how nice an evening she'd just had. I would never have expected it to go so well. After the initial horror is past, she starts feeling pretty good about things again. What's the worst that could happen? He calls, we go out again, and it gives me something to do. Good clean fun. She finds herself smiling again as she recalls her date, glancing over at the flower resting on the passenger seat.