Title: Truly Madly Deeply 2/5
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.
*****
Truly Madly Deeply
by Somogyi
somogyi02@yahoo.com
Part 2
I glance over at the clock. Six twenty-three. Shit. How long have I been sitting here, daydreaming? I'm going to be late.
I throw back the covers and jump out of bed, making a bee-line for the bathroom. I perform my morning ritual in record time. Washing, combing, dressing. A dash of make-up, and I'll be ready to go.
For some reason, I can't find my lipstick. I rummage through my make-up case, but to no avail. Goddammit. In frustration, I dump the entire contents onto the bathroom countertop, shuffle the cosmetics around.
I've just located the lipstick when something else catches my eye: a small, folded piece of paper. For a moment, I stare at it in confusion. Then I pick up the paper and unfold it.
My lips quirk in a smile at the sight of the familiar block letters:
"S--JUST BECAUSE. THINKING OF YOU. LOVE, M"
Love. Such a simple word, four little letters. And yet it conveys so much. How long did it take me to be able to say that word, to try to express to him the true depth of my feelings for him?
He told me once, years earlier. In a hospital room, no less. How very Mulder. At the time, I thought it was the result of his drug-induced giddiness. He'd been talking of time-travel and dopplegangers, of my saving the world and his fear of never seeing me again.
I should've realized. From the way his eyes bored into me, the cloudy haze cast by the painkillers suddenly gone. From the set of his jaw, his shoulders. From the way he had to steel his nerve, gather his courage, take a deep breath before uttering the words.
And what did I do in response? I rolled my eyes, uttered a hasty exclamation, and walked out, feigning exacerbation. Yes, feigning. At the time, I couldn't allow myself to react to his heartfelt declaration. I couldn't let him see how those three little words made my knees go weak, my heart pound, my insides turn to goo. So I walked away, faking indifference, when in truth my soul was singing. At that moment, I finally knew as fact what I could only hope in the past. And that knowledge sustained me.
So what if it only took me well over a year to reciprocate?
With a final glance, I refold the note and place it in my pocket. For safekeeping. But also to keep it close to me.
I quickly apply the lipstick, grab my bag and keys, and head out the hotel door.
Mulder's always doing little things like that. A flower waiting for me on my desk at work. Notes in unexpected places. Random voice mail messages. Just to say hi or I miss you or I'm thinking of you. There's no rhyme or reason. Not a holiday, not a birthday, nor an anniversary. No special occasion.
I asked him once, why he does it. He thought about it a moment, head tilted to the side, deep thoughts creasing his brow, much as a child looks when pondering the mysteries of the universe.
"Just because," he replied. "Because I can."
****
I meet Agents Krick and Lehmann in the Philadelphia field office, hoping to quickly wrap up the case and be back in D.C. in time for dinner. I'm greeted with bad news.
Laster hasn't been apprehended yet. Worse still, there's another victim. Another crime scene to investigate. Another autopsy to be performed. Looks like I won't be making it home for dinner after all.
I accompany the two agents to the crime scene. I try to offer them whatever assistance I can. The observations of a forensic pathologist, the intuition of an experienced field agent. We find a lead that points us in Laster's direction. Krick and Lehmann do the footwork while I head back to the lab to perform the autopsy.
I'm in the locker room, changing into scrubs, when I realize I should probably let Mulder know that I won't be making it home tonight. I pull my cell phone from my coat pocket, hit the speed dial.
"Mulder."
"Mulder, it's me."
"Hey Scully. You on your way to the airport already?"
"Change of plans, I'm afraid. I've got another autopsy to perform."
"What happened?"
I quickly fill him in on the latest developments in the case. He listens intently, offers some advice on what the agents could do next.
"They're already on it. See, Mulder, I told you that they're good."
"You're not thinking of leaving me for Agent Lehmann, are you, Scully?"
"Nah. He's not my type," I say, leaning against the row of lockers.
"Too short? Too by-the-book?"
"Too sane. I like my men a little over the edge."
"I'm not sure whether to say 'thank you' or 'ouch'."
"Besides, I think there's something going on between him and Krick."
"With his partner?"
"Uh huh. Haven't you seen the way they look at each other, Mulder? All those furtive glances. And haven't you noticed that when they speak to one another, it's like no one else is in the room? Their attention is focused solely on one another. They're completely in sync with each other. And the tension in the room--it's palpable."
He laughs.
"What's so funny? You can't tell me you don't see it, too."
"Of course I do. Sounds familiar, though, doesn't it, Scully?"
I don't reply immediately. I sit down heavily on the wooden bench as the enormity of his words begins to set in.
"Scully? You still there?"
"My God, Mulder, have I really just described us? Our relationship during our partnership?"
"Well. . . ."
"Were we really *that* obvious? And here I thought I was hiding my feelings so well."
"It was only a matter of time before you could no longer resist my manly charms."
"Oh, is that what you call all those lewd comments and suggestive remarks you were always making?"
"You loved it, Scully, and you know it."
"You're lucky I didn't sue you for sexual harassment, the way you were always invading my personal space."
"You think I never noticed the way you'd shiver, almost imperceptibly, when I touched the small of your back? Hell, Scully, I could melt you with a single look. Or evaporate you, just by putting on my glasses."
Is that so? Well, two can play at this game. "Cuts both ways, Mulder. If I wanted your undivided attention, all I had to do was cross my arms and quirk my eyebrow. And if I really wanted to up the ante, I'd dart my tongue out, lick the corner of my mouth. Don't think I never noticed how that made you squirm."
"Hey Scully . . . ?"
"Scrubs, Mulder. Powder blue scrubs."
He chuckles. "That's not what I was gonna ask you."
"Well, what then?"
"When did you know?"
"Know what?" I ask, not sure what he's driving at.
"*Know* know. When was it?"
I close my eyes, considering. When exactly was it?
The moment I first walked into his office, all those years ago? There was something there, an awareness that we both felt, an electricity that sparked between us. It ignited periodically during that first case: When I came to him scared to death one night in his hotel room and dropped my robe. When he told me for the first time about his sister's abduction, about his search for the Truth. When we laughed and howled like two teenagers in an Oregon cemetery on a rainy night. There was definitely an underlying current, even back then. But that wasn't when I knew. No, it was much too soon for that.
Was it when we were trapped in that Arctic laboratory? When, despite the newness of our working relationship, we wanted desperately to trust one another? When I went to him, while he was locked in that storage closet, professing my loyalty to him, to our partnership? When I could barely control the trembling in my hands at the prospect of touching his bare flesh? When I first felt the warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips, the hardness of the muscles of his neck and back? When I bared my own neck to him--Lord, it might as well have been my entire body, my soul--and he oh-so-gently ran his strong hands down my sensitized flesh with the tenderness of a new lover's careful exploration? I think it was then that I became acutely aware of the tension, the underlying sexual current, that flowed between us, like something alive. But I didn't know yet.
Was it when his old flame, Phoebe Green, suddenly resurfaced from whatever dark place it is she crawls into at night? When she walked back into his life, with her mind games and her deceit, using him to further her own career? Seeing the way she reduced him to a timid schoolboy, the way he still answered to her beck and call . . . that was the first time I can acutely remember being jealous over him. Seeing them dance together, watching them kiss . . . it made me sick to my stomach. I remember how it initially surprised me, the way he paraded around his hotel room--and me--in those black silk boxers, seemingly unaware and untroubled by his nakedness. And yet, when Phoebe walked into that room, he immediately fastened his robe, tying it tight, as though that layer of terrycloth were another barrier between them, shielding him from her corrupting touch. It was then that I realized that I had something she'd never be able to regain: his trust. Mulder doesn't trust lightly. Which makes his trust all that more precious to obtain. It was then that I realized my feelings for Mulder went further than mere attraction. But I didn't yet know.
When, then?
"Scully. . . ?" he asks, prompting me.
"The Boggs case," I reply.
"Luther Lee Boggs?"
"It was right after my father died. I remember, the day of the funeral, I went into the office. It was the first time I can recall you calling me by my name. You called me 'Dana' and you cupped my cheek in your hand so gently, so lovingly, I thought my heart would melt."
"So it was then?"
"No, not exactly."
"Then when?"
"I remember being out on the dock, looking for Lucas Henry, when I heard the shot ring out. I saw you laying on that peer, blood pooling around your leg. I ran to you, shouted for someone to get help. I saw the pain on your face, and I hurt so badly that it felt like I'd been shot, too. And then I saw your blood on the white cross--the sign that Boggs had prophetized--and my own blood went cold. I wrapped my jacket around you to keep you warm and tried to stop the bleeding until the paramedics could arrive.
"I held your hand for the entire ride to the hospital, talking to you, trying to assure you that you were going to be okay as you faded in and out of consciousness. I remember standing in that emergency room, watching helplessly as they worked on you. I was so afraid, Mulder. We had known one another for less than a year, and still I was so afraid . . . afraid that you were going to die, that I was going to lose you. . . ."
I stop then, feeling the unshed tears constricting the back of my throat, making it difficult to speak.
It takes him several moments to reply. When he does, his voice sounds thick, like cotton. "You- you've never told me about that before, Scully. I never realized. . . . So- so that was when--?"
"No, not then," I reply, trying to regain my composure. "Close, but not just yet. It was while you were in surgery. The doctors had given you little more than a 50/50 chance because of all the blood you had lost. It was then that I went to go see Boggs, to confront him. On the way over to the prison, I worked myself up into quite a rage. I remember storming into his cell, hell-bent on giving him a piece of my mind. At that moment, I had never hated anyone as much as I did Boggs. I was sure that he and Lucas Henry had set up the whole thing to get revenge on you for putting him away. I wanted him to pay for what he had done to you. God help me, I wanted him dead. And I told him as much. I don't remember exactly what I said--it all seemed to just come pouring out of me. But what I do remember is the way that my voice caught. I wanted so much to sound ferocious, to be intimidating as hell. But my goddammed voice wavered."
I pause, take a shaky breath, the fear and the anger and the anxiety of that case washing over me. I have to remind myself that it was a long time ago. That Mulder is alive and well. That he's safe, and in one piece, on the other end of this line.
"Scully. . . ."
Oh God. How does he know exactly what I need? How does he know when the mere sound of his voice speaking my name is just the reassurance I need right now?
I close my eyes, and a tear escapes, tracks slowly down my cheek.
"That's when I knew, Mulder. That's when I knew."
I hear the bang of the locker room door, the sound of approaching footsteps. I look at my watch, realize how long we've been on the phone.
"Shit," I mutter, scrubbing at my face with the back of my hand. "Hey, Mulder, it's getting late, and I should really get started on that autopsy."
"Yeah, you don't wanna keep the guy waiting."
I grin. He's always been able to do that--bring a smile to my face. Only now, I don't try to hide it anymore.
"I'll call you later, okay?"
"Okay. Have fun slicing and dicing."
I shut off the phone, shove it back in my coat pocket, and slam the locker door closed before making my way to the morgue to get down to business.
End Part 2
****
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.
*****
Truly Madly Deeply
by Somogyi
somogyi02@yahoo.com
Part 2
I glance over at the clock. Six twenty-three. Shit. How long have I been sitting here, daydreaming? I'm going to be late.
I throw back the covers and jump out of bed, making a bee-line for the bathroom. I perform my morning ritual in record time. Washing, combing, dressing. A dash of make-up, and I'll be ready to go.
For some reason, I can't find my lipstick. I rummage through my make-up case, but to no avail. Goddammit. In frustration, I dump the entire contents onto the bathroom countertop, shuffle the cosmetics around.
I've just located the lipstick when something else catches my eye: a small, folded piece of paper. For a moment, I stare at it in confusion. Then I pick up the paper and unfold it.
My lips quirk in a smile at the sight of the familiar block letters:
"S--JUST BECAUSE. THINKING OF YOU. LOVE, M"
Love. Such a simple word, four little letters. And yet it conveys so much. How long did it take me to be able to say that word, to try to express to him the true depth of my feelings for him?
He told me once, years earlier. In a hospital room, no less. How very Mulder. At the time, I thought it was the result of his drug-induced giddiness. He'd been talking of time-travel and dopplegangers, of my saving the world and his fear of never seeing me again.
I should've realized. From the way his eyes bored into me, the cloudy haze cast by the painkillers suddenly gone. From the set of his jaw, his shoulders. From the way he had to steel his nerve, gather his courage, take a deep breath before uttering the words.
And what did I do in response? I rolled my eyes, uttered a hasty exclamation, and walked out, feigning exacerbation. Yes, feigning. At the time, I couldn't allow myself to react to his heartfelt declaration. I couldn't let him see how those three little words made my knees go weak, my heart pound, my insides turn to goo. So I walked away, faking indifference, when in truth my soul was singing. At that moment, I finally knew as fact what I could only hope in the past. And that knowledge sustained me.
So what if it only took me well over a year to reciprocate?
With a final glance, I refold the note and place it in my pocket. For safekeeping. But also to keep it close to me.
I quickly apply the lipstick, grab my bag and keys, and head out the hotel door.
Mulder's always doing little things like that. A flower waiting for me on my desk at work. Notes in unexpected places. Random voice mail messages. Just to say hi or I miss you or I'm thinking of you. There's no rhyme or reason. Not a holiday, not a birthday, nor an anniversary. No special occasion.
I asked him once, why he does it. He thought about it a moment, head tilted to the side, deep thoughts creasing his brow, much as a child looks when pondering the mysteries of the universe.
"Just because," he replied. "Because I can."
****
I meet Agents Krick and Lehmann in the Philadelphia field office, hoping to quickly wrap up the case and be back in D.C. in time for dinner. I'm greeted with bad news.
Laster hasn't been apprehended yet. Worse still, there's another victim. Another crime scene to investigate. Another autopsy to be performed. Looks like I won't be making it home for dinner after all.
I accompany the two agents to the crime scene. I try to offer them whatever assistance I can. The observations of a forensic pathologist, the intuition of an experienced field agent. We find a lead that points us in Laster's direction. Krick and Lehmann do the footwork while I head back to the lab to perform the autopsy.
I'm in the locker room, changing into scrubs, when I realize I should probably let Mulder know that I won't be making it home tonight. I pull my cell phone from my coat pocket, hit the speed dial.
"Mulder."
"Mulder, it's me."
"Hey Scully. You on your way to the airport already?"
"Change of plans, I'm afraid. I've got another autopsy to perform."
"What happened?"
I quickly fill him in on the latest developments in the case. He listens intently, offers some advice on what the agents could do next.
"They're already on it. See, Mulder, I told you that they're good."
"You're not thinking of leaving me for Agent Lehmann, are you, Scully?"
"Nah. He's not my type," I say, leaning against the row of lockers.
"Too short? Too by-the-book?"
"Too sane. I like my men a little over the edge."
"I'm not sure whether to say 'thank you' or 'ouch'."
"Besides, I think there's something going on between him and Krick."
"With his partner?"
"Uh huh. Haven't you seen the way they look at each other, Mulder? All those furtive glances. And haven't you noticed that when they speak to one another, it's like no one else is in the room? Their attention is focused solely on one another. They're completely in sync with each other. And the tension in the room--it's palpable."
He laughs.
"What's so funny? You can't tell me you don't see it, too."
"Of course I do. Sounds familiar, though, doesn't it, Scully?"
I don't reply immediately. I sit down heavily on the wooden bench as the enormity of his words begins to set in.
"Scully? You still there?"
"My God, Mulder, have I really just described us? Our relationship during our partnership?"
"Well. . . ."
"Were we really *that* obvious? And here I thought I was hiding my feelings so well."
"It was only a matter of time before you could no longer resist my manly charms."
"Oh, is that what you call all those lewd comments and suggestive remarks you were always making?"
"You loved it, Scully, and you know it."
"You're lucky I didn't sue you for sexual harassment, the way you were always invading my personal space."
"You think I never noticed the way you'd shiver, almost imperceptibly, when I touched the small of your back? Hell, Scully, I could melt you with a single look. Or evaporate you, just by putting on my glasses."
Is that so? Well, two can play at this game. "Cuts both ways, Mulder. If I wanted your undivided attention, all I had to do was cross my arms and quirk my eyebrow. And if I really wanted to up the ante, I'd dart my tongue out, lick the corner of my mouth. Don't think I never noticed how that made you squirm."
"Hey Scully . . . ?"
"Scrubs, Mulder. Powder blue scrubs."
He chuckles. "That's not what I was gonna ask you."
"Well, what then?"
"When did you know?"
"Know what?" I ask, not sure what he's driving at.
"*Know* know. When was it?"
I close my eyes, considering. When exactly was it?
The moment I first walked into his office, all those years ago? There was something there, an awareness that we both felt, an electricity that sparked between us. It ignited periodically during that first case: When I came to him scared to death one night in his hotel room and dropped my robe. When he told me for the first time about his sister's abduction, about his search for the Truth. When we laughed and howled like two teenagers in an Oregon cemetery on a rainy night. There was definitely an underlying current, even back then. But that wasn't when I knew. No, it was much too soon for that.
Was it when we were trapped in that Arctic laboratory? When, despite the newness of our working relationship, we wanted desperately to trust one another? When I went to him, while he was locked in that storage closet, professing my loyalty to him, to our partnership? When I could barely control the trembling in my hands at the prospect of touching his bare flesh? When I first felt the warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips, the hardness of the muscles of his neck and back? When I bared my own neck to him--Lord, it might as well have been my entire body, my soul--and he oh-so-gently ran his strong hands down my sensitized flesh with the tenderness of a new lover's careful exploration? I think it was then that I became acutely aware of the tension, the underlying sexual current, that flowed between us, like something alive. But I didn't know yet.
Was it when his old flame, Phoebe Green, suddenly resurfaced from whatever dark place it is she crawls into at night? When she walked back into his life, with her mind games and her deceit, using him to further her own career? Seeing the way she reduced him to a timid schoolboy, the way he still answered to her beck and call . . . that was the first time I can acutely remember being jealous over him. Seeing them dance together, watching them kiss . . . it made me sick to my stomach. I remember how it initially surprised me, the way he paraded around his hotel room--and me--in those black silk boxers, seemingly unaware and untroubled by his nakedness. And yet, when Phoebe walked into that room, he immediately fastened his robe, tying it tight, as though that layer of terrycloth were another barrier between them, shielding him from her corrupting touch. It was then that I realized that I had something she'd never be able to regain: his trust. Mulder doesn't trust lightly. Which makes his trust all that more precious to obtain. It was then that I realized my feelings for Mulder went further than mere attraction. But I didn't yet know.
When, then?
"Scully. . . ?" he asks, prompting me.
"The Boggs case," I reply.
"Luther Lee Boggs?"
"It was right after my father died. I remember, the day of the funeral, I went into the office. It was the first time I can recall you calling me by my name. You called me 'Dana' and you cupped my cheek in your hand so gently, so lovingly, I thought my heart would melt."
"So it was then?"
"No, not exactly."
"Then when?"
"I remember being out on the dock, looking for Lucas Henry, when I heard the shot ring out. I saw you laying on that peer, blood pooling around your leg. I ran to you, shouted for someone to get help. I saw the pain on your face, and I hurt so badly that it felt like I'd been shot, too. And then I saw your blood on the white cross--the sign that Boggs had prophetized--and my own blood went cold. I wrapped my jacket around you to keep you warm and tried to stop the bleeding until the paramedics could arrive.
"I held your hand for the entire ride to the hospital, talking to you, trying to assure you that you were going to be okay as you faded in and out of consciousness. I remember standing in that emergency room, watching helplessly as they worked on you. I was so afraid, Mulder. We had known one another for less than a year, and still I was so afraid . . . afraid that you were going to die, that I was going to lose you. . . ."
I stop then, feeling the unshed tears constricting the back of my throat, making it difficult to speak.
It takes him several moments to reply. When he does, his voice sounds thick, like cotton. "You- you've never told me about that before, Scully. I never realized. . . . So- so that was when--?"
"No, not then," I reply, trying to regain my composure. "Close, but not just yet. It was while you were in surgery. The doctors had given you little more than a 50/50 chance because of all the blood you had lost. It was then that I went to go see Boggs, to confront him. On the way over to the prison, I worked myself up into quite a rage. I remember storming into his cell, hell-bent on giving him a piece of my mind. At that moment, I had never hated anyone as much as I did Boggs. I was sure that he and Lucas Henry had set up the whole thing to get revenge on you for putting him away. I wanted him to pay for what he had done to you. God help me, I wanted him dead. And I told him as much. I don't remember exactly what I said--it all seemed to just come pouring out of me. But what I do remember is the way that my voice caught. I wanted so much to sound ferocious, to be intimidating as hell. But my goddammed voice wavered."
I pause, take a shaky breath, the fear and the anger and the anxiety of that case washing over me. I have to remind myself that it was a long time ago. That Mulder is alive and well. That he's safe, and in one piece, on the other end of this line.
"Scully. . . ."
Oh God. How does he know exactly what I need? How does he know when the mere sound of his voice speaking my name is just the reassurance I need right now?
I close my eyes, and a tear escapes, tracks slowly down my cheek.
"That's when I knew, Mulder. That's when I knew."
I hear the bang of the locker room door, the sound of approaching footsteps. I look at my watch, realize how long we've been on the phone.
"Shit," I mutter, scrubbing at my face with the back of my hand. "Hey, Mulder, it's getting late, and I should really get started on that autopsy."
"Yeah, you don't wanna keep the guy waiting."
I grin. He's always been able to do that--bring a smile to my face. Only now, I don't try to hide it anymore.
"I'll call you later, okay?"
"Okay. Have fun slicing and dicing."
I shut off the phone, shove it back in my coat pocket, and slam the locker door closed before making my way to the morgue to get down to business.
End Part 2
****