Title: Truly Madly Deeply 3/5
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 3
Funny thing about autopsies . . . they always make me hungry. Ever since med school, gross anatomy every morning my first semester from nine to noon, cutting up corpses has always left me famished. It's nothing I've ever given serious consideration. Not something I've ever pondered deeply. Just an observation, another fact I file away in the back of my brain. A little personal secret.
God forbid I ever told Mulder this . . . he'd never let me live it down. It'd be cannibal jokes till the cows come home.
Cows.
Mmm, a nice juicy cheeseburger sure sounds good right about now.
Hmm, I wonder if necropsies give veterinarians a hankering for steak and pork chops?
Lord help me, I'm delirious. I've been in this lab far too long.
I pull off my gloves and remove my protective goggles, heading for the sink to wash up. I scrub the powder and sweat from my hands, and any lingering smell of death. As I dry my hands, I catch the glint of the overhead light reflecting off of the gold band on the fourth finger of my left hand. I can't help but stare at the ring.
It's been so long since I've done that. In the beginning, I would stop and look at it, turning my wrist this way and that, many times throughout the day. It was the newness of it, I guess. Now, though, I suppose I've become accustomed to it.
It's a simple ring. I insisted on that. I've never been one for jewelry, aside from the small gold cross my mother gave me as a child. I told Mulder I had never really worn a ring before, and I didn't want anything large or gaudy. We went together to pick them out. He teased me relentlessly, having the saleswoman show us some of the widest, heaviest, jewel-adorned, garish rings I've ever seen. Of course, I reminded him that whatever style we picked we both had to wear. That sure shut him up fast.
It didn't take us long to agree on two plain, gold bands. He insisted on getting them engraved, though. Our initials and our wedding date. Simple, yet perfect.
As I stare down at my hand, I remember the only other time I wore such a ring--on the same finger, no less. It was considerably larger, heavier, clunkier. That's what I get for letting Mulder pick it out. That, and the names. Rob and Laura Petrie.
I can't help but laugh at the memory. To investigate the deaths of several couples who lived in the same suburban community, Mulder and I went undercover as new homeowners. As usual, Mulder took on his new role with verve. He took every opportunity to play it up, overdoing it with the pet names, the possessive touches that screamed "mine." And, my God, the level of flirtation! I really had to pour on the reticence, feigning disinterest, almost disgust, at his constant streams of innuendo. Because I knew that if I were to give even a hint that I liked it, that it was turning me on, he would have kicked it up a notch. And where would that have left us?
Spooned together on the bed, that's where. And on the kitchen floor. And the living room couch. And in the bathroom shower. And on his desk, twenty minutes before a meeting with Skinner--
That memory still makes me flush. The thought of getting caught, of being found out, made the rush incredible. It was one of the few times we mixed business with pleasure. We both agreed to keep work at the office, and leave personal interactions for other, more private places. After he indulged me my fantasy of making love in a morgue, that is. He always said the experience creeped him out, but I could tell that it actually turned him on. I guess it's safe to say that just like our work on the X-Files, our love life has been nothing if not uneventful.
With a futile sigh, I grab the cassette tape of my autopsy narration. I'll have to transcribe that tonight. Right now, though, I need to get cleaned up and grab something to eat.
I decide to forestall a shower in the locker room for a nice warm bubble bath in my hotel room. I change quickly, gather my things. On my way out to the parking lot, I pull out my cell to call Mulder. All I get is a recording that his phone is not in service. Why would he shut it off? I try his office number, but I get his voicemail.
"Hey, Mulder, it's me. I just finished up the autopsy. I'm on my way back to the hotel. Give me a call when you get a chance."
Luckily, the traffic's not too bad, and I'm back in my room in less than a half hour. I'm almost immediately out of my coat and shoes, and I start shedding my suit on the way to the bathroom. I draw the bath, adding a liberal dose of bubble bath, and return to the main room while the tub fills.
I debate about ordering room service, but decide against it. For some reason, I feel like going out, to a real restaurant. No burger for me tonight.
I'm about to retreat to the bathroom when something on the bedspread catches my eye. Walking closer, I see that it's a single long-stemmed yellow rose.
This is new. He's never done this when I've been away before. He must have called the hotel, arranged it with the manager or housekeeping. I lift the flower to my nose, savor its fragrant aroma.
I swear my feet don't touch the ground as I float back into the bathroom.
How did I ever get so lucky? I wonder as I lay back in the tub, immersing myself in a warm cocoon of water and bubbles. On the phone earlier, I told him when *I knew*. But when exactly did it *happen*?
There came a point when I decided enough was enough. I'd fought my desires, my inclinations, for far too long. If loving Mulder felt so right, then I had to at least give it a try. And if it were meant to be, it would work out. So I steeled my nerve, and went for it.
I made my own overtures, matched Mulder's flirtation with my own suggestive remarks. And for a while, it was incredible.
We hadn't yet taken that next step, but our partnership--our friendship--had never been stronger. Everything was going perfectly.
Until the Peter Andraven case. That damned Andraven case. It brought us together, but at the same time it nearly drove us apart. We put our all into that case, and by all accounts, we should have had that bastard dead to rights. But money and power have often outspun the wheels of justice. And Peter Andraven walked.
Mulder nearly lost it. He practically accosted Andraven after the hearing. Luckily, he got a hold of himself, and walked away. But this case gnawed at him, consumed him. He wouldn't let it go. He harassed Andraven to no end, both on and off duty. Pressure came down from above, and Skinner had to order Mulder to stay away from Andraven.
After that, Mulder retreated into himself. He locked me out, pushed me away, no matter how hard I tried to help him.
In a last-ditch effort, I tried to get him to go with me to this Italian restaurant we had been wanting to try for a long time. I wasn't expecting him to accept, but he did. We were to meet later that night at the restaurant, Tufano's.
I sat there waiting for him for well over an hour. I was stewing. I was sure he'd stood me up. I was ready to kill him. Worse still, I was ready to give up on him, on us. To this day, I thank God that I decided to give him five more minutes. I was about to leave the restaurant when the maitre'd told me I had a phone call.
It was Mulder. He told me to meet him at the airport. He couldn't say more over the phone. There was no time anyway, the flight was going to leave soon. But he promised to explain everything to me on the way to New York.
Well, an hour of waiting and a couple of martinis under my belt, and I wasn't ready to let him off the hook quite so easily. Why should I? I asked him. Why should I follow him on some sort of wild goose chase without even knowing what it was about?
I'll never forget what he said to me. The memory still gives me goosebumps.
"Trust me, Scully."
Those few words shot to my very core. They sobered me in an instant. I realized then that for the first time in a very long while, Mulder chose to contact me before jaunting off to God-knows-where without so much as a "see you later." Nine times out of ten, he would've ditched me, left me high and dry, and explained himself later, after the fact. But this time, he called first. He asked me to go with him.
Who was I to doubt this new and improved Fox Mulder? Especially one who asked me for only one thing. That which he values above all else: belief. In him. In us. In that what we're doing is right.
I do, Mulder. I trust you. Wholly. Implicitly. As no other.
I didn't tell him that. Instead, I told him that I was on my way.
It was a damned good thing for him that I decided to go with him. As it turned out, Peter Andraven was murdered that night, and Mulder was the prime suspect. The real killer had doctored some sort of video surveillance tape, to make it look like Mulder had been there, at the crime scene, the night it happened. I turned out to be his alibi, since he never left my sight that night.
During the flight to New York, Mulder explained that for the past few months he had a new informant, Marita Covarrubias, the Special Representative to the Secretary General of the United Nations. He seemed surprised when I told him I had suspected as much. I had figured it out weeks earlier, in fact. That impressed him, and I allowed myself to take pride in that.
Marita had contacted Mulder shortly before he called me to say she had evidence about Andraven's involvement in biological weapons. She said she needed to meet Mulder in person as soon as possible, before the evidence was destroyed. She had also told him not to divulge this information to another soul.
"Why did you tell me?" I asked him. It wasn't like Mulder to disregard the wishes of an informant so readily, without good reason. Turns out he had a damned good reason.
"Because you're my partner, Scully," he'd said, his eyes meeting mine and holding them. "We're in this together."
At that moment, I would have walked through the very fires of hell for him. And he knew it, too. That night, something changed between us. I think we both realized that afterwards, things would never be the same for us. The idea both excited me and scared me to death.
We met with Marita in her apartment. Judging from her slinky attire, she had an ulterior motive for inviting my partner over, but luckily my presence all but squashed those intentions. She showed us blueprints to a building that was formerly owned by Andraven Laboratories. She said there were clandestine experiments going on there, and that if we didn't get in there within the next few hours, our last chance of incriminating Andraven would go up in flames.
While staking out the building, we met up with a couple of NYPD detectives. We decided to team up, and agreed to infiltrate the building together. Mulder and I managed to get some samples from a lab, getting shot at and nearly torched in the process. At one point, if I hadn't caught sight of a moving shadow and yanked Mulder to the ground, he'd probably have ended up with another bullet wound to add to his collection of battle scars.
Fortunately, all four of us made it out unscathed. The building wasn't so lucky. But we had managed to get the samples out in one piece. And that evidence proved damning enough to shut down what remained of Andraven's corporation.
I'm convinced that our success on that case is what paved the road for our promotions. As well as our subsequent relationship. We got caught up in work over the next couple of weeks, filing the reports, analyzing the data, giving testimony. But we finally made it to Tufano's--together--to celebrate. It figures that we couldn't even have a proper celebration.
Damn Mulder for bringing his cell phone with him. Skinner called us, sounding unduly agitated, even for him. Craig Robinson, an insanely wealthy bureaucrat who owned Niihau, a small island in the Hawaiian archipelago, had called in a favor with the federal government. His son and a native girl had been killed under mysterious circumstances. Local inhabitants claimed it was the work of an angry spirit. That made it just up our alley. And it seemed our recently-established successful reputation caused Robinson to request our services. So Skinner sent us out there--that very night--to look into matters and determine what had killed those kids.
At first I was upset that our romantic evening had been ruined. But then I got to thinking . . . Hawaii, beaches, sunshine, Mulder in a bathing suit. . . . Okay, I could deal with this, perhaps even enjoy it. Little did I know. . . .
Mulder being Mulder, he believed the kids to be victims of an enraged cave-spirit. I, on the other hand, thought the cause of death to be of a more earthly origin. While we were checking out the cave where the kids died, I was injured. I remember waking up in the hospital the next day with the mother of all headaches. Mulder was beside me, talking to me. He didn't realize that I'd regained consciousness right away, and I decided to bide my time, listen to what it was he had to say. He was grasping my hand tightly, desperately. And he was baring his heart to me.
I only remember bits and pieces now, but the general gist was that he'd been beside himself with worry for me. Afraid that he had lost me once again. The difference was that this time, he vowed not to waste another chance. He said that if I were to come back to him, he wasn't going to let another moment go to waste. He was going to tell me how he really felt--better yet, he was going to show me.
"I can' wait, Mul'er," I told him, my voice sounding like sandpaper.
I don't think I will ever forget the look on his face for as long as I live. Relief mixed with thankfulness along with what could only be deep and abiding love.
He brought my hand to his lips, kissed my palm, and each finger in turn. Then he reached over and kissed my forehead, my cheek. My nose and chin.
"Tha' the bes' you can do?" I asked, somehow managing to quirk an eyebrow.
He leaned in again, and I closed my eyes, readying myself for the moment I had dreamed about for so long. I felt his breath on my lips. I inclined my head up, ever so slightly.
And then he kissed me.
On my goddammed eyebrow, the bastard! I swear to God, if I'd had the strength, I would've decked him.
I opened my mouth to castigate him, had half his name out, when he finally kissed me. This time, he did it right.
Let me tell you, that kiss was worth the wait. Six years plus of anticipation, of longing, of desire, of trust, of love. His soul and mine, mingling together at last. It was like finding a little piece of heaven, right here on earth.
That was when it happened.
End Part 3
****
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 3
Funny thing about autopsies . . . they always make me hungry. Ever since med school, gross anatomy every morning my first semester from nine to noon, cutting up corpses has always left me famished. It's nothing I've ever given serious consideration. Not something I've ever pondered deeply. Just an observation, another fact I file away in the back of my brain. A little personal secret.
God forbid I ever told Mulder this . . . he'd never let me live it down. It'd be cannibal jokes till the cows come home.
Cows.
Mmm, a nice juicy cheeseburger sure sounds good right about now.
Hmm, I wonder if necropsies give veterinarians a hankering for steak and pork chops?
Lord help me, I'm delirious. I've been in this lab far too long.
I pull off my gloves and remove my protective goggles, heading for the sink to wash up. I scrub the powder and sweat from my hands, and any lingering smell of death. As I dry my hands, I catch the glint of the overhead light reflecting off of the gold band on the fourth finger of my left hand. I can't help but stare at the ring.
It's been so long since I've done that. In the beginning, I would stop and look at it, turning my wrist this way and that, many times throughout the day. It was the newness of it, I guess. Now, though, I suppose I've become accustomed to it.
It's a simple ring. I insisted on that. I've never been one for jewelry, aside from the small gold cross my mother gave me as a child. I told Mulder I had never really worn a ring before, and I didn't want anything large or gaudy. We went together to pick them out. He teased me relentlessly, having the saleswoman show us some of the widest, heaviest, jewel-adorned, garish rings I've ever seen. Of course, I reminded him that whatever style we picked we both had to wear. That sure shut him up fast.
It didn't take us long to agree on two plain, gold bands. He insisted on getting them engraved, though. Our initials and our wedding date. Simple, yet perfect.
As I stare down at my hand, I remember the only other time I wore such a ring--on the same finger, no less. It was considerably larger, heavier, clunkier. That's what I get for letting Mulder pick it out. That, and the names. Rob and Laura Petrie.
I can't help but laugh at the memory. To investigate the deaths of several couples who lived in the same suburban community, Mulder and I went undercover as new homeowners. As usual, Mulder took on his new role with verve. He took every opportunity to play it up, overdoing it with the pet names, the possessive touches that screamed "mine." And, my God, the level of flirtation! I really had to pour on the reticence, feigning disinterest, almost disgust, at his constant streams of innuendo. Because I knew that if I were to give even a hint that I liked it, that it was turning me on, he would have kicked it up a notch. And where would that have left us?
Spooned together on the bed, that's where. And on the kitchen floor. And the living room couch. And in the bathroom shower. And on his desk, twenty minutes before a meeting with Skinner--
That memory still makes me flush. The thought of getting caught, of being found out, made the rush incredible. It was one of the few times we mixed business with pleasure. We both agreed to keep work at the office, and leave personal interactions for other, more private places. After he indulged me my fantasy of making love in a morgue, that is. He always said the experience creeped him out, but I could tell that it actually turned him on. I guess it's safe to say that just like our work on the X-Files, our love life has been nothing if not uneventful.
With a futile sigh, I grab the cassette tape of my autopsy narration. I'll have to transcribe that tonight. Right now, though, I need to get cleaned up and grab something to eat.
I decide to forestall a shower in the locker room for a nice warm bubble bath in my hotel room. I change quickly, gather my things. On my way out to the parking lot, I pull out my cell to call Mulder. All I get is a recording that his phone is not in service. Why would he shut it off? I try his office number, but I get his voicemail.
"Hey, Mulder, it's me. I just finished up the autopsy. I'm on my way back to the hotel. Give me a call when you get a chance."
Luckily, the traffic's not too bad, and I'm back in my room in less than a half hour. I'm almost immediately out of my coat and shoes, and I start shedding my suit on the way to the bathroom. I draw the bath, adding a liberal dose of bubble bath, and return to the main room while the tub fills.
I debate about ordering room service, but decide against it. For some reason, I feel like going out, to a real restaurant. No burger for me tonight.
I'm about to retreat to the bathroom when something on the bedspread catches my eye. Walking closer, I see that it's a single long-stemmed yellow rose.
This is new. He's never done this when I've been away before. He must have called the hotel, arranged it with the manager or housekeeping. I lift the flower to my nose, savor its fragrant aroma.
I swear my feet don't touch the ground as I float back into the bathroom.
How did I ever get so lucky? I wonder as I lay back in the tub, immersing myself in a warm cocoon of water and bubbles. On the phone earlier, I told him when *I knew*. But when exactly did it *happen*?
There came a point when I decided enough was enough. I'd fought my desires, my inclinations, for far too long. If loving Mulder felt so right, then I had to at least give it a try. And if it were meant to be, it would work out. So I steeled my nerve, and went for it.
I made my own overtures, matched Mulder's flirtation with my own suggestive remarks. And for a while, it was incredible.
We hadn't yet taken that next step, but our partnership--our friendship--had never been stronger. Everything was going perfectly.
Until the Peter Andraven case. That damned Andraven case. It brought us together, but at the same time it nearly drove us apart. We put our all into that case, and by all accounts, we should have had that bastard dead to rights. But money and power have often outspun the wheels of justice. And Peter Andraven walked.
Mulder nearly lost it. He practically accosted Andraven after the hearing. Luckily, he got a hold of himself, and walked away. But this case gnawed at him, consumed him. He wouldn't let it go. He harassed Andraven to no end, both on and off duty. Pressure came down from above, and Skinner had to order Mulder to stay away from Andraven.
After that, Mulder retreated into himself. He locked me out, pushed me away, no matter how hard I tried to help him.
In a last-ditch effort, I tried to get him to go with me to this Italian restaurant we had been wanting to try for a long time. I wasn't expecting him to accept, but he did. We were to meet later that night at the restaurant, Tufano's.
I sat there waiting for him for well over an hour. I was stewing. I was sure he'd stood me up. I was ready to kill him. Worse still, I was ready to give up on him, on us. To this day, I thank God that I decided to give him five more minutes. I was about to leave the restaurant when the maitre'd told me I had a phone call.
It was Mulder. He told me to meet him at the airport. He couldn't say more over the phone. There was no time anyway, the flight was going to leave soon. But he promised to explain everything to me on the way to New York.
Well, an hour of waiting and a couple of martinis under my belt, and I wasn't ready to let him off the hook quite so easily. Why should I? I asked him. Why should I follow him on some sort of wild goose chase without even knowing what it was about?
I'll never forget what he said to me. The memory still gives me goosebumps.
"Trust me, Scully."
Those few words shot to my very core. They sobered me in an instant. I realized then that for the first time in a very long while, Mulder chose to contact me before jaunting off to God-knows-where without so much as a "see you later." Nine times out of ten, he would've ditched me, left me high and dry, and explained himself later, after the fact. But this time, he called first. He asked me to go with him.
Who was I to doubt this new and improved Fox Mulder? Especially one who asked me for only one thing. That which he values above all else: belief. In him. In us. In that what we're doing is right.
I do, Mulder. I trust you. Wholly. Implicitly. As no other.
I didn't tell him that. Instead, I told him that I was on my way.
It was a damned good thing for him that I decided to go with him. As it turned out, Peter Andraven was murdered that night, and Mulder was the prime suspect. The real killer had doctored some sort of video surveillance tape, to make it look like Mulder had been there, at the crime scene, the night it happened. I turned out to be his alibi, since he never left my sight that night.
During the flight to New York, Mulder explained that for the past few months he had a new informant, Marita Covarrubias, the Special Representative to the Secretary General of the United Nations. He seemed surprised when I told him I had suspected as much. I had figured it out weeks earlier, in fact. That impressed him, and I allowed myself to take pride in that.
Marita had contacted Mulder shortly before he called me to say she had evidence about Andraven's involvement in biological weapons. She said she needed to meet Mulder in person as soon as possible, before the evidence was destroyed. She had also told him not to divulge this information to another soul.
"Why did you tell me?" I asked him. It wasn't like Mulder to disregard the wishes of an informant so readily, without good reason. Turns out he had a damned good reason.
"Because you're my partner, Scully," he'd said, his eyes meeting mine and holding them. "We're in this together."
At that moment, I would have walked through the very fires of hell for him. And he knew it, too. That night, something changed between us. I think we both realized that afterwards, things would never be the same for us. The idea both excited me and scared me to death.
We met with Marita in her apartment. Judging from her slinky attire, she had an ulterior motive for inviting my partner over, but luckily my presence all but squashed those intentions. She showed us blueprints to a building that was formerly owned by Andraven Laboratories. She said there were clandestine experiments going on there, and that if we didn't get in there within the next few hours, our last chance of incriminating Andraven would go up in flames.
While staking out the building, we met up with a couple of NYPD detectives. We decided to team up, and agreed to infiltrate the building together. Mulder and I managed to get some samples from a lab, getting shot at and nearly torched in the process. At one point, if I hadn't caught sight of a moving shadow and yanked Mulder to the ground, he'd probably have ended up with another bullet wound to add to his collection of battle scars.
Fortunately, all four of us made it out unscathed. The building wasn't so lucky. But we had managed to get the samples out in one piece. And that evidence proved damning enough to shut down what remained of Andraven's corporation.
I'm convinced that our success on that case is what paved the road for our promotions. As well as our subsequent relationship. We got caught up in work over the next couple of weeks, filing the reports, analyzing the data, giving testimony. But we finally made it to Tufano's--together--to celebrate. It figures that we couldn't even have a proper celebration.
Damn Mulder for bringing his cell phone with him. Skinner called us, sounding unduly agitated, even for him. Craig Robinson, an insanely wealthy bureaucrat who owned Niihau, a small island in the Hawaiian archipelago, had called in a favor with the federal government. His son and a native girl had been killed under mysterious circumstances. Local inhabitants claimed it was the work of an angry spirit. That made it just up our alley. And it seemed our recently-established successful reputation caused Robinson to request our services. So Skinner sent us out there--that very night--to look into matters and determine what had killed those kids.
At first I was upset that our romantic evening had been ruined. But then I got to thinking . . . Hawaii, beaches, sunshine, Mulder in a bathing suit. . . . Okay, I could deal with this, perhaps even enjoy it. Little did I know. . . .
Mulder being Mulder, he believed the kids to be victims of an enraged cave-spirit. I, on the other hand, thought the cause of death to be of a more earthly origin. While we were checking out the cave where the kids died, I was injured. I remember waking up in the hospital the next day with the mother of all headaches. Mulder was beside me, talking to me. He didn't realize that I'd regained consciousness right away, and I decided to bide my time, listen to what it was he had to say. He was grasping my hand tightly, desperately. And he was baring his heart to me.
I only remember bits and pieces now, but the general gist was that he'd been beside himself with worry for me. Afraid that he had lost me once again. The difference was that this time, he vowed not to waste another chance. He said that if I were to come back to him, he wasn't going to let another moment go to waste. He was going to tell me how he really felt--better yet, he was going to show me.
"I can' wait, Mul'er," I told him, my voice sounding like sandpaper.
I don't think I will ever forget the look on his face for as long as I live. Relief mixed with thankfulness along with what could only be deep and abiding love.
He brought my hand to his lips, kissed my palm, and each finger in turn. Then he reached over and kissed my forehead, my cheek. My nose and chin.
"Tha' the bes' you can do?" I asked, somehow managing to quirk an eyebrow.
He leaned in again, and I closed my eyes, readying myself for the moment I had dreamed about for so long. I felt his breath on my lips. I inclined my head up, ever so slightly.
And then he kissed me.
On my goddammed eyebrow, the bastard! I swear to God, if I'd had the strength, I would've decked him.
I opened my mouth to castigate him, had half his name out, when he finally kissed me. This time, he did it right.
Let me tell you, that kiss was worth the wait. Six years plus of anticipation, of longing, of desire, of trust, of love. His soul and mine, mingling together at last. It was like finding a little piece of heaven, right here on earth.
That was when it happened.
End Part 3
****