Six Degrees of Requiem
Les Valses de LA
Rating: This only is probably just a T.
Disclaimer: Chris Carter, my friend, I stole them from under your nose. Come catch me, we'll discuss plots for the up and coming (?) movie. I also do not own Francois Feldman's Les Valses de Vienne – but it is a truly wonderful, very romantic song.
Spoilers: Hollywood, A.D
A/N: Thanks again, to all the people who are taking the time to review this – and send me emails. I love you all so much for your kindness. Thanks to BonesDBChippie and Jaed, my best fic-buddies! You're so kind to me, following me across virtual worlds. And to all the X-Philers, to the ones who haven't forgotten the genius of the show, thanks to you too.
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"Still pissed?" she asked as their driver, Maurice, negotiated the limousine through the darkened streets of Los Angeles. Mulder leaned forward, staring into the golden depths of his champagne, and she knew he wasn't questioning why Skinner offered them his FBI credit card.
"We were portrayed as a joke, Scully," he said, draining the glass in one long gulp. She crossed her legs, luring his attention, momentarily, away from his own dark musing.
"It's never bothered you before," she said, her hip brushing his when he sat back in his seat, lacing their fingers together.
"We've worked so hard, lost so much, and I don't want to immortalised as some crack pot…" he sighed, "and I don't want you being condemned as Mrs Spooky for your part in my crusade." Scully blinked slowly.
"It's my crusade, too," she whispered. "Besides, as I've already said, it's just a stupid movie. In a few years, maximum, people will be asking 'what's The Lazarus Bowl?' It doesn't matter, Mulder." The limousine turned, breezing along the street, through the balmy night. "What would you like to do with the credit card then?" Freeing himself of the bowtie he'd been hassled into wearing, Mulder tucking the silk into his pocket, lifting his shoulders.
"A Bureau credit card? We could get a private lap-dance. Skinner's accountant might get a kick out of it." Scully chuckled, swatting his arm.
"I don't imagine Skinner would get a kick out of it, though. Dinner?" she asked and he shook his head.
"I'm not hungry. Too much popcorn, I think." She rolled her eyes, unsurprised that Mulder had given himself a belly ache. "I can't think of anything I want that costs money," he admitted. "Except maybe a Lamborghini, and again, I'm sure Skinner wouldn't be overly tickled by that kind of purchase." Scully pressed her lips together.
"Do you think his card has that kind of credit limit?" Mulder shook his head, reaching over to roll the window down, coaxing warm hair into their car. "Do you want to have a drink?" Gesturing to the empty champagne glass, Mulder vetoed her second idea. "You're not making this easy," she complained. "All that's left is dancing and making love." With their conversation kept consciously private from their chauffer, Mulder had no reason to fear that he might have heard – yet he did. Casting a cautious glance towards the darkened partition screen, their driver's eyes remained on the road. "Don't worry," Scully soothed, passing her hand along his thigh, "Skinner knows."
"How?" Mulder asked, turning towards her, their bodies angled.
"He knew from Virginia. It wasn't really a long shot," she reminded him, "he's known us for almost eight years, Mulder. You longer…" Shrugging her shoulders, she poured herself another glass of champagne, "he's fine with it. Don't let paranoia take over… please?" she pleaded, pleasantly surprised when he merely nodded, once. "Thank you." Reaching over, she pressed the intercom. "You can let us off here, we'd like to talk a bit." She took two quick sips of champagne, before slipping the glass into the holder at her side.
Maurice slowed the Lincoln to a breezing stop, hurrying to exit the vehicle and open the rear door for them. Mulder allowed Scully to get out first, pausing to admire the smooth length of her legs, as she turned, holding her hand to him. "Good evening sir, ma'am," the chauffeur said, tipping his cap. "Shall I wait?" Mulder passed him fifty dollars, shaking his head.
"We'll be alright," he said, "why don't you take the car back and call it a night? No one should be working on a night like this." Maurice smiled, tucking the notes into his pocket.
"Much obliged, sir," he said, "a lovely evening to you both."
Arm in arm, they strode along the shore-front, the warm breeze ruffling her hair, teasing her neck as she enjoyed his silent presence beside her. Flanked by palm trees, Washington, D.C. and their job seemed a million miles away. Even if they were being constantly observed, she lost interest in trying to worry. Only their footsteps, passing cars and the whispering leaves above her head, made any sound.
"It is a lovely evening," Mulder said at last, unlacing their arms and tangling his fingers in hers, instead. "I suppose this whole… thing… with the movie is foolish," he conceded. Scully nodded, slipping a tress of hair behind her ear, descending the ten narrow steps to the golden beach, whose true beauty was hidden in darkness, lit only by the silver moonlight, that cast white beams of stark luminosity across the grains. Her shoes sank into the sand and she clicked her tongue.
Mulder held her as she removed the highest shoes she'd worn in months, and dropped them at the bottom of the steps. "I'll get them later," she decided aloud, pausing when the waves brushed against the surf, making her sigh. "Lets walk, Mulder," she said, when he'd removed his dress shoes and black socks. "With no food, we need to compensate with something, don't we? We're alive." Slipping his hands into his pockets, lifted his shoulders in a soft shrug.
"We'll be alive tomorrow, too, won't we?" he said and she chuckled.
"I certainly hope so," Scully replied, her eyes the colour of polished sapphires in the moonlight. "But then, who knows?" His own eyes twinkled with the kind of unspoken mischief she'd grown to adore – especially when it was directed at her.
"Who knows indeed," he agreed, bumping her shoulder, "we could be gone in an instant, if God dealt us such a fate." Pressing her lips together, she smothered a chuckle.
"I thought you didn't believe in God," she said, "or are we being figurative this evening?" He didn't respond, his features impassive as he turned his eyes to the rippling waters of the Pacific Ocean, placid and glassy. The view held his attention for a long moment, before he exhaled deeply, removing his hand from his pocket, slipping his arm around her shoulder, his fingertips brushing her clavicle in a spontaneous technique meant to arouse her.
"If you were alive for one night only, and you had to pick a single drink, which would it be?" he asked, their toes sinking into the sofa natural sand. Scully felt his fingertips on her throat, and hummed.
"A glass of vintage white wine," she mused, "Something special, for my last night of being undead." Mulder smiled at the stars overhead, his fingers slipping beneath the high neck of her chic black dress.
"And food? Your last meal?" She wondered at all the tasteless meals they'd shared together in cheap diners in rural towns, and decided that there were far more bad culinary experiences than good ones.
"I don't know about food," she admitted, "so much as company. I'd undoubtedly share my last meal with you. And I'd ask you all the things I've been too afraid to ask." He glanced sideways at her, his roaming hand skimming the top of her breast. "I think we'd eat Chinese takeaway on your sofa, with beers… or does that violate my last drink rule?" He shook his head.
"You can have your last drink after the meal. The wine's in the fridge, chilling." She chuckled, the sound lost in the whispering ocean.
"Okay," she agreed, "we'd drink some of that Shiner you have in your fridge, then. I like that." Removing his hand, he slid his fingers into her hair, curling the auburn tresses, pulling out the band that held the silken strands in place.
"What about your last dance?" She tilted her head, leaning into his touch, her need to jump to the next, final question, rising.
"Something ancient and classical," she whispered, turning to face him, leaning close enough that he could press his lips to the column of her throat, tasting just the essence of the perfume she'd squirted there earlier. "Like a waltz. I always liked watching couples dance the waltz." He hummed against her throat, dipping his tongue into her clavicle.
"Les valses de Vienne, Scully?" he asked, changing his accent, sounding deliciously foreign. "Maintenant que deviennent, Que deviennent les valses de Vienne…" he sang and she sighed against his lips, wrapping her arms around his neck, leaning into his kiss.
"I don't know what you're saying," she whispered, "but I'd like it very much if you'd continue…" He tasted her lips with his tongue, which apparently could not only tackle little seeds, but long foreign words, too.
"I would," he replied, "but that's all I can remember. In my defence," he continued, "the last time I heard this was in 1990, when I was working in Behavioural Sciences with Francois Molyneux." There were so many pieces of information that she didn't yet know about him, and so many she wanted to learn. "He played the song on repeat one afternoon while we did a profile together. In ten years, I think I'm doing well to remember even a few lines." She nodded, toying with the soft hairs at the base of his neck.
"Indeed you are," she said. "It sounds wonderful, nonetheless." Mulder tightened his arms around her waist, teasingly flicking the cool zipper of her dress and she inhaled salty air into her lungs, mixed with the scent of him. The familiarity of him eased her trembling nerves – the same nerves that never failed to be whipped into a frenzy by his proximity. He was her illness and her cure.
"So we've established your last drink, last meal and last dance… what," he asked, "pray tell, would be your last location for some love making?" Such a naughty question, she thought, spoken to her by the man she'd considered to be only her partner for the past seven years. The sound of his voice, filled with lusty need, sent a quiver down her spine.
"There's nowhere else I'd rather be," she replied. "If it weren't indecent to do it on a public beach, I'd have no hesitation. There's something classically romantic, tantalisingly naughty about it. He kissed the spot between her brows, barely brushing his lips across her skin.
"Psychologists believe there's an exhibitionist in all of us, Scully," he said, "even the reserved ones." She blinked at him through the dark, catching a glimpse of his perfect teeth, and she was pulled through time and space, transported to his apartment that rainy night when they'd reflected on age, death and expenditure. Her sexual appetite was far from appeased and she'd since acquired something of a taste for him. More than what Wayne Federman might call 'A residual flavour'.
"Do you think I'm reserved? Or more importantly, do you think I am an exhibitionist?" He laughed, the sound of his delight mixing with the temperate evening breeze, carried out to sea where she hoped it lasted forever, carried for all eternity in the wind. It was illogical and impossible, of course.
"Yes," he said, "Both." She scowled.
"Reserved? It shall be my quest to prove you wrong." He kissed her lips, coaxing her tongue from her mouth into his and she complied, losing herself in the feel of his hands roaming over her clothes, across her spine, touching her buttocks with the kind of exploration he normally reserved for bedroom activity only. He tasted of champagne and popcorn.
"I accept this challenge to be proved wrong, fair maiden," he said, "and I sincerely hope I am." She slipped her hand beneath his jacket, raking her nails over his back, watching his face contort with a mixture of pleasure and pain. "For now, Scully, lets dance… we've all night, after all…"
"One night in Hollywood?" she asked.
"Let's live it like it's our last." He said.
How true, she would reflect later, that statement was – for they would never return to Hollywood again.
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So we have 'all things', 'Brand X' and 'Hollywood, A.D.' (and they didn't even spend any money…), what about Fight Club? So we think some rough sex is in order? Let me know, folks!