CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN:
Studio 018
Warner Brothers Studios
Los Angeles
February 18, 1986
Tuesday
Frank Sinatra's Blue Moon hummed in the background, sending throaty whispers and calming harmonies inside the solemn make-shift office; once in a while its lyrics darted from his chapped lips, fingers drumming the memorized keys on the desk.
"Mhmm," Mulder agreed with the other person on the phone, crossing his ankles on top of his desk and his index finger finding that exact spot on his chin without fail. "So she's on her way here now? How did she do, Mr. Burrows?"
The solemnity of his Blue Moon was shattered by John, who entered his office without any knocks. He brought with him a series of noises from the construction crew just parallel from Mulder's office.
Mulder grimaced at the noise, to which Doggett quickly closed the door at.
Back on the receiver, the Director swiveled his rotating chair around so that he wouldn't be distracted by his AD's presence. "You loved her, huh? That's good to hear. When is this episode going to air? Oh, on February. Thank you. Why, yes. If all goes well, we'd love to do another one with you. Thanks again. Bye."
Mulder rested the phone gently down the cradle, just as the song progressed to its saxophone instrumental bridge.
"Hey, John. What's up?"
His friend traced his brown, unruly hair with a finger. "ET's outside. I told them to give you an hour's head start. Is that enough time for Dana to return?"
"I think so," Mulder answered, closing his eyes as the saxophone interval deepened. This was his favorite part of the song.
"Mulder, concentrate, please." John strode up to his desk and tapped gently on the fine wood, a few inches from his crossed ankles. "Who was that on the phone?"
"Mr. James Burrows from Cheers. They wrapped up the episode a few hours ago, and he called to comment on how good my star is. He said that he's never seen anyone dance like she does." He smiled proudly, unashamedly showing his admiration for Spunk. "If we'd allow it, they want to have her back."
John grinned back, nodding his head gently against the beat. "Good. Now, if you can get up from this song and meet with ET outside, we'll work more effectively. We're wrapping up in a few days, Mulder."
The Director kept his eyes closed, ignoring John's hidden insinuation. The constant reminders of the movie's end had the subversive effect of gashing a wound on his open heart. He refused to discuss the topic, since if he opened it up, everyone will deem him as selfish. They worked off their professional asses against his torturous time frame, his no-one-quits persona, and he's afraid that if he did address the end, everyone might see the REAL reason why he didn't want filming to end…
The reason's a 5 foot 3 inches, twenty-year-old redhead that in just one year had managed to embed herself with his life so intricately that it hurt so fucking much to think of even just letting her go. Imagine how painful it would be to physically let her go. He might get a heart attack.
The last bars of the song filtered the suddenly stuffy office, forcing Mulder to open his eyes. John was staring at him with concern while scratching an invisible spot on his neck.
Blue moon, now I'm no longer alone
Without a dream in my heart
Without a love of my own
"Okay," he said slowly, stretching one arm behind him and blindly clicking the cassette tape off. The next song's relaxing keys were cut off with a loud 'thump' as the tape was ejected from the player. "Let's do ET."
The ET reporter assigned to do the Danced Yesterday story, Cantrell, was obviously a Pendrell fan. The all American blond and blue-eyed boy was practically prancing around whenever their own brown-eyed media darling boy was onscreen. By the sixth time that Mulder had to cut the ongoing scene and they had to temporarily usher the damn reporter outside of the studio, everyone inside the set was already handing down bets on whether Cantrell was going to ask Pendrell to dinner or not.
Mulder shook his head as Scully approached him from the scene, her thin petite form clad in a modern ballerina costume. Her hair was stuck in a neat bun, cradled with large diamond clips with fancy trimmings that fell down to the sides of her face, illuminating her blue eyes. The costume was lime green leggings that perfectly fit the curve of Scully's body, down to the protrusion of her hip bones. Ethereal fabric fell on her sides as a make-shift tutu, gentling with colors of the rainbow.
"I'm betting $20. He's going to bloody ask him out," she joked, grabbing a tissue from the table behind him to wipe the beads of sweat on her forehead. Mulder took some tissue and helped Scully in her task.
"You've been working non-stop for the whole day now. First, at the recording studio for the chords of Danced Yesterday with the Bee Gees, and then a while ago with Cheers. We're not hurrying this up, Scully. Tell me if you want to rest and we'll move the shooting tomorrow."
She grinned at his concern, bending her neck accordingly as his wiping went down to the trails of their hard day's work on her clavicle. "No thanks, Mulder. If we want to go according to schedule, shooting ends today. And then tomorrow's our wrap party. I want to be fresh for that one."
Mulder acknowledged this by trailing the tissue over her nose, making Scully's grin turn into all those lilies and carnations he adored. "Aren't you the least bit tired? Did you take your pills? Your multivitamins?"
"No, yes, and yes. I'm fine," she pressed on, removing his hand from her face and holding it firmly in hers. "I appreciate your concern, but I do want to finish this. I know that you do."
Yes, he did, but if she's just doing this for him …
"And no, I'm not doing it only for you," Scully said, startling Mulder out of his thoughts. "And even if I am doing it for you, who cares? The crew will fucking kiss my feet for it."
"Yes, they will. I'm afraid they will. I'm betting that they also want to freshen up for tomorrow, huh?"
"They are so damn excited about it that …"
Scully paused, catching Mulder's eyes drifting away from her face. She followed his gaze from above her head and slowly swirled around.
Right in front of her nose was the fucking ET camera they supposedly had given the boot about oh, what? Five minutes ago? And fucking Cantrell was grinning at them with his too-pearly-white whites, raising his brown eyebrows expectantly, as if asking them, why the hell are you stopping?
Stopping? Mulder's mind raged, his fists curling up into two flesh balls, pushing his knuckles into Scully's soft palms. Does Cantrell want his mother-frigging career stopped? He'd gladly hit the guy in between his eyes hard enough to ensure that his career stopped long enough for him to remember this moment for the rest of his life!
Scully sensed the tension in Mulder's muscles, squeezing his hand for one last time before letting it go, all attention intent on the camera. They were both deciding whether they'd trash the camera first or shoot Cantrell right about that damn time.
The asshole spoke finally, after eyeing them inquisitively. "Mr. Mulder, with all due respects, but are you two…?" Cantrell momentarily tucked the microphone under his armpit, holding his two index fingers up in the air and sticking them together right before his eyes. "Like this?"
Behind him, the camera man - concealed under layers of neon-colored sweaters and a frizzy baseball cap - gave the pair a lopsided, shit-eating grin. This particular grin reminded Mulder of the same grin Alex Kryceck gifted him with, together with that "you look at her funny" comment.
"No, Mr. Cantrell. We are NOT in a relationship," Scully answered, backing away from Mulder to illustrate this. "And if that film makes it on air, I will personally kick your ass so hard you'll remember every damn day what hit you."
Cantrell dripped back, his blue eyes widening in surprise.
Mulder couldn't help but to smile smugly. Constant reminders of Scully's Spunkiness would always tickle him in the weirdest way.
"I've heard something about your attitude, Ms. Scully," Cantrell scorched back, his candy-sweet TV tone menacingly dripping lower. "They tell me that you do great prancing, but you have this, this weird aura on you. Spunk. That's what they call you, right?"
The Director stepped right in front of the argument, licking his lips to control himself from hitting anyone. "Cantrell, you are a guest here in our set. Please give due respect. I've had long ties with ET and the only reason you are here is because of my loyalties to your TV show. You know very well that I make one phone call and you're done with your career as you know it."
This ripped away the arrogant façade of the Cantrell, and for what it seemed like the first time throughout the whole day, the man suddenly realized who he's talking to. His head dipped, chin meeting his chest.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mulder. I got carried away," he apologized, gazing back and forth between Mulder and Spunk. "Ms. Scully … if you still would allow me to get this story …"
"Of course," the Director finalized, waving a nonchalant hand to end the conversation. "It doesn't matter, really. I'd even let Harry give you his autographed picture."
The reporter's eyes brightened at this, and he did a u-turn to his cameraman, his ears almost clapping themselves at his obvious delight. "Harry Pendrell's autograph … wow!" The two ET crewmen ushered themselves out of Mulder and Scully's way, gentling towards Walter who was talking with Harry.
Mulder returned his attention to Scully, who was staring at him as if he had the word "NUTS" engraved on his forehead.
"What?" he goofily punctuated, taking her gingerly by the arm to lead her towards the set. According to the large overhaul wall clock a few meters from them, the ten-minute break he had set up to get rid of the annoying ET reporter was almost up.
Scully scratched at the base of her hairspray-riddled hair, loosening a single strand from the tight bun. "I don't get it. You let him off easily. What the hell's up with that?" Her accent gave a glorious twang to the word 'hell' as she restricted her emotions.
Once they reached the set, the make-up artists started to swarm in on Scully, forcing her to sit down on the Director's chair. Mulder stepped back, scrutinizing the frantic make-up session taking place before him. One artist started smothering Scully's auburn hair with more hairspray, pinning the dislocated strand in place. The others worked on her foundation, blood red lipstick, dark eyeliner, the visible shape of diamonds across her forehead.
Mulder crossed his arms, "He doesn't deserve our time or energy, darling."
Scully raised her eyebrow at his new pet name (actually, he's only using it to annoy her), only to be scolded by the chief make-up artist to keep her face put.
He once noted how he saw Scully's pure soul whenever she danced, how her face shaped into the most perfect of expressions whenever she shook her waist, how she smiled whenever she did what she did best.
Dancing was her life, and whenever she danced, her high regard for her craft showed.
Everyone in the set held their breaths as Scully continued to frolic in lucidly memorized steps, her smile genuine and carefree, her movements almost hypnotizing. Moments like these never failed to happen on set: whenever Scully danced, it was as if the whole world would stop and stare at her. Passion like this did not come from talent alone.
This was one of the most complicated parts of the elaborate production numbers. Most of the dancing sequences were shot in a real-live theater down in Sunset Boulevard, but for this particular shot - one that involved Scully close-ups and intricate steps that bordered on body contortion - for technicality and safety reasons, they decided that the studio would house it better. For more safety and, this time, budget reasons, they also decided to shoot it last among all the scenes.
The classical music of Beethoven droned on in the background, and when Scully lifted her pointed toe mid-air, Mulder's blood rushed to his head. He recognized this step. After seeing so many rehearsals of the production numbers, he knew this step by heart. It's the triple back flip step that would turn the ballet sequence into an exotic dancing party.
It's the part that Scully always complained about. After first executing the exhibition, her left leg started hurting. Whenever they practiced it, they had to stop for a few minutes for Scully to recuperate.
He offered a double, at least someone who could shoulder the job for Scully since she danced her whole day away like a madwoman, but she relented. She preferred to do her "own stunts."
Placing a tense hand on the cameraman to make sure that he captured this moment, Mulder mouthed a slow word that caught the corner of his star's eye:
"Go."
Seeing this, Scully lifted her arms above her head, tracing dainty patterns on the air with her fingertips. She inhaled lungful of breaths, glanced at Mulder with a small smile tracing her lips, and lunged into the air backwards. The first attempt of the back flip was perfectly done - she landed on the ground with her two feet aligned, only to once again flip backwards. The second one was also nicely done, only a few inches lower than the last one.
Mulder's breath stilled itself when the anticipation grew. He knew that if Scully wouldn't be able to execute this step, they'd have to hire a double. If she did, then the movie's production process was done.
The third one passed right in front of their eyes, Scully's whole body flushing with the extended effort.
To their shock, she was able to extend the flip midair, garnering another small circle before landing on her feet - shakier than ever, but upright. Damn upright!
Mulder tried to find his voice quickly. All the eyes that were fixated on Scully were now on him.
"Cut!" He sounded like a mouse squeaking for cheese. "That's a wrap!"
Cheers echoed in the studio. The cameraman stopped filming the scene.
Scully collapsed to the ground.
Fuck!
Mulder panicked. He ran towards Spunk and in no time was beside her, shoving his knees on the ground and demanding what's wrong.
"My leg … it's fucking hurt," she staggered out, restraining the obvious pain in her system with an unbelievably calm voice. She motioned to her left leg and Mulder quickly barked at anyone who's behind him to get him scissors.
Someone handed him the tool and he tenderly placed the injured leg on his lap. With the scissors, he cut out the leggings and revealed some sort of inflammation on her white skin. Mulder touched the red part with his fingertip, only to leave Scully wincing.
"FUCK YOU, Mulder! God, that hurts!" She flinched, pushing his hand away. Mulder bit his lip, noticing how disproportionate her left leg was from her right. It was about an inch larger than her thigh's normal size.
"Someone call a doctor please! We need a doctor!"
"911?" A voice asked behind him, startled. Scully shook her head, and he caught her reaction, brushing away sweat from her forehead.
"No, just a doctor," he answered back. When that was confirmed, he took Scully in his arms and lifted her up towards his make-shift office.
He used to dream about her every night. Every time he closed his eyes he would see her face on his, her breath dangerously close to his lips - and that would be the only sensation he would feel: her breath against his skin before the sweet assault of her tongue in his mouth, opening and tearing him deliriously apart. Then, as he expected, they would make love on the grassy field of that strangely familiar place. Every night, it never failed. She'd shout words of love for him and he'd shout them back, happy to be this free with the woman he loved. Mulder had never been given a chance like that before.
But he'd wake up, every morning, drenched in sweat and with a raging erection that was poised to cut glass. He'd be confused, arguing silently whether what he saw in his sleep was a dream in itself or a nightmare. He began to lose sleep after a whole month of having those vivid dreams. By December, he was a wreck.
Scully was worried about him, but he pushed her concern away. He didn't want concern, especially when it came from her.
Ever since he'd made peace with Scully and himself about his feelings, the dreams were gone. It was as if he was given an Oscar and then suddenly, the award-giving body decided that he didn't deserve it: woops, sorry, we're giving it to someone else! And he's not going to deny it, but he sometimes missed those dreams.
Mulder stared at an empty spot beside Scully's wrapped leg. Every single movement she was making on the trundle bed emitted a certain pin prick of pain on the humongous violet bruise, creating on her face the sexiest grimaces of pain he had ever seen.
Will he be considered a psycho if he'd admit to himself that the look Scully's having from the pain on her leg was actually somewhat equal to the looks his Scully "dream version" was giving him every time she was coming?
Oh, shit, Fox Mulder. He was a fucking psychopath. They have had a term for his particular damnation in psychology … what do they call that again?
"Mulder," Scully broke the incessant mantra in his head, her tone sharp and fiery. "Will you please stop staring at my leg as if it had been butchered? If you give me another one of your BLOODY pup … I'm-so-sad eyes, I swear I'm going to hop right over there and give you a good bonking!"
Yes, I'd like that very much, please.
He smacked himself on the forehead, resisting the urge to hit his head on the thin plywood walls. The damn thing wouldn't hold out on his thick noggin.
"Mulder?" This time, her voice was soft, anxious. "Are you okay? You have been distant for the past few minutes … I, is …" she trailed off, licking her lips and suddenly finding the spot Mulder was staring at interesting too.
"Is it … the movie? Aren't you happy that it's over?"
Hearing these words, he shook his head as an immediate response. His surroundings were a big blur as he walked towards the desk and sat down on the wooden chair, the rickety old thing creaking when he bent backwards. He raised his eyes to the gray ceiling, counting phantom cracks on the cement. "No, I mean … yes, for you people. There's still post-production to look forward to and the soundtrack. There are still many things to finish, Scully. It's not over yet."
He heard her wince first, before finding her voice.
"But is it for us?"
It was his turn to wince.
"Scully," he started, his voice an icy warning. Why in the hell did she have to be so blunt about it? Couldn't she at least hold some of that frankness to herself?
"I don't want to talk about this today. We're all tired," he argued, his hands shaking as he opened one desk drawer and spilled onto the surface a pile of sunflower seeds. He shoved the plastic XXXL bag back into the drawer and closed it with an indulgent snap, before chewing on the seeds - shoving three of them into his mouth all at the same time.
"I'm the one who's supposed to be tired here," Scully pointed out, lifting her uninjured leg up to meet with her chest. "I got my leg sprained and I was dancing my whole day out of this fucking hemisphere. I want to talk about this."
"Fine," he almost growled, capturing another seed in between his lips, glistening the sides like an Egyptian King's grapes, "talk."
Scully tapped her freshly-buffed fingernails on her bony knee, and for a weird moment, Mulder thought she was watching him eat his snack with too much curiosity.
"I want to know about what's going to happen after this. Between us." The way she said 'us' made a shiver run down Mulder's back, jolting him out of eating his snack. Goddammitt, why did even the word 'us' have to sound so good when it was coming from her?
Mulder bit into the seed, a loud cracking noise resonating from his action. "We'll always be friends, Scully."
She bent her head exasperatedly to the right, as if that statement was whispered into her ear every single day of her life on earth. "I know that … I don't mean, oh fuck … what I mean, Mulder, is …" Her blue eyes tilted to one angle, giant searchlights wandering over his fatigued face. "Our arrangement … what about your expense reports? About, about… my things?"
"Are you okay with that apartment a block away from the Manor?" He was surprised that his voice sounded as cool as a block of ice. Years in show business had given him great pointers in acting.
Scully blinked frantically at his question, probably taking note of the fact that he just ignored her own queries. "Uhh, yes, I think I like that apartment. When …"
Before she could complete the sentence, he already finished it for her. "Tomorrow. After the party."
A seed cracked in between his drying lips.
Scully twirled a glittering strand of auburn hair around her index finger.
"So that's that? I'm leaving the Manor tomorrow?"
Mulder's next seed was digested completely, husks and all. "Yes. Unless you want to prolong your stay so that you could pack more thoroughly, though I don't see any need for it." He wanted to shove a fistful of sunflower seeds into his mouth when those words sprang free, but all he could do was to pave his elbows on the desk and stare at her eye-to-eye. "Are you fine with that?"
For a minute, he thought he saw the truth in her eyes - he thought he saw them glisten into an array of ocean blue, he thought he saw her lick her lips in trepidation, wanting to appeal this, wanting to take this decision back.
But his imagination must really be messed up, if that's the case.
Her stature straightened, and despite of her present injury, Scully never looked as imposing as she did that second, when she stamped the truth on his innermost fears.
"Yes," she replied, taking his gaze and locking it with hers sternly. "I'm fine with that."
His whole world decided to fall apart on that very second.
END OF CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
A/N: Thank you for all of you out there reading and reviewing Spunk! Here's the official countdown:
Two more chapters to go before the unpublished chapters are published for the first time since 2004;
ONE more chapter to go before the NC-17 parts of the story,
and six months to go before the revival airs!
Oh wait, that wasn't supposed to be included, but anyway, there you go!