Title: Truly Madly Deeply 1/5
Author: Somogyi
Email: somogyi02@yahoo.com
Category: SRA
Rating: R for language, adult situations
Spoilers: Through Season Six
Keywords: MSR, MS Married
Summary: A day in the life of Dana Scully. She and Mulder are happily married and still working for the FBI. Now that they're finally together, how do they keep the magic alive?
Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and all other characters associated with the series are the property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network. Characters are used without permission and no profit is being made.
Author's Notes: This was first written around three years ago; I'm finally posting it now. Anyone who's read my first X-Files fanfic undertaking, "Blessed Union of Souls I: Not the Doctor," and its sequel, "BUOS II: Deep Water," may find the Hawaiian case that Scully recalls vaguely familiar. These stories can be found at http://nitid.org/somogi Consider this story to take place in an alternate universe where Mulder never ditched Scully in NTD, and they got their happy ending a bit sooner.
The opening lyrics and title are from a song by Savage Garden. You can find the complete lyrics at the end of the story.
All comments and criticism welcomed at somogyi02@yahoo.com. Please let me know what you think.
This one's for you, Mirage. Hope you like it.
****
Truly Madly Deeply
by Somogyi
somogyi02@yahoo.com
Part 1
I want to stand with you on a mountain,
I want to bathe with you in the sea.
I want to lay like this forever,
Until the sky falls down on me...
The blaring sound of the clock radio yanks me from peaceful slumber. Reluctantly, I reach over to the nightstand and switch off the alarm. I don't even open my eyes; my fingers have completed this ritual hundreds of times in the past, and know it well. With a sigh, I roll over and reach out my arm, hoping to spoon against the warm body that lies beside me and savor a few more minutes of toasty comfort before having to greet the cool morning air of a new day.
But my arm falls to the mattress, coming up empty.
"Mulder . . . ?" I mumble, hand reaching out and groping the unoccupied space. My fingers feel the cotton pillowcase; it's cool to the touch.
My eyes shoot open and I sit up quickly, panic jarring me awake. I'm alone in the bed. The space beside me looks untouched.
"Mulder?" I call out, more urgently.
I scan the room, realize it's not our bedroom. Disoriented, I reach toward the nightstand for my gun. Then, suddenly, I remember.
I'm away on business. An out-of-town case. Pennsylvania. This is my hotel room.
With a relieved sigh, I sink back against the pillows and rake my fingers through my hair.
*For God's sake, Dana, you're getting to be as paranoid as he is! What would Mulder say?*
"Rubbin' off on you, huh, Scully?" he'd ask with that sly grin of his.
"What do you mean 'on'?" I'd reply matter-of-factly, with the apathetic tone I'd use to quote a scientific fact.
He'd raise an eyebrow then, a mocking gesture. But he wouldn't be able to maintain the cool indifference very long. His face would erupt into an enormous grin, the smile lighting his eyes.
No matter how many times I do it, I don't think he'll ever get used to my answering his innuendo tit for tat, or sometimes even offering my own unsolicited. I love doing it, keeping him on his toes like that. It feels good after so many years of self-restraint, of forcing myself to maintain that professional distance in fear that if I were to give in, even just a little, he would devour me whole.
It was a rightful apprehension, because the moment I succumbed to temptation, he did just that.
And I wouldn't have had it any other way.
I laugh, then, at my overreaction, at the absurdity of the entire situation. Not merely the fact that I feared the worst; nearly a decade as a federal agent--over half of those years spent investigating unusual phenomena and shadowy conspiracies--has turned me into a cynic, to say the least. Rather, it's more the idea of how quickly I've come to expect his presence each morning--even on a subconscious level.
A little over a year ago, I wouldn't have given the prospect of sleeping alone a second thought. Now, however, the idea of not sharing my bed bothers me. And right now, I miss him dearly: The warmth of his body beside me. His scent on the sheets. The sound of his steady breathing. Or his low voice, still half-groggy with sleep, as he implores me for five more minutes of precious slumber. His strong arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me close to him, the stubble on his unshaven cheek softly rasping my skin as he gently nuzzles my neck.
I've come to treasure these everyday events that most people tend to take for granted. Things like snuggling in bed, or watching television, or setting the table, or cleaning the house. It's these little things that I cherish, simply because we do them together, routinely. I've come to appreciate them. This is my way of giving thanks. Too many times we've almost lost these opportunities, too often we've almost lost one another. Now that we're finally together, I refuse to let another precious instant go to waste. Any moment spent apart, any moment without him, is a moment too many.
It's funny, really. I've always considered myself an independent person. Ready, willing, and able to do things on my own, by myself, for myself. But while it's made me stronger, this forced seclusion has also left me lonely and incomplete. By never allowing myself to depend on another, I became isolated. I've hidden my inner feelings deep inside for fear that revealing them would make me weak, vulnerable.
It was not until I met Mulder that I ever truly allowed myself to rely on another person. I've come to trust him as no other. And, in return, I've given him something I've never totally shared with anyone else: myself.
I thought it would be difficult, this baring of the soul. I always thought it would be a struggle, to give myself over to another completely, to let him into my mind and my heart as easily as I let him into my body. Instead, it just seemed to happen of its own accord, a natural outgrowth of our partnership, our friendship, our love.
And now that I finally have him, I can't seem to get enough. He's like a potent drug. A few hours apart, and it's time for another fix. Fox Mulder, my own personal narcotic.
They say that working with your spouse isn't good for the relationship, that spending too much time together will suffocate you, kill the romance. It seems to hold the opposite effect for us. Not that we spend every minute of the day together; we don't work together nearly as closely as we used to. In fact, we still take separate cars to the office. And the office is no longer a dingy room in the basement: for Mulder, it's a bright, sun-filled room on the third floor of headquarters in DC; for me, it's a sizable room in the back of a lab in Quantico.
That was the price we paid in order to become husband and wife. When we became involved, decided to make it official "public" knowledge, we knew that they'd split us up. That was the price we paid, in order to become husband and wife: One type of partnership exchanged for another. Years ago, the fear of being separated was one of the strongest reasons I resisted revealing my feelings for Mulder. By the time the dissolution of our professional partnership happened, though, I welcomed the change.
We were at a point in our lives, our careers, where transition was necessary. At work, it came in the form of a promotion for both of us. The Bureau finally realized the importance of the X-Files, of the work we did. And so they wanted to expand the division, add more agents to investigate occurrences of unexplained phenomena.
They made Mulder the Special Agent in Charge of the division. It's not completely an advisory position, though. They know him too well. Pushing paper alone would never be enough. He goes into the field often, when his expertise is required. He doesn't travel as much as we used to, but enough to satisfy his need for adventure.
As for me, they created a new position: Scientific Liaison. In truth, it's a glorified consultant position. Most of my time is spent at Quantico, performing autopsies, teaching courses. I think they're grooming me to take over for the current head pathologist, an elderly man on the verge of retirement. In the meantime, whenever Mulder requests the aid of a forensic pathologist, they assign me. It takes a little juggling of my schedule, but I'm just so thankful that they accommodate us like this.
They'd be fools not to. They've seen our files, they know our solve rate. When we're in sync—which is more often than not—we work together beautifully. Anticipating one another's thoughts, but also complementing one another. Intuition and logic. Skepticism and belief. Fire and ice. Yin and yang. Call it what you will, but we're damned good together, and they know it. We get them results, and they like that. And so they humor us. On about a quarter of his field cases, I get to tag along for at least part of the ride. Occasionally, I go solo, assisting some of his other agents. As I am today.
These are always the toughest assignment, I find. And I don't mean the difficulty of the case. It's not having him here beside me that makes it hard. Not just in my bed--though, Lord knows, I miss that too. Rather, it's not being able to run a hypothesis past him as soon as I formulate it. It's not being able to argue a point, to try to discredit his wild theories all the while trying to defend my own more earth-bound ideas. I miss the intellectual debates, the mental gymnastics I have to go through to stay on my toes when working with Mulder.
Sure, he's just a phone call away if I really need to ask his advice. But that's like eating Hershey's instead of Godiva. Satisfying, but nowhere near as delectable.
Which is not to say I don't hit that speed dial on my cell whenever a legitimate excuse arises.
Just last night, I sat in this bed after my bath, laptop open, files strewn about, phone cradled to my ear. He had called me for a change. To check on the progress of the investigation, to offer assistance however he was able. But also just to hear the sound of my voice. To tell me he missed me--though not in so many words, of course.
"So the investigation's winding down, you think?" he asked.
"Yeah. Agents Lehmann and Krick have got a warrant out for Laster. They should have him within the next twenty-four hours. I've just got to go into the field office tomorrow, finish up my report. I'm hoping to catch a flight out late tomorrow afternoon."
"Give me a call when you know for sure. I'll pick you up from the airport."
"That's okay, Mulder, I can just take a cab."
"No big deal. I'm gonna be working late anyway."
He does that a lot, whenever I'm out of town. Truth to tell, I do the same thing. Keeps our minds occupied. Less time to think about each other that way. You'd think they'd send us away on separate cases more often, the way it increases our efficiency with paperwork.
"All right," I acquiesced, already looking forward to the warm embrace that would be greeting me back in DC.
"So, those kids working out okay?" he asked. "Not giving you too much trouble?"
Kids, huh? Is that what he thought of me, when I was assigned to work with him on the X-Files all those years ago? This pair of agents may be a little green, but they catch on fast. They'll do just fine.
"They've got a lot of talent, Mulder. First-rate investigative work. Lehmann has a real knack for profiling. Really gets into people's heads. He's damn good--the best I've seen in a long time."
"The best, huh?" There's an uncertainty in his words, an insecurity.
Unbelievable. Even after all this time, Mulder still doubts my feelings. Despite my unwavering faith in him as an investigator, as a lover, a husband, he still worries.
Not that I can blame him. He's lost so much. Just as I used to fear letting people in, so too has Mulder not allowed anyone to get too close. He's been burned too often.
His trust isn't given easily. Which is why I value it so highly.
I'm actually captivated by his vulnerability. It's one of the things that attracted me to him, all those years ago. It's a void I fill in him, just as he completes me. Together, we're greater than the sum of our parts.
"Well, maybe not *the* best," I amended, assuaging his wounded psyche. Though I refused to give him a swelled head. At least, not when we're several states apart. "You're a tough act to follow, Mulder. Lehmann has a lot of catching up to do before he's on your level."
"And just how do you know this, Scully?"
"Call it women's intuition."
"As long as it's just that: intuition."
"What's wrong, Mulder? Jealous?"
"And well I should be. You'd be surprised, Scully, how many men find that cool detachment and scientific lingo irresistible."
"It's called maintaining an air of professionalism, Mulder. You should try it some time. And what's wrong with the way I speak?"
"Nothing's wrong with it, Scully. Quite the contrary."
"Are you saying my voice turns you on?"
"Not the voice alone. It's how you use it. All those ten-dollar words you toss around. The ones with all those syllables."
"As I recall, Mulder, you've got a pretty extensive vocabulary yourself."
"I'll show ya mine if you show me yours." His tone was that of a child putting forth a dare.
My thoughts at the moment, however, were anything but childlike. I decided to meet his challenge head on. I paused a moment, searching for the right word.
"Sphygmomanometry," I offered.
"Is that the best you can do?" he scoffed.
"And I suppose you can do better?"
"Psychokinesis," he parried.
I sniggered. Okay, so I was just getting warmed up. "Gynecomastia."
"Gymnosophist," he replied, barely missing a beat.
"Tachypnea."
"Transcendentalism."
"Opisthotonus."
"Carminative." I could hear the smile in his voice.
Two can play at this game. "Diaphoresis."
"Prestidigitation."
I lowered my voice, uttered the word as a breathy whisper: "Hyperesthesia." It took him a few moments to reply. He was trying to fight it. I knew that he could only resist so long. "Hyperborean," he said, his voice wavering slightly.
"Nystagmus," I countered.
"*Non compos mentis*," he pronounced, his voice heady.
I remained silent, the seconds ticking by like eternities. I could tell he was holding his breath. Waiting. It was sweet torture for him, I was sure. I licked my lips, forming the word slowly:
"Nymphomania."
The breath whooshed out of his lungs.
I smiled. It's empowering, this intense effect I have on him. As he does on me.
"Scully?"
"Yes?"
"What are you wearing?"
I couldn't help but laugh. It's an old joke, a line of his that he likes to offer from time to time to ease tension--or to augment it--but it still made me tingle all over. "It's late, Mulder, I need to be in the field office early tomorrow."
"Okay. Pleasant dreams, Scully."
"You, too. Good night, Mulder."
"Hey Scully?"
I paused. I knew what was coming next. The anticipation nonetheless still sent a delicious shiver down my spine, no matter how many times I'd heard it before. "Mmm?" was all I could manage.
"I love you."
Unbidden, I felt the prickle of moisture welling in my eyes. We've been married over a year. God, how does he still have this effect on me? "I love you, too, Mulder."
End Part 1
****
Author's Note for Part 1: In case you were considering looking up any of the words from M&S's little phone exchange, I thought I'd save you the trouble. Here are definitions from Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 10th ed. and Webster's Medical Desk Dictionary, 1993, listed in the order spoken.
Sphygmomanometry: measurement of blood pressure by means of the sphygmomanometer, an instrument for measuring blood pressure and esp. arterial blood pressure
Carminative: expelling gas from the alimentary canal so as to relieve colic or griping
Gynecomastia: excessive development of the breast in the male
Gymnosophist: any of a sect of ascetics in ancient India who went naked and practiced meditation
Tachypnea: increased rate of respiration
Transcendentalism: a philosophy that asserts the primacy of the spiritual and transcendental over the material and empirical
Opisthotonus: a condition of spasm of the muscles of the back, causing the head and lower limbs to bend backward and the trunk to arch forward
Psychokinesis: movement of physical objects by mind without the use of physical means
Diaphoresis: perspiration, esp. profuse perspiration artificially induced
Prestidigitation: sleight of hand
Hyperesthesia: unusual or pathological sensitivity of the skin or of a particular sense to stimulation
Hyperborean: a member of a people held by the ancient Greeks to live beyond the north wind in a region of perpetual sunshine
Nystagmus: a rapidly involuntary oscillation of the eyeballs occurring normally with dizziness during and after bodily oration or abnormally after injuries
*Non compos mentis*: not of sound mind
Nymphomania: excessive sexual desire by a female
*****
Author: Somogyi
Email: somogyi02@yahoo.com
Category: SRA
Rating: R for language, adult situations
Spoilers: Through Season Six
Keywords: MSR, MS Married
Summary: A day in the life of Dana Scully. She and Mulder are happily married and still working for the FBI. Now that they're finally together, how do they keep the magic alive?
Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and all other characters associated with the series are the property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network. Characters are used without permission and no profit is being made.
Author's Notes: This was first written around three years ago; I'm finally posting it now. Anyone who's read my first X-Files fanfic undertaking, "Blessed Union of Souls I: Not the Doctor," and its sequel, "BUOS II: Deep Water," may find the Hawaiian case that Scully recalls vaguely familiar. These stories can be found at http://nitid.org/somogi Consider this story to take place in an alternate universe where Mulder never ditched Scully in NTD, and they got their happy ending a bit sooner.
The opening lyrics and title are from a song by Savage Garden. You can find the complete lyrics at the end of the story.
All comments and criticism welcomed at somogyi02@yahoo.com. Please let me know what you think.
This one's for you, Mirage. Hope you like it.
****
Truly Madly Deeply
by Somogyi
somogyi02@yahoo.com
Part 1
I want to stand with you on a mountain,
I want to bathe with you in the sea.
I want to lay like this forever,
Until the sky falls down on me...
The blaring sound of the clock radio yanks me from peaceful slumber. Reluctantly, I reach over to the nightstand and switch off the alarm. I don't even open my eyes; my fingers have completed this ritual hundreds of times in the past, and know it well. With a sigh, I roll over and reach out my arm, hoping to spoon against the warm body that lies beside me and savor a few more minutes of toasty comfort before having to greet the cool morning air of a new day.
But my arm falls to the mattress, coming up empty.
"Mulder . . . ?" I mumble, hand reaching out and groping the unoccupied space. My fingers feel the cotton pillowcase; it's cool to the touch.
My eyes shoot open and I sit up quickly, panic jarring me awake. I'm alone in the bed. The space beside me looks untouched.
"Mulder?" I call out, more urgently.
I scan the room, realize it's not our bedroom. Disoriented, I reach toward the nightstand for my gun. Then, suddenly, I remember.
I'm away on business. An out-of-town case. Pennsylvania. This is my hotel room.
With a relieved sigh, I sink back against the pillows and rake my fingers through my hair.
*For God's sake, Dana, you're getting to be as paranoid as he is! What would Mulder say?*
"Rubbin' off on you, huh, Scully?" he'd ask with that sly grin of his.
"What do you mean 'on'?" I'd reply matter-of-factly, with the apathetic tone I'd use to quote a scientific fact.
He'd raise an eyebrow then, a mocking gesture. But he wouldn't be able to maintain the cool indifference very long. His face would erupt into an enormous grin, the smile lighting his eyes.
No matter how many times I do it, I don't think he'll ever get used to my answering his innuendo tit for tat, or sometimes even offering my own unsolicited. I love doing it, keeping him on his toes like that. It feels good after so many years of self-restraint, of forcing myself to maintain that professional distance in fear that if I were to give in, even just a little, he would devour me whole.
It was a rightful apprehension, because the moment I succumbed to temptation, he did just that.
And I wouldn't have had it any other way.
I laugh, then, at my overreaction, at the absurdity of the entire situation. Not merely the fact that I feared the worst; nearly a decade as a federal agent--over half of those years spent investigating unusual phenomena and shadowy conspiracies--has turned me into a cynic, to say the least. Rather, it's more the idea of how quickly I've come to expect his presence each morning--even on a subconscious level.
A little over a year ago, I wouldn't have given the prospect of sleeping alone a second thought. Now, however, the idea of not sharing my bed bothers me. And right now, I miss him dearly: The warmth of his body beside me. His scent on the sheets. The sound of his steady breathing. Or his low voice, still half-groggy with sleep, as he implores me for five more minutes of precious slumber. His strong arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me close to him, the stubble on his unshaven cheek softly rasping my skin as he gently nuzzles my neck.
I've come to treasure these everyday events that most people tend to take for granted. Things like snuggling in bed, or watching television, or setting the table, or cleaning the house. It's these little things that I cherish, simply because we do them together, routinely. I've come to appreciate them. This is my way of giving thanks. Too many times we've almost lost these opportunities, too often we've almost lost one another. Now that we're finally together, I refuse to let another precious instant go to waste. Any moment spent apart, any moment without him, is a moment too many.
It's funny, really. I've always considered myself an independent person. Ready, willing, and able to do things on my own, by myself, for myself. But while it's made me stronger, this forced seclusion has also left me lonely and incomplete. By never allowing myself to depend on another, I became isolated. I've hidden my inner feelings deep inside for fear that revealing them would make me weak, vulnerable.
It was not until I met Mulder that I ever truly allowed myself to rely on another person. I've come to trust him as no other. And, in return, I've given him something I've never totally shared with anyone else: myself.
I thought it would be difficult, this baring of the soul. I always thought it would be a struggle, to give myself over to another completely, to let him into my mind and my heart as easily as I let him into my body. Instead, it just seemed to happen of its own accord, a natural outgrowth of our partnership, our friendship, our love.
And now that I finally have him, I can't seem to get enough. He's like a potent drug. A few hours apart, and it's time for another fix. Fox Mulder, my own personal narcotic.
They say that working with your spouse isn't good for the relationship, that spending too much time together will suffocate you, kill the romance. It seems to hold the opposite effect for us. Not that we spend every minute of the day together; we don't work together nearly as closely as we used to. In fact, we still take separate cars to the office. And the office is no longer a dingy room in the basement: for Mulder, it's a bright, sun-filled room on the third floor of headquarters in DC; for me, it's a sizable room in the back of a lab in Quantico.
That was the price we paid in order to become husband and wife. When we became involved, decided to make it official "public" knowledge, we knew that they'd split us up. That was the price we paid, in order to become husband and wife: One type of partnership exchanged for another. Years ago, the fear of being separated was one of the strongest reasons I resisted revealing my feelings for Mulder. By the time the dissolution of our professional partnership happened, though, I welcomed the change.
We were at a point in our lives, our careers, where transition was necessary. At work, it came in the form of a promotion for both of us. The Bureau finally realized the importance of the X-Files, of the work we did. And so they wanted to expand the division, add more agents to investigate occurrences of unexplained phenomena.
They made Mulder the Special Agent in Charge of the division. It's not completely an advisory position, though. They know him too well. Pushing paper alone would never be enough. He goes into the field often, when his expertise is required. He doesn't travel as much as we used to, but enough to satisfy his need for adventure.
As for me, they created a new position: Scientific Liaison. In truth, it's a glorified consultant position. Most of my time is spent at Quantico, performing autopsies, teaching courses. I think they're grooming me to take over for the current head pathologist, an elderly man on the verge of retirement. In the meantime, whenever Mulder requests the aid of a forensic pathologist, they assign me. It takes a little juggling of my schedule, but I'm just so thankful that they accommodate us like this.
They'd be fools not to. They've seen our files, they know our solve rate. When we're in sync—which is more often than not—we work together beautifully. Anticipating one another's thoughts, but also complementing one another. Intuition and logic. Skepticism and belief. Fire and ice. Yin and yang. Call it what you will, but we're damned good together, and they know it. We get them results, and they like that. And so they humor us. On about a quarter of his field cases, I get to tag along for at least part of the ride. Occasionally, I go solo, assisting some of his other agents. As I am today.
These are always the toughest assignment, I find. And I don't mean the difficulty of the case. It's not having him here beside me that makes it hard. Not just in my bed--though, Lord knows, I miss that too. Rather, it's not being able to run a hypothesis past him as soon as I formulate it. It's not being able to argue a point, to try to discredit his wild theories all the while trying to defend my own more earth-bound ideas. I miss the intellectual debates, the mental gymnastics I have to go through to stay on my toes when working with Mulder.
Sure, he's just a phone call away if I really need to ask his advice. But that's like eating Hershey's instead of Godiva. Satisfying, but nowhere near as delectable.
Which is not to say I don't hit that speed dial on my cell whenever a legitimate excuse arises.
Just last night, I sat in this bed after my bath, laptop open, files strewn about, phone cradled to my ear. He had called me for a change. To check on the progress of the investigation, to offer assistance however he was able. But also just to hear the sound of my voice. To tell me he missed me--though not in so many words, of course.
"So the investigation's winding down, you think?" he asked.
"Yeah. Agents Lehmann and Krick have got a warrant out for Laster. They should have him within the next twenty-four hours. I've just got to go into the field office tomorrow, finish up my report. I'm hoping to catch a flight out late tomorrow afternoon."
"Give me a call when you know for sure. I'll pick you up from the airport."
"That's okay, Mulder, I can just take a cab."
"No big deal. I'm gonna be working late anyway."
He does that a lot, whenever I'm out of town. Truth to tell, I do the same thing. Keeps our minds occupied. Less time to think about each other that way. You'd think they'd send us away on separate cases more often, the way it increases our efficiency with paperwork.
"All right," I acquiesced, already looking forward to the warm embrace that would be greeting me back in DC.
"So, those kids working out okay?" he asked. "Not giving you too much trouble?"
Kids, huh? Is that what he thought of me, when I was assigned to work with him on the X-Files all those years ago? This pair of agents may be a little green, but they catch on fast. They'll do just fine.
"They've got a lot of talent, Mulder. First-rate investigative work. Lehmann has a real knack for profiling. Really gets into people's heads. He's damn good--the best I've seen in a long time."
"The best, huh?" There's an uncertainty in his words, an insecurity.
Unbelievable. Even after all this time, Mulder still doubts my feelings. Despite my unwavering faith in him as an investigator, as a lover, a husband, he still worries.
Not that I can blame him. He's lost so much. Just as I used to fear letting people in, so too has Mulder not allowed anyone to get too close. He's been burned too often.
His trust isn't given easily. Which is why I value it so highly.
I'm actually captivated by his vulnerability. It's one of the things that attracted me to him, all those years ago. It's a void I fill in him, just as he completes me. Together, we're greater than the sum of our parts.
"Well, maybe not *the* best," I amended, assuaging his wounded psyche. Though I refused to give him a swelled head. At least, not when we're several states apart. "You're a tough act to follow, Mulder. Lehmann has a lot of catching up to do before he's on your level."
"And just how do you know this, Scully?"
"Call it women's intuition."
"As long as it's just that: intuition."
"What's wrong, Mulder? Jealous?"
"And well I should be. You'd be surprised, Scully, how many men find that cool detachment and scientific lingo irresistible."
"It's called maintaining an air of professionalism, Mulder. You should try it some time. And what's wrong with the way I speak?"
"Nothing's wrong with it, Scully. Quite the contrary."
"Are you saying my voice turns you on?"
"Not the voice alone. It's how you use it. All those ten-dollar words you toss around. The ones with all those syllables."
"As I recall, Mulder, you've got a pretty extensive vocabulary yourself."
"I'll show ya mine if you show me yours." His tone was that of a child putting forth a dare.
My thoughts at the moment, however, were anything but childlike. I decided to meet his challenge head on. I paused a moment, searching for the right word.
"Sphygmomanometry," I offered.
"Is that the best you can do?" he scoffed.
"And I suppose you can do better?"
"Psychokinesis," he parried.
I sniggered. Okay, so I was just getting warmed up. "Gynecomastia."
"Gymnosophist," he replied, barely missing a beat.
"Tachypnea."
"Transcendentalism."
"Opisthotonus."
"Carminative." I could hear the smile in his voice.
Two can play at this game. "Diaphoresis."
"Prestidigitation."
I lowered my voice, uttered the word as a breathy whisper: "Hyperesthesia." It took him a few moments to reply. He was trying to fight it. I knew that he could only resist so long. "Hyperborean," he said, his voice wavering slightly.
"Nystagmus," I countered.
"*Non compos mentis*," he pronounced, his voice heady.
I remained silent, the seconds ticking by like eternities. I could tell he was holding his breath. Waiting. It was sweet torture for him, I was sure. I licked my lips, forming the word slowly:
"Nymphomania."
The breath whooshed out of his lungs.
I smiled. It's empowering, this intense effect I have on him. As he does on me.
"Scully?"
"Yes?"
"What are you wearing?"
I couldn't help but laugh. It's an old joke, a line of his that he likes to offer from time to time to ease tension--or to augment it--but it still made me tingle all over. "It's late, Mulder, I need to be in the field office early tomorrow."
"Okay. Pleasant dreams, Scully."
"You, too. Good night, Mulder."
"Hey Scully?"
I paused. I knew what was coming next. The anticipation nonetheless still sent a delicious shiver down my spine, no matter how many times I'd heard it before. "Mmm?" was all I could manage.
"I love you."
Unbidden, I felt the prickle of moisture welling in my eyes. We've been married over a year. God, how does he still have this effect on me? "I love you, too, Mulder."
End Part 1
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Author's Note for Part 1: In case you were considering looking up any of the words from M&S's little phone exchange, I thought I'd save you the trouble. Here are definitions from Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 10th ed. and Webster's Medical Desk Dictionary, 1993, listed in the order spoken.
Sphygmomanometry: measurement of blood pressure by means of the sphygmomanometer, an instrument for measuring blood pressure and esp. arterial blood pressure
Carminative: expelling gas from the alimentary canal so as to relieve colic or griping
Gynecomastia: excessive development of the breast in the male
Gymnosophist: any of a sect of ascetics in ancient India who went naked and practiced meditation
Tachypnea: increased rate of respiration
Transcendentalism: a philosophy that asserts the primacy of the spiritual and transcendental over the material and empirical
Opisthotonus: a condition of spasm of the muscles of the back, causing the head and lower limbs to bend backward and the trunk to arch forward
Psychokinesis: movement of physical objects by mind without the use of physical means
Diaphoresis: perspiration, esp. profuse perspiration artificially induced
Prestidigitation: sleight of hand
Hyperesthesia: unusual or pathological sensitivity of the skin or of a particular sense to stimulation
Hyperborean: a member of a people held by the ancient Greeks to live beyond the north wind in a region of perpetual sunshine
Nystagmus: a rapidly involuntary oscillation of the eyeballs occurring normally with dizziness during and after bodily oration or abnormally after injuries
*Non compos mentis*: not of sound mind
Nymphomania: excessive sexual desire by a female
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