CHAPTER TEN:

Room 88
Stardust Building
Las Vegas
April 30, 1985
Tuesday

The past weeks after Monica and John's visit had been a big blur for Mulder: a dancing Scully; an acting Scully rehearsing in front of him, an angry Scully because he didn't fold her bed sheets with the triangle top; a series of frantic phone calls from Los Angeles; airplane rides from Los Angeles to Las Vegas and back; Scully's phone calls from Las Vegas; visits from his crew in Las Vegas; and then, himself.

He handled these on the tips of his toes, more gracefully than a dancing Spunk herself. Within that one month, he was able to set the date for the when they start shooting (July 18) and he had also written Emily's wedding date with bold letters in his planner (May 22).

The Scully-sharing-his-bed on that fateful night was handled as discreetly as they could. They didn't really talk about it that much, except when they want to banter with each other to death. But to resolve Scully's ongoing nightmares, Mulder made sure that he slept later than Scully did, so that if she started dreaming, it would be him who would run to her room to give her comfort and not the other way around. They never tried sleeping in one bed again. Mulder didn't know what Scully thought of it, but for him, it was better that they remain as far from intimacy as possible. Scully was his friend and his responsibility. He didn't want that ruined.

Then again, something just had to go awry when everything was on the fast lane.

Scully brushed past him in the kitchen, grabbing the scissor that was hung together with the other utensils beside him. She caught Mulder's eye as her white arm retreated away from him. After making sure that the eggs were still in good condition, he faced Scully. She was sitting on a chair across him, picking through her frizzy hair, dangling the scissors from her thumb dangerously close to her face.

Mulder clasped her wrist tight and grabbed the scissors from her finger. This made Scully fume out, flailing her free arm wildly for the scissors. With his physical advantage, he easily kept it out of her grasp.

"Now, now... what do we have here... an enraged little Ms. Scully?" he teased, pursing his lips. Scully tugged at a string of hair towards her chin.

"Mulder, give me those scissors."

"What are you going to do with them?"

Ah, the 'you-are-in-deep-shit' face. He loved it when she gave him that look. It meant the most adorable arguing session human beings had ever attempted.

She feigned an American accent as she talked, "I'm gonna use them to stab you, Mulder."

Nope, not even close. When Scully spoke, it was all British - from the words up until the punctuation marks.

"Ah, your violent side finally resurfaced." He wiggled his eyebrows, settling the scissors back to where they belong. Scully rolled her eyes.

"I don't have a violent side. I want to cut some hair from my eyes." To illustrate her point, she tugged at that particular strand of hair once again, and she folded it to show him where she wanted it to really settle. Mulder grimaced. Scully with bangs? First, she wanted to get a whole new wardrobe that was in fashion. Now she wanted to be Pollyanna. Next big thing might be her wanting to go around wearing two pigtails like the Long Stockings kid. Whatever. The people of today's generation were getting crazier and crazier.

"You'll look horrible, Scully." He smelled the distinct aroma of well done eggs and he quickly turned around to flip the eggs before they burned. He kept a smirk to himself when he was reminded of how Scully always, always burned her eggs. At least in the cooking arena, he could prove her that he was way better. "Is this what they all are wearing their hair in now? Bangs? Christ. First it was teased up like an animal died and was buried in their hair, now it's bangs?"

Scully huffed out at him. "They said I'll look cute in bangs. I used to have bangs about two years ago - wasn't really a particularly fitting look for me, but blimey, I think I evolved a bit and I can accommodate such a change." That was her defiant answer.

Mulder grimaced. Scully, cute? Scully was already pretty and they wanted her to go back to cute? Who the fuck was messing with his Scully?

Thankfully, only half of the towering thoughts he had made came out of his mouth. "Cute?! Who told you that?" He couldn't really outwardly tell her that she was already pretty as she was now, because she would turn into a ripe tomato and burst before he could even take back what he said.

"The girls... in the studio."

"The Folies Bergere crew?" Mulder laughed, handing her the plate of eggs. She actually believed those girls? They didn't know Scully at all.

When she accepted the plate and settled it on the table, a small part of him shouted, "So do you!" He shrugged it aside by brushing his cheek against his shoulder. Listening to your subconscious came cheap these days.

"Yes, the Folies Bergere crew. What's wrong with that?" she said that as if she was a teacher demanding for her grade one pupil to hand over the M&Ms he stole from his classmate. Mulder tilted his head to one side while grabbing the bread from the kitchen counter. He was not going to let her be the teacher this time. Role reversal 101: It was his turn.

"Scully, you look fine as you are right now. You don't need to change the way you look."

She would never believe him. She would never ever believe him when it came to the way she looked.

"They all wear bangs... I guess. I mean, will it look that bad?"

Bad? Ha. That was an understatement.

"It won't fit you." It was her turn to grimace at his choice of words. Fine - so what he said was wrong. He could always try again.

Mulder opened the bag of bread and offered her a slice. She accepted it and began to poke her egg with her fork, waiting attentively for his reworded answer.

"You'll look good in anything, Scully, believe me... but not bangs. Please." It was more of a plea than an answer. Scully sighed, pushing her eggs onto the bread. He watched her do that for some time, until she pushed her head up and caught him watching her.

"What?" she said through a mouth full of bread and eggs.

"They don't like you much, do they?"

Scully's eyes widened when he said that. It was the same reaction he produced when the situation was vice- versa: when Mulder's the grade one book of colors and big bold letters and she was the teacher reading it to the class. This time, he was the teacher. She was the book. He could read it in her eyes like a burning hunger pang: the want to be accepted.

Chewing on her food slowly, Scully dejectedly answered, "No. They don't. They think I'm a bimbette who doesn't deserve all the attention she's getting. I'm a butt ugly European who... lives with a Clydesdale chocoholic whom I should be doing the nasty with. A dipstick."

He blinked; he was lost. Eighties slang. Bah. Flower power was HIS decade.

"In English, please," Mulder stuttered, somehow allowing his memory to identify the words as much as he could. He had heard some of those phrases from Emily - like bimbette, or chocoholic - wait, that one was from Spunk herself.

Scully forced a smile on her lips. "They think I'm a bitch."

"I gathered that your previous statement was longer than that."

"You said in English," she pointed out, raising her fork at him.

"I didn't say that you rephrase it."

"Basically, that's what I said. I'm just summing it up." She took another bite of her egg sandwich. Mulder's stomach churned at the sight of Scully indulging herself. That reminded him that she was already halfway into her breakfast and he was not even fixing himself one.

Groping for the ketchup in the middle of the table, Mulder started putting his meal together. "Why didn't you tell me about this?" he asked, pushing his egg on top of the American bread.

Scully bowed her head down to her plate, avoiding his eyes. "I didn't think... that it was that important, you know. A group of girls hating me for no apparent reason - it's quite juvenile to worry about it, isn't it?"

Juvenile? Sometimes Mulder had to wonder whether this woman had her head screwed on tight. If he only did practice psychology after college, rather than becoming a producer, he would've made Scully his patient at once. "No, it's not juvenile. It's normal to worry about things like that."

She didn't say anything after his statement. She just placed all of her heavy concentration on her eggs and piece of bread. Mulder didn't push for more answers, though; he settled with spreading the ketchup all over the sunny egg.

Then it hit him.

Scully would be performing at the Tropicana in little less than a week. Why not?

"What if I come with you today? Watch your first dress rehearsal?"

He could tell by the sudden flush in her face that she was trying hard not to choke. He set that aside, still charging full force ahead.

"At least let me see what you're working on for the whole month. I woke up early today - this must've been the reason why," he chirpily concluded, motioning with his free hand to himself. Scully lunged for her OJ and drank it all in one gulp.

She looked at him through her glass and he looked back at her, unwavering. He was serious about this.

"You don't want to see me dance there. You'll get..." She poured herself another glass of juice as she frantically began to argue. "... Bored, you know... I mean, you have first row tickets to the show on May 6, I don't think your surprise should be ruined or something."

That was her argument? She seriously believed she would get away THAT easily? Mulder slyly smirked. It was his turn to torture her now.

"I'm coming, Scully."

Another gulp of orange Juice. She was going to finish that pitcher he made in one second.

"I am. Is that so wrong?"

A streak of juice dribbled on Scully's chin. It took all of Mulder's will to stop himself from wiping it. He thanked the heavens above when she felt it and did the task herself with the table napkin.

"Why are you doing THIS to me?" she wailed, dabbing on that spot on her chin. Mulder bit into his sandwich to push down the laughter tickling his throat.

Scully glared at him icily when she figured out what his reactions were. "Don't you dare. I hear one snicker from you and you will DIE."

He must've stopped laughing along the way since he first met her, because he was still alive.

Mulder mimicked her earlier way out of the conversation by pouring himself some OJ. He couldn't help the smirk that washed over his face, and it emitted another heavy groan from his Spunk.

Mr. Jayson was more than happy to receive him on the show's first technical dress rehearsal; he even letting him sit on the makeshift director's chair that the happy-go-lucky choreographer apparently bought in one of his many, many trips to Hollywood.

Mulder grinned politely to keep the man ecstatic as they waited for Scully to appear in her post- bohemian/eccentric/belly-dancing attire, which according to Mr. Jayson was the women's role which Scully would be representing. That's what the show was about: the different roles of women throughout the world.

"Why did you make her a belly dancer?" Mulder asked, involuntarily studying the scattered dancers that were peering at him through the red curtains which hung over the studio's makeshift stage. They were continually glancing at him from the curtains, studying him and then giggling.

Mr. Jayson was sitting on a sofa that was out of place in the large dancing studio. He lifted his Gucci boots and settled his feet atop the table in front of them. "Dana has beautiful hips. When she sways them, it takes you in with it ... I noticed that quality about her when she dances." The choreographer tilted his head towards Mulder's direction. The Director almost jumped when a mousse-covered strand of hair fell on his arm.

"Would you rather have her in another performance, Mr. Mulder?"

Of course not. Mulder would love to see Scully shake that booty of hers. It would be, in Eighties slang, the bomb.

"Uh, no. Scully can do most anything." And he believed that statement with all of his heart. In their little apartment (or flat, as she called it), she would practice in her own room when she thought he was not looking. She left the door open to let some air in, since the Las Vegas weather had been extremely warm lately. Anyway, Scully danced when she was bored … but scrap that: Scully danced whenever she wanted to or could. She probably missed the privacy of the basement in Mulder Manor, so she indulged herself the only way she could in Vegas.

He was a big pervert spying on her like that, but he was always interested to see what his star could offer.

And yeah, she sure could offer a LOT. A lot more than those hips, Mr. Jayson.

Mr. Jayson smiled a gnarly lopsided grin at him, then clapped his hands twice, the sound echoing throughout the whole stage. The peek-a-boo girls stopped whispering and giggling among themselves and they automatically settled behind the curtains. Mulder relaxed, sighing deeply and settling his back onto his chair.

Music that consisted of cymbals, bongo drums, and guitar chords infiltrated his eardrums, shattering his relaxed mood. It sounded like new wave - with a more ancient, raw, and edgier feel to it. Was this what Scully was going to be dancing to? Could he protest this later on? Maybe he should've thought of watching Scully perform a long time ago.

From the darkness of the stage, a lone spotlight of navy blue appeared, highlighting a foot that appeared from the back curtains. An anklet of beaded gold and silver wrapped around the porcelain skin beautifully, making Mulder forget all of his new wave rants.

Then, she appeared.

Scully's face was partially hidden by a whispery thin beige cloth, as was her whole body from the audience. He could make out traces of shiny beads from the hemline of her long skirt, fluttering through the floor of the stage as she walked with careful grace. Mulder closed his eyes briefly and shook his head, telling his brain cells to stop short- circuiting. Yeah, fine, the woman - this Scully - before him was more than beautiful: she was actually ethereal, but she was STILL Scully. He should keep that in mind.

All thoughts disappeared as the music slowed to an impossibly lazy beat, and Scully's movements matched that. She dipped her whole upper body low to touch her feet, shaking her belly as she did. It was hypnotizing. Mulder secretly wished that the music would stay as sluggish as it was, so that he could watch Scully take immobile movements forever.

But, all good parts had to end, and the music picked up speed. He wasn't disappointed for long, though, since her movements were even more graceful, taking all of her body with it. She started shaking her hips more vigorously, lifting her head up to the ceiling, and turning her back to the audience.

She lost that damn beige cover. And Mulder almost flipped.

Tossing the material aside, her body began to gyrate more precisely to the fast beat, shaking the golden tassels that hung from the midriff she was wearing. Her perfect flat stomach was advocated in the shimmering blue bohemian attire, and so were her two perfectly toned legs that were occasionally peeking from the high slits across her skirt.

Mulder felt faint at the sight of this, and to think that this was ONLY the dress rehearsal.

As the beat thickened, so did her movements and dancing. She shook her belly to the sound in perfect synch, taking all of his consciousness together with the revolving beat. The beat got faster and faster, and she continued dancing to it without any mistakes. Mulder knew that Scully's passion was dancing ... he just didn't know that she danced with her soul, too.

The performance ended too soon, and when the lights came out, Mulder was too dumbfounded to stand up and stage was now bare before him. Mr. Jayson, who had stood up, awakened him to reality. Mulder followed suit and eagerly clapped his hands, while craning his neck to see where his Scully could've gone.

The dressing rooms were just behind the whole stage, so Mr. Jayson led Mulder to where Scully's was. He noticed that she had her own individual place, with the sign "DANA" taped messily on the front door. Mulder whisked away lint from his wool t- shirt, getting ready to knock on the door.

"You Mr. Fox Mulder?" a woman's voice, thick with a Southern accent, asked behind him. He swirled reflexively towards the sound, finding himself face-to-face with a skinny blonde woman that was almost as tall as he was. She was thickly made up and her lipstick was smeared at one side of her mouth. He also noticed the sharp cut of bangs across the dancer's forehead.

In reply, Mulder could only nod.

The lady tossed her long blonde hair from one side to another. "You're Dana's galpal?"

He surely hoped against hope that the word galpal did not have a double meaning, but he had to be careful with this. "I'm the director for her upcoming movie."

The blonde smirked, blinking at him through her heavily-lined hazel eyes. "Friend. Sure. You live with that lady, right? You're the man responsible for all this that she got?"

Mulder could only nod again. He couldn't see where this conversation was going.

"Let me tell you one thing, preppy: Ms. Royal Highness doesn't deserve all that you're giving her." She shifted her weight on her five-inched heels, resting her body on the protruding pillar beside her. Mulder flinched at that.

"Excuse me, but who are you to tell me that Ms. Scully does not deserve what she's getting?" he demanded lightly, pursing his anger deep down in his stomach. For the meantime.

"She hasn't worked her way to the top, yet, you see. We here," she squinted her eyes and spread her arms wide around her. Mulder could see the laugh lines that were covered by the make up. He deduced that she must be at least thirty or thirty-five years old, "worked our asses off for the better part of our damn lives. She's a hoser that hasn't even been at the middle step and now she's at the top. She doesn't deserve it, I tell yah."

Bile invaded Mulder's guts when she said that. Who was she to tell him that Scully did not deserve what he was giving her? "Look, Ma'am, I don't want this to turn ugly, but if you are just here to bother me about your insecurities concerning Ms. Scully, then I suggest that you go to a psychiatrist, not to me." He turned around, breathing in and out steadily to keep himself from using his upper extremities against the lady.

"Fine. But don't come running back here and telling me that I didn't warn yah."

Warn him? WARN him? Who the fuck did the lady...

"Mulder?" Scully's voice shattered through his anger, making him soften at the sight of her. She was standing in front of the door's crack, still in her bohemian clothes. "What's going on?" She pushed the door open, only to see the blonde lady shading her eyes from the white fluorescent light of the dressing room. Scully's eyes became steel blue daggers as she realized what was going on.

"What are you doing here Maitreya?" she said defensively, taking hold of Mulder's arm. "Maitreya" clenched her teeth together, gave Scully a 'you're-not-getting-off-easily'

expression, and disappeared into the dark halls of the backstage.

With her gone, Scully pulled Mulder into the dressing room. Inside, Scully took him by the collar and shoved him against the walls.

"WHAT did she tell you?"

Mulder pushed Scully's small fingertips from his neck. Christ, the woman had some strong muscles for someone who was only five feet and three inches.

"Nothing important -"

She shoved her ankles against his foot. Mulder scowled at the pain. Did she study martial arts back in Wales? She seemed like to have done JUST that.

He was not going to fight her, even if he could easily pick her up with his hands on her waist. He would act when she got too violent.

"WHAT DID SHE TELL YOU!?"

Okay. She's shouting. That was a warning sign for "violent Scully." Or Spunk.

"She told me that you don't deserve this. C'mon, give this up, Scully." She was going to get bloody any time soon, and he had no patience for that, so he encircled her waist with his hands and carried her close to his body. Scully protested loudly, thumping his chest. When that started to hurt, Mulder pushed her on his shoulder, and the thumping transferred to his lower back. That he didn't mind. He had strong back muscles.

Thanking Mr. Jayson for the long couch he upholstered in Scully's dressing room, he gently dumped her there. However, Scully took him with her as she clutched his neck and pulled him down to her.

Landing on the wet warmth of her neck, Mulder reveled in the sensation of her body against his before picking himself up with his elbows. Now they were effectively eye- to- eye.

He stared at Scully's baby blues as they filled up with antagonism and dread. A single tear threatened to fall from her eyelids, and he didn't stop himself from brushing it away with his thumb. From Spunk to Scully- girl. Her transformations were that quick.

"That Maitreya girl... she has been giving you a hard time, huh?" he whispered, feeling his hot breath bounce back from her skin. She nodded meekly as another tear appeared from her other eye. Mulder dipped his head low and kissed that tear away, tasting the saltiness against his lips. He did not lift his head up, staying beside her cheek, his face into the cushion. Scully's hands dropped on his lower back and he felt her fingers slowly kneading the muscles there as an apology for the previous pounding she had done.

And then her chest began to convulse. She started to cry. All the frustrations of being unaccepted in her own dancing dream, all the frustrations of being hated for being blessed, all the hurt of being ridiculed when you're doing your honest best in what you love.

Mulder traced his lips on her bare shoulder, letting her cry as long as she wanted to.

He thought about their evident difference in weight, and that he might be crushing her, so he flipped to one side so that she would be on top of him. But she protested with a hand to his back, keeping him as he was. She wanted comfort - she wanted him as her blanket of comfort. Mulder wouldn't dispute that. He just hoped that she could still breathe.

"Why didn't you tell me about this?" he inquired for the second time that day, stretching one arm up to play with the tangles of her hair. Her face found the crook of his neck and she buried her eyes there.

"I've already told you this morning," she reasoned out, pressing herself tighter against him. She had a penchant for keeping him against her, as if she could solve the world's problems with his body heat.

Mulder couldn't help kissing her. She tasted exquisite, her skin on his lips was like fine wine - yes, it was intoxicating and he admitted that to himself as he planted another on her cheek. "You didn't tell me when it started. I could've done something about it."

"No... you couldn't have. They hated me from the start. They said I was too young to get this break... that I don't deserve the 'American dream'... that I don't deserve ..." Her stops were punctuated with sobs. Mulder swore he could hear his own heart breaking when she said those words. How could she even doubt herself? How could Scully doubt her own talent?

"Don't say that, Scully. Don't let them get to you, okay? You know that you deserve this more than anyone else. You have the passion, the talent... and I saw that in you. I want to give you what you deserve. Nothing's changing that belief of mine."

"... Thank ...you." was her mangled reply. Mulder tried to piece his heart together as he placed one last kiss on her forehead, before standing and making Scully sit up. He forgot - THEY forgot that she was still in her bohemian costume. He offered her the roll of tissue paper from the vanity table and she shyly took some to wipe her tears.

Mulder sat back on the couch, placing an arm around her thin shoulders and pulling her close to him.

"I don't want you to believe anything they say ever again, okay? You're the best dancer in this whole damn world and I'm keeping you that way. You should only listen to me about these things, no one should tell you otherwise. Remember, you're mine. You belong to me."

Scully didn't smile at that- like she normally would, but she placed her head on his chest - over his beating heart - and that was enough reply for him.

END OF CHAPTER TEN

A/N: Wait, this is about to get exciting …