DISCLAIMER:  It all belongs to Chris and Co.  I just use and 
abuse them out of love.

SUMMARY: A motel room, a pensive Scully, a game, a revelation.
TITLE: Playing the Game
AUTHOR: Rowan Darkstar <rowandarkstar@gmail.com>
RATING: (R)
CLASSIFICATIONS: Story, Angst, hints of Humor
KEYWORDS: M/S UST, bordering on MSR
SPOILERS: General references through Season 6 US
TIMELINE: Late sixth season, sometime after "Trevor".
ARCHIVE: Just let me know. 

Special thanks go to Noelle Leithe for thinking me out of the 
horrible plot hole I had gotten myself into.  And to everyone 
else on E-muse who tried.



PLAYING THE GAME
by
Rowan Darkstar <rowandarkstar@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 2002



She appeared at his motel room door just after 10pm, silk blouse 
untucked, blazer gone, but still looking polished and sexy and 
painfully distant.  Her hair was slightly ruffled, but it only 
made her more beautiful.

As though she had heard his thoughts, Scully reached up and 
tucked her hair behind one ear, but the unruly section at the 
front didn't obey.

"Hey," she said softly.

"Hey, Scully."

"Is it, uh...it's late, were you...getting ready for bed?"

"No, no, not at all, Scully.  In fact I was just making some 
microwave popcorn.  They actually have some in with the coffee 
packets here, did you see it?"

Scully lifted her eyebrows slightly, regarding him for a moment 
as if he had spoken of something so far off-topic that it was 
taking her a moment to change gears and make sense of his words.  
After a beat, she said simply, "No, no I didn't see it."

He nodded, shrugged.  "So, what's up?"

She caught her breath, ducked his gaze, focusing instead on the 
tacky lamp on his bedside table.  She was still leaning on the 
door jamb, black pumps on the concrete of the threshold.  His 
simple question had apparently been one she had hoped not to 
hear, and for a moment, he was afraid she was going to just turn 
and leave.  But instead she said.  "I was just...I was still 
awake and watching some bad TV.  I figured, odds were you were 
doing the same--" she glanced up at him, a fleeting playful spark 
in her otherwise dusky gaze, "--and I thought, maybe we could 
just...watch together."

Mulder nodded again, motioning her inside.  "Join the party."

It had been a marathon day for them.  This case was both 
frustrating and unproductive.  It really belonged to the local PD 
now, and they would have handed it over the moment the ghostly 
aspects of the case had proved nothing but rumors.  But the local 
authorities were so blindly incompetent, neither he nor Scully 
could leave in good conscience until the suspect was securely 
behind bars.

Scully stepped into the room, slow and guarded, as though she 
were entering a suspect's room and not a friend's.  But Scully 
had been a little off all day.  He had known this, knew this, but 
didn't have a clue why.  She had been alternating between 
supremely bitchy and exceptionally kind.

"I made the Movie Theater style, but I think there was a Light 
Butter in there, you want me to throw that in?"

Scully shook her head.  "No, thanks, I'm not really hungry."

"Why not?  You didn't eat anything but rabbit food for dinner."

She didn't respond.  When he tried to delete her questions like 
that, she didn't let him get away with it.  He had never figured 
out how to make that trick work in reverse.

Mulder busied himself pulling open the popcorn bag and pouring 
the contents into the empty ice bucket.  Scully gradually drifted 
in the direction of the bed and sat down on the edge, pulling one 
foot up beneath her.

"What were you watching?" he asked, gesturing toward the TV.  He 
popped a handful of popcorn in his mouth before registering that 
it was too hot and immediately spit it back into the bowl.  It 
dawned on him a moment too late that Scully might have wanted to 
share.  He looked guiltily up at Scully who had apparently 
watched the whole performance with wry disapproval.  She just 
eyed him quietly now, ran her tongue lightly over the corner of 
her mouth.

"Nick at Nite," she said, gaze still on the popcorn container.

"Did you know there's a Jackie Chan marathon on TBS?"

"I did see something of the kind."

"And you didn't stop?"

"I'd seen it."

"That's the beauty of Jackie Chan films.  They're infinitely 
repeatable.  It's like the early Godzilla movies.  If they're on, 
you have to watch them."

"My brother used to do that.  He'd sneak back downstairs after my 
parents were asleep to watch Godzilla marathons.  He'd always get 
caught afterward, though, because he'd fall asleep on the living 
room floor with all the potato chips and popcorn still around 
him.  It never stopped him from trying, though."

"I cannot picture Bill watching Godzilla movies."

"Not Bill.  Charlie."

"Oh.  I should have been around to give the little guy lessons.  
I never got caught once."  He grinned as he settled into the easy 
chair across from where Scully sat on the edge of the bed.  He 
balanced the remote on the arm of the chair and held the ice 
bucket out toward Scully.

She eyed it like a dead fish, and he quietly took it back.  He 
turned up the volume on the TV as Jackie Chan reappeared out of 
the sea of late night commercials.

Scully turned her attention to the screen as well, her only 
movement the gentle twisting stretch of her ankle.


*     *     *     *     *


The bitch had receded with the sun, and the kindness had 
meandered into vulnerability.  But Scully wasn't talking and that 
was something he just had to accept.  He knew something had 
happened outside his radar; there was nothing on this textbook 
case that would have affected his seasoned and jaded partner.  
This was something different.  And he didn't have a clue.

Her shoes were on the floor now, her knees pulled up and her toes 
tucked beneath the edge of the blanket for warmth.  She had been 
nibbling now and then on his Full Butter Full Salt (Light Spit) 
popcorn, and that in itself was a little alarming.

They were still watching the Jackie Chan movie and every now and 
then Scully half-smiled and shared in his jokes about the corny 
dialogue.  She seemed to be there for nothing but company 
tonight, and damned if he wasn't going to give her just that.

And it was all going just fine until the cable blew out.

Mulder stared blankly at the fuzzy screen for a long minute.  
Scully just sat quietly, crunching a fresh bite of popcorn, 
unperturbed.

Mulder fiddled with the remote for a while, checking for other 
stations, but all brought him nothing but snow or test patterns.  
He could feel Scully watching him with muted amusement as he 
crossed to the television and flipped futilely through the 
channels with the buttons on the set, nearly resorting to shaking 
and whacking the poor aged television, desperate for a glimpse of 
even a late night infomercial.

"Mulder...," Scully said softly, a teasing condescension in her 
tone.  He turned, giving her his best sheepish expression.  
"There is life beyond television.  I think you'll live through 
the night."

He just closed his eyes and smiled.

Scully glanced toward the black window.  "There's a storm in the 
distance.  Probably knocked out the source."

"Probably happens all the time around here," he said, pushing to 
his feet and strolling back to his popcorn bowl.  He flopped into 
the thinly cushioned easy chair, wincing as his ass thunked the 
wood frame beneath.  "So...got any good ghost stories, Scully?"

"I think you heard them all on that last stakeout," she said, 
shifting onto her side.  She was still sitting up, but sinking a 
bit now, her temple propped on her hand, free arm resting 
gracefully across her stomach.  He tried not to watch the way her 
blouse was pulling across her chest.  He wondered how often she 
knew he was trying not to look.  He wondered if she wanted him to 
look.

He rocked forward on his leg for a moment and reached out 
impulsively to draw a finger down her abdomen and the scar he 
knew lay beneath.  "Does it still hurt?" he asked.

She nodded, wincing a bit.  "Yeah.  Not too bad anymore, though."

He digested that in silence.  *So, how long ago was it still "too 
bad", Scully?  And why haven't I heard about it in a long time?*

Then an idea occurred to him and he smirked at her with an evil 
playfulness.

Scully frowned, sportingly wary.  "What, Mulder?"

He nodded, indulging an inane grin.  "The Stakeout Game."

"Mulder, we save that for Stakeouts.  And I am not that bored.  I 
have a book in my room that I've been just wishing for time to 
start reading, and I didn't even get a chance on the plane with 
the case file to go over, and then--"

"Come on, Scully.  You know you want to."

She closed her eyes and he knew he was winning.  She was just 
tired enough to give in to inertia and go along with whatever he 
suggested rather than make the effort to move.  That might even 
be the whole reason she was still in his room right now and not 
taking the death of the cable as her cue to exit to bed.  Maybe.

In truth he valued The Stakeout Game more than Scully would ever 
know.  In all the years they had worked together, it was the only 
thing he had ever found that could sneak little fragments of 
personal information out of Scully.  Short of death or peril of 
life and limb, that was.  In recent months he had started to use 
the game for more personal gain than he probably should.  But 
when something was hanging between them, something he really 
wanted (*needed*) to ask her but couldn't work up the nerve to 
say, he would mull it over in his mind until he found a way to 
sandwich it into a more palatable context than the obvious, and 
work it into their next round of The Stakeout Game.  And maybe it 
was just his imagination, but he thought Scully's questions had 
been gaining an intimate edge lately, too.

"I get to start," Scully said, without ever having actually 
agreed to play.

He held out an inviting hand.  "Be my guest, G-woman.  Give it 
your best shot.  I believe I'm 2 for 2 at the moment."

It was their own warped version of Truth or Dare.  Really all 
they had done was take out the dares, because dares weren't an 
especially practical pursuit on a stakeout.  So, instead, if you 
refused to answer a question, you got hit with what he himself 
had termed the Super Stakeout Double Header question, which was 
the most embarrassing or personal question the opponent could 
possibly construe and you had to answer or you lost the game.

The sport had evolved between them until there were any number of 
subtle rules and regulations, an official tally was kept of 
winners and losers, and dinners were bought at the price of 
defeat.

Scully eyed him for a moment as her frighteningly sharp mind came 
to life behind her narrowed eyes.  She moistened the corner of 
her mouth with her tongue, then swallowed as her eyebrow lifted, 
signaling her choice of a question.  "Have you ever played 
Dungeons and Dragons with the Gunmen?"

Mulder pursed his lips, bit the inside of his cheek.  Scully 
could be evil.  But something told him this was not a night to 
back down and risk the Super Stakeout Double Header.  God only 
knows what Scully might throw at him in her present state of 
mind.  Whatever the hell that really was...

He grimaced and looked away.  "Yeah, three times.  But I wasn't 
the Dungeon Master.  I wrote an adventure--"

"You *wrote* one?"

"--and they were going to let me lead it, but I never really had 
time.  And then they just kind of forgot and..."

Scully was grinning now.  Actually grinning.

"What?"

"Oh my God, you're disappointed."

"I am not."

"You are.  Why don't you just ask them if you can still do it?"

"Scully, it's not--"

"I'm sure they'd be glad to have you--"

"Scully.  This is off topic here.  I believe it's my turn, yes?"

Scully gave an acknowledging tilt of her head, but traces of her 
grin remained.  Damned if it wasn't good to see her smile, even 
if it was at his expense.

"Okay, Miss Wise-Ass, how's this.  You say you tried your Mom's 
cigarettes when you were a kid.  Any time since, how many, and 
when?"

"That's like a four part question."

"It's time and place.  Multiples are allowed to establish time 
and place, thus avoiding cheating with incomplete responses."

She knew he was right.  Established--LaTroy stakeout, three years 
ago.

She looked at the ceiling a moment, calculating, and he was 
caught off guard by her need to calculate.  He'd been expecting a 
number between zero and two.

"Five times," she said at last.  "The first time was in high 
school at a party with a guy I really really liked who hung out 
with a crowd who smoked.  He walked right up to me, flirting with 
me, which was just blowing my mind to begin with, and then he 
stuck his cigarette into my mouth, with no warning.  I don't even 
know if he knew I didn't smoke, but it was just not the time to 
point that out.  I took several drags off his that night, and had 
one for myself sitting on the curb outside the party that same 
night."

He was smiling softly as he listened.  This was just so damn 
rare.  Scully talking about having a crush on a guy in high 
school.  Scully being a girl.  Scully being vulnerable.  She had 
no idea how beautiful that was.

"And the second time...was in med school.  Daniel, my pro--," she 
cleared her throat, "my boyfriend, was smoking back then, and 
it...I'd had a lousy day, and he had left a pack in my coat 
pocket.  I'd been carrying it for him when we were walking, 
and...  Anyhow, that was just one, and then I threw the rest away 
and started hassling *him* to quit, which he didn't.  Third time-
-just out of the Academy, in a sad and pathetic attempt to win 
the respect of the male-dominated office where I was first 
assigned.  I lit it, took a drag to prove to someone I could 
inhale without choking.  I didn't really smoke it.  Fourth time--
in Comity.  No further explanation required, I assume."

Mulder nodded.  Playing cool.  Captivated.

"Fifth time."  She paused.  She was hesitating on this one and 
something in her eyes turned softer, almost scared.  And for a 
moment he regretted starting the game.  "Bad night during my 
cancer," she said simply, avoiding his gaze. 

"Sneak," he said teasingly, letting her revert to humor.  Wanting 
her smile back so badly it hurt.

Scully looked up at him, surprise and gratitude clear in her 
gaze.  "At least I was never addicted."

"Touche."  Mendholshon stakeout, four years ago.

"What's the fascination for you?" he asked, surprising even 
himself with the words.

Scully lifted her eyebrows, giving his question a moment's 
serious thought.  The TV's test pattern flickered over her pale 
skin.  "I guess...as much as I hate it, hate the smell of it 
even, it's still always kind of...smelled of home.  Like my 
parents, like Daniel,"--*There was that name again...*--"like a 
bull pen, an interrogation room.  A doctor's lounge..."

"I can see that."

"Your turn."

"Ask away."

"Did your Mom ever catch you jerking off?"

"SCULLY!"

She just lifted her eyebrows.

"That's a Double Header question."

"Not necessarily, I mean you asked me last year if--"

"Trust me.  It's a Double Header question."

She held out a moment, jaw cocked, then retreated.

"All right.  But if you call that, it has to be tonight's Double 
Header if it's needed."

"I know that, I made that rule."

"Fine.  Okay.  Did you ever throw up in school?"

"Fourth grade.  God-awful stomach flu going around.  Blew chunks 
all over the lunch table.  Set off two other kids.  It was like a 
scene from the Exorcist, Scully, you have no idea."

Scully cringed through her smile.  "Sorry I asked."  But clearly 
she wasn't.

"I'll go you one better.  Did *you* ever throw-up during an 
*autopsy*?  When and where?"

Scully groaned and sat up straighter on the bed, turning a 
fraction away from him.  "A pathologist never reveals such 
things.  We have a code."

"Hmmm...Really.  I'm sensing a Super Stakeout question coming 
on...."

Scully glared at him.  "Twice.  Once during my residency.  
Horribly mutilated body.  We had to peel the...well, you don't 
need to hear that.  Anyway, I made it to the garbage bin.  Not 
the ladies room."

"Lovely image."

She didn't speak.

"And the *second* time?"

Scully drew a deep breath, deeply absorbed in the way her fingers 
were twisting through the open weave of the motel blanket.  
"Several weeks ago."

His eyes widened.  "You're serious?  What case?"

"You don't need to know that, Mulder."

"Oh, I think I do."

"Mulder..."

"Double Header, Scully.  And believe me, I have a real gem 
waiting in the wings..."

"Mulder...Raybert Fellowes.  When I first saw him.  The, uh...the 
bisected body on the Trevor Andrew case."

"The one you thought was Spontaneous Combustion?  My Red Letter 
Diary Day?"  He was joking with her, but he was a little thrown.  
Incredulous, really.  She had seemed so unflappable at the time.

"Since last year, I'm a little...sensitive to burned bodies.  I 
can't really remember anything from the bridge, but when I smell 
burning flesh, I almost remember what it felt like...what I 
saw..."  She faded out, lost in her own half-memories.

"I'm sorry," Mulder said softly.

Scully nodded.  It took her a few quiet minutes after that one to 
choose her next question.  Finally, she said, "What's your 
favorite constellation?"

"My favorite constellation?  Umm...I never really gave it much 
thought, but I'd probably have to say the Big Dipper."

"Why?"

He shrugged.  "Probably because it's easy to find.  And when 
you're a kid, it's the most obvious one that makes sense to you.  
My Dad used to point it out to me all the time when I was little.  
Taught me how to find the North Star, you know."

Scully nodded.  "The Big Dipper's good."

"All right Scully.  Here's one--Do you believe your sister and 
possibly your mother, possess some kind of psychic power?"

Scully just stared at him for a long moment and he couldn't read 
a thing in her expression.  Finally, she just said, "Pass."

"Scully, come on, it's an easy yes or no, I didn't even--"

"Pass, Mulder."

"Double Header?"

"Obviously."

"All right, Scully, but don't say I didn't warn you."

He took a long moment, hoping for the proper effect, shaking off 
the disappointment at not having won a clear answer to his 
previous question.

"Scully.  How many men have you slept with?  Names and dates are 
optional, except for the first and last one."

"No.  I don't think that's a legal question."

"It's the Super Stakeout Double Header, Scully, everything's 
legal.  I think you pretty much established that when you made me 
answer about that bathroom incident during the undercover job at 
the gay bar, when I--"

"Okay, okay, yeah, yeah.  All right, uhm....Six."

"A respectable number.  I'm waiting for details."

She cringed, fidgeted with the waist band of her slacks.  "All 
right, the first one was my college boyfriend, junior year.  We'd 
been together a few months."

"And what happened to the lucky soul?" Mulder said with an 
affectionate grin.

"Decided to join the Peace Corps, believe it or not."

"Couldn't handle the long distance thing, huh?"

She just nodded.  "Then there was a guy in med school, that 
didn't last.  Then Daniel, who I mentioned, Jack you know about, 
and then there was someone around the time I was first assigned 
to the X-Files."

Mulder held up his fingers.  "That's five, Scully."

Scully closed her eyes.  "Can that be close enough?"

He shook his head.  "Not on a Double Header, Scully."

"I'm serious, Mulder.  Can we just skip it?"

He could hear the edge in her voice.  This was something he 
shouldn't pursue in the context of a game, there was something 
here.  But he was, historically, an asshole in sensitive moments 
like this and habit is a powerful thing to break.  "Come on, 
Scully.  Rules are rules.  Complete answer, or you lose again.  
And I'm two for two going in.  You know what the third win in a 
row means.  It's not just dinner this time.  It's dinner AND the 
end of the month paperwork.  All by yourself...and you know what 
a bad job I've been doing of filing lately..."

"Mulder..."

"Piles and piles of paper, Scully."

She swallowed stiffly, the tendons of her slender throat rippling 
in the soft light.  A deep breath shifted the silk of her blouse.  
"Ed Jerse," she said without looking up.

Mulder closed his eyes.  "Ouch.  Jesus, Scully, I honestly have 
to say I'm starting to question your taste in men..."

"What can I say?  Psychotic murderers seem to have a thing for 
me."

"Scully, half the Washington office has a thing for you.  You 
couldn't have picked someone from accounting?"

She didn't answer, but this time she at least looked up at him, 
and the look that passed between them was surprisingly intimate 
and open.  And he couldn't shake the absurd sense that maybe the 
first half of his statement had come as genuine news to her.

"What's the most embarrassing CD you've bought in recent years, 
the one you don't want to admit you listen to?" she asked, 
abruptly changing the subject.

"Ennhhh...that would have to be...Eminem."

"I have just lost all faith in your already questionable musical 
taste, Mulder."

"All right, I call Slapback--What about you?"

"Hmmmm....Ah, yes, that would be Britney Spears."

"You're kidding me."

"There was this one video they just kept running just before I 
went to bed every night when I just had the TV on in the 
background and it grew on me.  And then I was out shopping and it 
was just sitting there in front of me...shut up, Mr. Return of 
Vanilla Ice."

"I didn't say a word.  And Eminem is so far from Vanilla Ice you 
obviously have no idea what you're talking about."

"Right...  Okay, Mulder, I've got one I've been wanting to use."

"Shoot it at me."

Scully pushed up fully to her elbow, giving this one her full 
attention, and that made him a little prickly.

"A few months ago, when Agent Fowley put us in that bogus 
quarantine and threw us in the communal shower room--you...you 
looked at me...rather obviously.  And when I looked back at you, 
you seemed to, um...to have enjoyed the view.  Am I right about 
that?"

*Shit, Scully.  Why the hell did I start this game when you were 
in this mood?  Where was my brain?  I'm an expert at digging my 
own grave.  Shoot me again now, drop me on in there...*  Mulder 
stared at her for a long minute, watching her half lowered lids, 
the intensity of her gaze.  She said she had been waiting to use 
this question.  For how long?  Just how much thought had she 
given this particular subject?

"Scully..."

Nothing but waiting.

"Aaaaagggghhhh...."

She cracked half a wry smile.  "You *know* what your Double 
Header is Mulder."

"You really don't want to do that paperwork, do you?"

"Mulder?  Was...I...right?"  She licked her lips again and that 
sight mixing with memories of her naked and perfect body beneath 
a shower of water, nearly floored him.

A long beat passed.  "Pass."

"Double Header, Mulder."

"I said pass."

"Did your mother ever--"

"Aaahhh!!"  Mulder slid out of the chair in defeat, dropping to 
his knees and banging his forehead repeatedly against the edge of 
the nightstand.  "Pass!  Dammit!  You win!"

Scully was laughing.  Evil.  Unabashedly Evil.

As though on cue, the cable sprang back to life with the sight of 
Jackie Chan weathering a shower of plaster collapsing onto his 
prone body.


*     *     *     *     *

By eleven-thirty he could see Scully was exhausted.  By midnight, 
biology had betrayed her cool, and she had fallen asleep on the 
edge of his bed, lips slightly parted, glossed with popcorn 
butter.  Her breath was quiet and even.  Mulder busied himself 
getting ready for bed, expecting the noise and movement to wake 
her and give her her cue to slip away.  When he turned off the 
TV, he thought sure the prevailing quiet would wake her.  But her 
deep breaths did not break rhythm.

So he stood beside her for a long moment, spread the comforter up 
to her shoulder and pushed her water glass further away on the 
night stand where she wouldn't bump it.  He debated for a long 
minute whether he should take her key card from her pocket and go 
sleep the night on her bed.

But somewhere behind his thoughts that felt like a betrayal.  She 
had come here tonight for company, even if he would never hear 
the words pass those sweet buttered lips.  He didn't want her to 
wake alone.  Better to risk her annoyance than breach her trust.

He stretched out on the furthest edge of the bed and turned out 
the light.  He fell asleep to the lullaby of her breath.


*     *     *     *     *

The motel room was unusually black in the middle of the night--
just what you get in Hicksville, USA.  So when he woke there was 
only sound and sensation.  But the sound brought him fully aware.

Scully was crying.  Softly, gently.  But the vulnerability in her 
hoarse breaths stole his own air.

She was still beside him in the dark, still turned away.  He 
could just make out the curve of her shoulder in the thin line of 
moonlight from beneath the window curtain.

She caught her breath again, shaky, moist with tears, and it tore 
at his gut, made him dizzy in the darkness.

Mulder reached out and touched gentle fingertips to Scully's 
hair.

She jumped instantly, sucking in a harsh breath and going still.  
He couldn't clearly make out her face, but he guessed she was 
looking half over her shoulder.  She had thought he was still 
sound asleep.

"It's okay," Mulder whispered, his own voice fuzzy with sleep.  
He ventured to smooth his hand down her silky hair.  She was 
stiff beneath his touch.  "You don't have to tell me.  I'm just 
here."

Scully didn't move, didn't breath for a long moment.  Then she 
settled her head gently into the pillow once more, still turned 
away.  Mulder continued to stroke her hair, and as she allowed 
his touch, he felt her start to cry again, still suppressed and 
quiet.

As Scully warmed to his offerings, Mulder gradually moved closer 
and slipped his arm beneath her, around her waist.  She sniffed 
sharply and her shoulders tensed, but her body wasn't pushing him 
away.  He felt the dampness of tears on his fingers as he brushed 
the skin of her temple, smoothing back her hair.

*Scully, what on earth is it...?*

She was shaking.  He kissed her hair.

"I'm here," he whispered again, and Scully's hand came to rest 
gently on his arm.

She never spoke.  And in time, they fell back asleep, bodies 
still pressed close.


*     *     *     *     *


When he woke to a thin line of morning sun, Scully was gone.

He couldn't say he was surprised.

Mulder got up, moved blindly through the tedious routine of 
morning.  It was still early, chill despite the clear sky.  He 
ventured out for a short run.  Running was valuable when he was 
working a case; it not only kept his body in high gear, but 
cleared his mind and gave him a feel for the neighborhood, the 
lay of the ground, the temper of the people who occupied it.  
This morning, he worked to open his mind as he opened his 
muscles, to soak up the sensory details, taste the air and 
memorize the views.  But he was tasting Scully's hair, smelling 
her graceful perfume, feeling her sleep-warmed skin and the 
aching tension in her delicate body.

Why could she open up to him with relative ease about med school 
and her brothers and now even parts of her ever elusive sex life, 
and still not tell him what was hurting her enough to make her 
cry in the night?

Mulder stood in the hotel parking lot, hands on his thighs, 
sucking in the crisp morning air, feeling the rush of blood 
sharpening his perceptions.  *Dammit, Scully.  Why don't you 
trust me yet?  Why?*

He showered in the less than sterile motel shower.  He heard 
Scully moving about on the other side of the thin wall.  He 
dressed for the day, choosing one of his less than traditional 
ties.

At 7:35 there was a sharp knock on his door.

"'Morning, Scully."  She was nothing short of breathtaking in the 
glare of the morning light.  She was back in polished form, her 
fitted black suit smooth over her curves, without a wrinkle 
despite her small travel bag.  Every hair was in place, her make-
up sleek and neat, her lips a distracting wine shade.  Her shoes 
dared anyone to test her running ability.

"Morning."

Mulder left the door wide and stepped back into his room, 
unplugging his cell phone charger and bundling it into the outer 
pocket of his carry-on.  You never knew which day you would get 
to leave Hicksville.  Or which maid would swipe your stuff in the 
meantime.

"Scully, I know we're supposed to meet the Sheriff this morning, 
but I'm thinking we should also talk to Ronnie Dahler again.  
Preferably, without a local escort.  I'm not still thinking this 
has anything to do with the legend, but I still think something 
genuinely frightened that kid that doesn't mesh with the facts we 
have of the case."

Scully had drifted into the room as he spoke, pushed the door 
closed behind her.  "I agree.  I wasn't entirely comfortable with 
his statement either, though, I, of course, don't think it had 
any tangible connection to the legend either."

Mulder smiled.  "Of course."

Scully took a step toward him, playing off the gentle humor 
between them, her perfect hair cascaded gently toward her lashes.

"You know, Scully, if the old lady did still haunt those woods--"

"Mulder..."

"Hmm?"

She was avoiding eye contact again and that instantly made him 
listen.  She moved closer, hands on her hips.  "Mulder, about 
last night--"

He cut her off, shaking his head and drawing a quick single 
finger down her arm.  "You don't have to say anything," he said.

"No, I want to."

And at that he realized there was something here she needed to 
say.  He nodded silently, catching her gaze for a brief moment.  
Suddenly he couldn't remember anything about the case they were 
on or what town they were in--only that Scully needed him to 
listen right there, in that moment.

Scully cleared her throat, smoothed her lipstick.  "Yesterday, 
something happened that...was really no big deal, it just...hit 
me wrong. One of the officers we've been working with at the 
local PD was, uhm..." she winced a little, really not wanting to 
say what she was saying and it was hard for him to watch, "...a 
little out of line with me."  She swallowed then, shifted her 
weight, angled her head to move her hair.  He was mesmerized.  "A 
lot out of line, actually."  And furious.

"'Out Of Line'," he repeated back, struggling to keep his anger 
from bleeding cold into his words.  Every muscle in his body was 
tensed for a fight.  "What are you saying, Scully?  Did he touch 
you?"

From the way she caught her breath, he knew the answer to that, 
and he was starting to see red.

"I'm fine, Mulder.  I told you, it--"

"Who was it?"

Scully looked up at him now, utterly cool and unperturbed.  
"Mulder, don't waste your breath, it won't happen.  Look...it's 
nothing I haven't been through many times before, it's just--"

"*What!?*"

She just looked up at him.

"Scully, did you at least report him?  Are you going to?"

She drew a long breath, approaching this question from a 
vicarious route.  "Mulder, I made a decision a long time ago.  A 
choice, really."

He frowned down at her as she took a moment to gather her words.  
He failed to hurry her.

"I'm a five-foot-three, relatively slender woman, who chose to 
enter a macho male dominated profession.  Needless to say, this 
kind of situation came up fairly soon after I entered the 
Academy.  So, I had to decide how I was going to handle it.  I 
gave it a great deal of thought.  And the fact is, Mulder, it's a 
daily struggle for me as it stands to gain and hold the respect 
of the male members of the Bureau and the other law enforcement 
officials with whom we work.  When I'm in a position of 
authority, it's always a test and a proving ground.  And you know 
as well as I do, that any woman who makes an issue out of her 
treatment, is instantly branded.  Never earns the same kind of 
"one of the guys" camaraderie as those who tough it out.  And 
rarely are they allowed much of a chance for real advancement 
anywhere but behind a desk.  It shouldn't be that way, but at 
this point in history it is, and you know that as well as I do.  
And so...knowing that, I made a choice.  I felt that I could do 
more good in my life, by progressing within the Bureau and doing 
my job and helping people that way, than I could by reporting one 
or two losers--"

"I'm hearing more than one or two, here."

"--and losing my shot at being a significant force in the Bureau.  
And to date, I haven't regretted my choice."

Mulder stood in silence for a long moment, absorbing and 
digesting her words, trying to be rational past the irrational 
rage at the mental vision of anyone laying hands on Scully.  In 
the end Scully made sense, as usual.  But he hated it.

"Scully, how much exactly are you willing to let go?"

"Well, obviously, Mulder, if it were anything extreme, I would 
report it.  If I didn't, I wouldn't really be doing my job.  
Beyond that....I guess you just have to trust my judgment."

"I do trust your judgment."

She offered an almost sad smile.  "Sometimes."

"Scully..."

"Mulder, that's not the point right now.  The point is, I just 
wanted you to know.  And I wanted...to say 'thank you'."

Mulder felt his stance softening as the edge of vulnerability 
slipped back into her voice.  "What happened?  Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head.  "No.  I'm fine, Mulder, believe me.  Look, 
I've been locked in a closet by a necrotizing fetishist.  One 
horny hick cop barely registers on my radar."

She was meeting his gaze now, and he held onto it with his own, 
searching the depths of her pale blue eyes, hoping for the 
slightest clue into the inner workings of her mind.  "That's not 
how it felt yesterday," he said at last, but there was no 
accusation or anger in his words, only intimate kindness.

Scully blanched all the same.  "Yeah, well..."  Her voice fell to 
a whisper as her gaze slipped to the ground.  "He just caught me 
on a bad day."  And he could have sworn she was harboring tears 
on that one.

The openness of his response startled him and seemed to cut 
through to her.  "Why?  What's really wrong?"

Scully closed her eyes and drew a deep controlled breath.  
"Nothing.  I'm just...this case has been grueling.  I'm...I'm 
having one of those weeks when everything you thought didn't 
bother you at the time or you didn't think you were worrying 
about just creeps into your dreams.  It's fine.  Really.  I just-
-need to go home and sleep it off this weekend.  Which won't 
happen unless we wrap this case, so...come on, let's get over 
there to meet the sheriff."

The evasion couldn't have been more obvious.  *We're done with 
this conversation, Mulder, back to work, okay?  Hands off.*  But 
he wasn't ready to let go of his ground yet.  He kept his eyes on 
her a long minute, brows pulled close, pinning her with his will.  
But Scully didn't flinch, just lifted her eyebrows almost 
impatiently.  That was just Scully, trying to gloss over what she 
had just revealed, needing to grasp the upper hand again.

He held out an extra breath, just enough to keep her on uncertain 
ground.  Then he let it go with a gentle nod.  He reached for his 
briefcase.  "Okay.  We'd better get going."

Anything more now would only lose him ground, he knew where her 
limits lay.  In truth, they had already gained in the last 
twenty-four hours.  A lot for them, really.  He could only hope 
it would hold, hope that maybe...this moment wouldn't disappear.  
That if she was scared tonight or tomorrow night or next week, if 
she was hurting--She might come again.

Scully was already moving toward the door as he gathered his 
watch and keys from the top of the television.  Her hand was 
resting on the doorknob and he knew the last little window of 
intimacy was skidding away.

"Scully?"

She turned, eyebrow raised in question.  So damn beautiful.  
"Promise me something?"

"Hmmm?"

"Next time, don't sit in your room for three hours trying to 
think of how or *if* you should come to my room.  Just...come."

To his infinite surprise, Scully didn't look away, she held his 
gaze, utterly open to him, a tender crease at the corner of her 
left eye.  For a long minute that was all they needed, then at 
last she nodded.  And they looked away.

He followed her through the door.  "Can I punch everyone we've 
worked with in the last two days just to be sure?  That way they 
might not suspect my motivation...?"

"Shut up, Mulder."

"Agent Scully, I'm offended..."

"And find a good place for dinner.  You owe me, Dungeon Master."

"Hit me Baby, one more time."

And that felt good, right.  The jokes gave her her power back.  
But the winter wind was still cold.  And the world she dealt in 
colder still.  His mind was circling and reeling and backtracking 
and retracing through the years.  But he couldn't let her know.  
For now, he could only watch, and wait, and remember the gently 
vulnerable woman who had lain in his arms last night, overlain 
now in his mind on the powerful take-charge agent at his side.  
And try to understand the ultimate X-file in his life--the splash 
of red hair and three inch heels in the rental car beside him.

For today--he let her drive.

##

Feedback treasured at rowandarkstar@gmail.com