TITLE: Kindling
AUTHOR: David Stoddard-Hunt
CATEGORY: S, A, M/S bonding, UST
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: pre-ep of sorts for "Fire." Existential question: Is it possible
to *spoil* "Space" or "Ghost in the Machine"?
SUMMARY: "I find Mulder endlessly fascinating. He holds my attention and
interest like a bright shiny object enthralls an infant. Mulder - my own
bright, shiny object."
ARCHIVE: Gossamer, Ephemeral: of course. Others? Delighted. Just let me
know.
DISCLAIMER: You really want to go to the mat over Season 1? Bring it on,
then. No infringement upon the profits or syndication rights of 1013, Fox,
or anyone else for that matter, is intended.
FEEDBACK: stoddardhunt@earthlink.net <mailto:stoddardhunt@earthlink.net>
AUTHOR'S NOTES: There is an overlay in the works for this, in Mulder p.o.v.
entitled "Tinder." Pending your approval, naturally.

The restaurants detailed herein are actual establishments within the
Federal District at this very moment. I haven't been lucky enough to sample the
cuisine of any of them and, so, can't vouch for any culinary critique given
by any one of the characters herein. Their opinions are wholly their own.

************************************

Either he's gazing at me, enraptured as a moonfaced schoolboy, or
he's so lost in thought that he's looking straight through me as
if I no longer inhabit his plane of existence. Whichever the case,
he has been staring in my direction with that maddening half smile
for the better part of an hour.

First things first, my partner does not "gaze." Not in my
experience, anyway. His are eyes that can inventory a crime scene
in a flawless glance, and can peer inside the twisted psyche of a
serial killer, as yet unfound, with equal ease and accuracy. With
a mind as agile and a memory as astonishing as Mulder's, those
eyes waste neither the time nor the effort to gaze. They just
don't.

That I would even entertain the possibility is the product of my
own ego, of normal physical drives for a woman of my age, and of
an imagination that is far too active for my own good. My self-
discipline is slipping, something I can't afford to let happen. I
do not want to lose the respect and trust I've gained from my
partner. It's been too hard won.

The fact that I find myself attracted to Mulder doesn't bother me,
quite frankly. It's understandable, really. For one thing, it has
been a while since I've had anyone in my life in that sort of way.
For another, let's face it, Mulder isn't exactly hard on the eyes,
is he? That bottom lip he's constantly worrying? God.

True, he can be aggravating as hell and twice as arrogant at
times, not to mention frustratingly insecure. Underneath that,
however, I've seen glimpses of him that are tantalizing, driving
me with a...a hunger? Oh, brother. Definitely not hunger. A drive,
then, a...a curiosity, yes, a scientific curiosity, to know
all...more about him.

Add to that the fact that he's constantly flirting with me.

Well, that isn't precisely true. He tosses innuendo and double-
entendres at me constantly, creating a distance between us. The
end result is the opposite of a flirtation. If I am brutally
honest with myself, this seems to be the result Mulder intends.

We've been partners for over eight months, an age and an instant
at once. Yet, it seems as if we're still in the first blush of
getting to know one another. I find Mulder endlessly fascinating.
He holds my attention and interest like a bright shiny object
enthralls an infant.

Mulder - my own bright, shiny object.

Of course, this fascination, this attraction is sure to fade over
time, and I'm sure neither of us will mourn its passing. If we're
to be partnered for any length of time, say eight years instead of
eight months, we will have grown overly comfortable with each
other to the point of boredom, possibly to the point of quietly
despising each other.

Eight years, it's an incomprehensible span of time, and utterly
without the realm of possibility. This partnership is not meant to
last that long. For that I'm glad. I don't want to end up
despising Mulder, quietly or otherwise.

So, no, my partner is not "gazing" at me. Still, over the past
twenty minutes or so, his stare, whether at me or through me, has
become so distracting that I have twice tried to break through to
him.

"What?" Accompanied by my best shy smile. No response.

"Mulder." Sharply, smile and pretense gone. Not even a twitch. In
frustration, I snap my fingers at him, in the timeworn effort to
shake him out of his trance. This does beget a reaction, although
not the one I was hoping for. Mulder steeples his fingers
together, presses them over his mouth, and continues as before.

Gee, Mulder, if you're going to stare, the least you could do in
return is to leave that bottom lip uncovered and let a girl dream.
I may not mourn the attraction when it passes, but there's no
reason why I shouldn't enjoy myself while it's present.

He isn't staring at me; he's staring through me, his mind at work.
I'll allow myself this much: it is possible that something I was
doing or some memory associated with me may have been the catalyst
for my partner's cerebral sojourn.

Even though this happens, well, not infrequently, it has taken
some effort to endure his little habit without taking offense. He
doesn't intend offense, I know. Nevertheless, being stared through
feels belittling and, when he's drawn so far away that he doesn't
hear me much less respond, it is downright dismissive. By this
point in our partnership, I think I've at least earned the right
not to be dismissed.

I had a classmate in med. school who did something quite similar.
He would sit quietly with his nose in a book, lifting his head
occasionally, staring sightlessly. During these "head-up" periods,
people would call his name trying to get his attention. By the
time he'd snapped out of cranial exile with a dull "huh?" the
conversation had generally moved on. Before anyone could think to
respond, he was buried in his book again.

He once told me that, when he looked up from the passage he'd just
read, it was like he was watching the information he'd digested
scroll down some sort of phantom video monitor, for double-
checking. I imagine this is what it is like for Mulder.

Although this med. school colleague was phenomenally bright, he
couldn't hold a candle to Mulder, from what I've experienced.
Also, unlike with Mulder, I never sensed a passion in him, a
visceral need for something, medicine, anything. Although we
worked side by side in classes throughout school, we never became
friends. Unlike with Mulder.

He ended up finishing at the top of our class, by several
thousandths of a point in G.P.A. I know it's petty to think this
way, but I've always wondered where he gained those three
thousandths or where I lost them. I've wondered whether, if I
hadn't suffered some emotional upheaval in my personal affairs
that final year, I would have beaten him handily.

What if that's the association I'm making when I find Mulder's
behavior so annoying? I hope not. I'd rather think that I find it
infuriating because it's just plain rude.

When Mulder finally speaks, it startles me.

"Hey Scully, have you ever been to Boston?"

What?

Mulder stands, slipping on his suit jacket, grabs both of our
topcoats and opens the office door, expectantly.

What is he waiting for? Does he mean to go to Boston this second?
Mulder shakes his head sympathetically and points to the clock.
Half past noon. Ah, he's decided it's lunchtime.

Ignoring his presumption, half out of curiosity, I slip my arms
into the sleeves of the coat he graciously holds open for me.

"Why? Do we have a case up that way?" I turn to catch a glimpse of
the paperwork he's left on his desk but hear him already walking
toward the elevator. I have to run to catch up.

"Maybe. It's not actually in Boston. It's out on the Cape.
Unexplained fires. It will probably turn out to be mundane."

Huh. After nearly a year on the X-Files, arsonists do seem
mundane.

"I was just thinking that we could use some time away from the
office, away from work. This case could be just the excuse."

An excuse to get away from work? I stop dead in my tracks.

"Mulder, are you feeling alright?"

He turns back toward me, a burgundy rich laugh spilling out of
him. "Yeah, I'm fine," he says, trying unsuccessfully to raise a
single eyebrow in imitation of what he calls my "look." I can't
help but laugh at the effort and he smiles in return.

He shepherds me out of the Hoover as he continues.

"We do have a case to be investigated and solved. All I'm saying
is that, barring anything unforeseen," he waggles his brows at
that possibility, " it shouldn't take long at all to wrap up.
We've been on the road since August. Now, we have nothing else
pressing and I, for one, could use some down time. You game?"

Mulder wants down time? I am instantly suspicious.

"Well, I don't know, Mul-"

He rounds on me as we step out into the sunshine, not actively
invading my space, but allowing my forward momentum to carry me
into his. Once there, however, I don't feel the need to back off
and reclaim my space. Not with Mulder, anyway.

"Aw, come on, Scully. Where's your sense of adventure? We could
take a side trip. It would be interesting, I promise."

Interesting? Adventure? Ah. A work related side trip, then. He
sputters in reply. Aha, got you, Mulder. I knew you couldn't leave
the work behind. I knew it.

"No, not "interesting." I mean, I hope that it will be interesting
for you, Scully, but not in a work sense. I just...aw, hell."

He wrenches away from me, heading toward the nearest sidewalk
vendor. Whoa, I've flustered Mr. Unflappable. I hurry over to
press this rare advantage home. When I get there, something in his
expression stops me. He has ordered for both of us already, but
continues to avoid my eyes.

My God, he's blushing. Something else is going on here, something
unexpected. I need to discover what it is that has him so
agitated, coloring that handsome face. I don't know how to do
this, but I need to tread lightly. I need to know.

Wait. Do I really want to know? Hell, yes. This blush is becoming
on him. Shy, embarrassed Mulder is a rare specimen, an X-File in
itself. So distinct from the annoying or self-deprecating Mulder.
I like it. A lot.

"You aren't going to make this easy, are you?" he says, handing me
a plastic fork, a grilled chicken Caesar salad in a clear
container, and a small soda. He bundles his soda, a chili dog, and
a handful of napkins and sets out across traffic toward the bench
on the Mall that I've begun to think of as his.

I have no intention of making things easier on him, just as things
are beginning to get interesting. He barrels on ahead, cutting off
any opportunity I might have had to take pity on him, had I been
so inclined.

"I meant that, from the Cape, we could take a trip out to the
Vineyard," he says, annoyance flaring briefly in his tone and
dying back with his next words. "I thought I could take you to
Chilmark, to show you the house where I grew up, where my...I
thought maybe you'd like to..."

His voice has dwindled into the white noise of noontime traffic
around the Mall.

And I have been struck dumb.

Of course, he's ventured personal information before, on our very
first case, as a matter of fact. His sister's abduction, the
driving force in his life, his Quest and his Grail, his guilt and
redemption. But, we were little more than strangers then. He
wasn't pouring his heart out to me, so much as to the universe. I
was just the nearest sympathetic ear. But, now?

I sit down on the bench, grounding myself in its solid concrete
surfaces. I have come to this bench several times on my own, to
eat or just to think. Mulder doesn't know, does not need to know.
When I begin to examine the rationale on my own for coming here, I
shut the process down quickly, telling myself that I'm just
keeping it warm for him.

Since Bellefleur, Mulder has been pretty close to the vest with
his past. I learned of his ex-partner only when the man hijacked
Mulder's profiling expertise to save his own hide. That ended
badly. It's as if Mulder expects that all echoes of the past will
end badly. For this reason, I have refrained from probing about
these things for fear he'll close me out entirely.

Now, he's inviting me in, and I am speechless. Say something,
Dana, anything! Wait. Not just anything. Take him up on it.
Encourage him. Tell him you'd be honored. Speak, damnit!

"I've only been to Boston once before in my life." Oh, good,
that's really good. Shit.

"Huh?"

Come on, physician, heal thyself. But I'm a pathologist, not a
physician. Shut up, both of you! Smile. There, that's better. O.K.
Go on, Dana.

"You asked whether I'd ever been to Boston. Once, about fourteen
years ago."

"Oh, right." For a moment, Mulder registers mild surprise that I
haven't jumped all over the opportunity to investigate his past.
Now, his face relaxes, as if flooded with relief. He knew he was
putting himself at risk opening up like that to me and can't
believe his good fortune in being let off the hook. He hasn't
been, of course, but I'm sure that it must feel that way. This is
one of the ways Mulder copes with intimate emotions, by retreating
to neutral ground. Pushing me away is another, the one I'd most
like to avoid.

"How old were you?"

I've given him an out and he's grabbed it. Apparently, we've had
all the disclosure we can stand from Mulder today.  Now, it's my
turn. Women are simply better equipped to deal with emotions than
men. I know that I'm far more forthcoming than Mulder.

"Sixteen. My brother was flying back to start his second year at
the Naval Academy, and my parents arranged to have me fly out with
him to look at colleges."

"They hadn't moved back east, yet?"

"No." It registers dimly that, with his eidetic memory, Mulder
already knows these bits of information from studying my personnel
file. I proceed to tell him, anyway. "They stayed in San Diego
until Dad retired from active duty, in the spring of my freshman
year in college."

"Ah." He takes his first bite of a rapidly cooling chilidog. His
eyes alone urge me on. Since I derailed the personal confession he
was in the process of making, I now bear the burden of keeping our
new conversation rolling.

"They knew that they were headed back to Baltimore, Annapolis or
somewhere on the Eastern Shore. So," I have to take in and release
a big breath in order to deal with what comes next, "I was
'encouraged' to look at East Coast schools."

"You had other ideas?"

"Berkeley."

Mulder snorts derisively.

"What? You don't think I could have gotten into Berkeley? I'll
have you know that they..."

He cuts my rant short, waving the chilidog of surrender, turning
his head from my gale, laughing.

"No, that's not it at all. I'm sure they were salivating to have
you."

I look up sharply to see whether this is intended as innuendo, but
Mulder has lowered his hands and their contents into his lap, and
is looking at them thoughtfully, a wistful smile on his lips. He
pauses to collect himself before continuing.

"It's just that Berkeley seems a little too radical, granola head,
wild for you, Scully. I'm having a hard time picturing it, that's
all."

It is only after he has tried to picture Dana Scully, campus
radical, tried again and failed, that he finally raises his eyes
back to mine. They are wide with apology, gentle humor and genuine
interest. I am surprised and more than a little bit flattered.
Now, it is my turn to duck my eyes away, if only for a moment.

"I couldn't really picture myself there, either," I admit. "But I
wanted to be able to. Cal Tech was sufficiently science oriented,
certainly, but too nerdy. Berkeley had a mystique that I found
appealing. And, it felt good that, when I floated the idea, Ahab
reacted strongly against it. If he was that afraid of the
possibility, it sort of validated my notion that I might actually
fit in there."

"Nothing quite so motivating as parental rejection, is there?"
Mulder says, dryly, although I think I hear hurt echoing
underneath.

"Ahab was so pleased when I reconsidered going to college "out
West," he never referred to Berkeley by name, that he encouraged
me to visit as many East Coast schools as I liked. He even gave
his assent to let me go out on my own to visit."

Mulder's eyes widen as he thinks he's caught me in a lie.

"I thought you said you flew out with your brother."

"Yeah," I admit, a smile creasing my cheeks at the memory.

"But?" Mulder prompts.

"Once we got to Annapolis, he could only be bothered to take me to
St. John's College."

"Isn't that in Annapolis?" Mulder laughs at the realization.

"Yup. Like I said, once he got back with his buddies, he just
couldn't be bothered with his baby sister."

Mulder shook his head with another derisive snort, this time
directed at my brother. Still looking at the walk in front of our
bench where he has just left Bill in a heap of contempt, he begins
to participate in the conversation.

"St. John's, that's the Great Books program, isn't it? I was
interested in that, too. Of course, my father had other ideas for
me...Hey, Scully!" he exclaims, as if a great new notion has just
occurred to him. I can't help but wonder if it's only to deflect
feelings that the mention of his father has just raised. "We could
have been there...no, wait. I keep forgetting how young you are."

"Only three years younger than you, Mulder."

"Nearer to four, Scully. Anyway, even if we had each gone there,
you would have entered the fall after I graduated, so just forget
about that."

Forget about that? The opportunity to have known him then? No,
thank you very much. I'll file that notion away for future, um,
reference. That thought is just a little uncomfortable for me to
hold onto with Mulder right beside me, so I move on.

"I wasn't seriously considering St. John's anyway. True, even way
back when, I knew I wanted to be in the sciences and, eventually,
to study medicine. But, I had no desire to learn medicine from the
ground up, Galen and Hippocrates."

"Ok, so not St. John's. But now, you're stuck in Annapolis,
ditched by your chaperone. How'd you get to the next place on your
list?"

"Ahab."

"Your father? I thought you said he was back in San Diego." I nod
at this. "So, what? Did he jump on the first flight out after you
called to tell on, what's your brother's name?"

"Bill. And, neither of those things happened, Mulder." I give him
an affronted look for that remark. "I did not "tell" on my
brother, nor did Ahab come flying to my rescue. I think he had an
inkling before we left that Bill's brotherly concern might wane
once he got back near Academy grounds. Ahab made arrangements for
me to take a train to Baltimore, so that I could stay with his
brother and sister-in-law. Ostensibly, this was to give Bill time
to settle in before resuming his chaperone duties."

"He never caught hell for ditching you?"

I can see why Mulder might be interested in this topic.

"Later," I reply cryptically. "Funny, ever since then, Bill has
been rather too protective of me. He, more than either of my
parents, opposed my entering the Bureau."

"Wonderful." Mulder's distaste for my older brother is growing by
leaps and bounds and they've never even met.

"Don't worry, Mulder. If you're nice, I'll make sure you two never
have to meet."

He shakes his head as if the meeting, with trouble to follow, is
inevitable. I wonder. He prompts the discussion forward again by
reminding me that we left me at my Aunt and Uncle's house outside
of Baltimore. I notice that Mulder's chilidog which, normally, he
would have inhaled in four bites, sits half eaten, cold and
forgotten, its sole purpose now to anchor the greasy napkin
underneath it from blowing away and soiling our national heritage.

"My cousin Katey, their daughter," I add superfluously, "took me
to Johns Hopkins, and then out to College Park, to the University.
After seeing Hopkins and Maryland, it was all over but the
shouting. I knew they were my top two choices."

"Did you have a preference?" He is listening intently, looking at
me, at the side of my head, as if he can see into my memories
through my right ear. It almost feels as if he can.

"Well, Hopkins, of course. But, it was outrageously expensive and,
on a sailor's salary, even with scholarships..."

Mulder reacts immediately, as if his question has provoked my
disappointment, rather than the fact that, thirteen years ago, I
couldn't afford to go to my preferred school. He would take on the
guilt of the entire world, if it were handed to him. I move almost
as quickly to remedy the situation by moving on to cheerier
topics.

"Anyway, at that time, I still thought I wanted to stay in a hard
science field other than medicine. Physics was a definite
possibility, and Maryland had an outstanding department. All in
all, I felt Maryland held more opportunities than Hopkins, so I
really wasn't that disappointed."

It's a white lie that I used to successfully deceive myself then,
even though it seems awfully thin now. Mulder seems to accept it,
however.

"So, you'd found your future on the first two out of three tries.
What next, back home?"

"Not a chance, Mulder. It was a paid vacation, and Katey and I
were having a blast. I milked it for all it was worth. Besides,
there was a slight chance that my first impressions might be
wrong. A very slight chance, I'll admit," up goes my eyebrow, "but
enough so that I wanted to visit the other schools on the list so
that I could make my decision beyond the shadow of a doubt."

Mulder has caught the smile in my voice and is grinning along with
me now.

"You and your cousin went on a road trip."

"Please! We went sight seeing."

"Nah, it was a road trip."

"Yeah," we're both laughing now, "it was one hell of a road trip."

"Scully!" Mulder is feigning horrified shock, from which he
recovers with suspicious rapidity. "Which way did the Scully
cousins' tour of debauchery head next?"

"Pennsylvania. Katey was a junior at Swarthmore, so we went to see
Swarthmore, Haverford, Bryn Mawr and Penn. After that,..."

I'm interrupted by a whoop of indignation.

"Bryn Mawr? Bryn Mawr? Scully, that's even harder to imagine than
Berkeley. All girls? White gloves? Dancing around the May Pole?"

"Actually, an all-girls school would have been rather appropriate
then, Mulder." I let that sentence, and whatever ramifications he
wants to affix to it, hang in mid-air for a moment. In truth, I
meant only that I hadn't much experience with boys by age sixteen,
and that the gender segregation wouldn't have bothered me as much
then as it would, say, at present.

"Bryn Mawr had a top notch post-bacc program in medicine, Mulder,
rare for a small college. The white glove days were long gone.
Besides, my mother had attended Mt. Holyoke and wanted me to see
at least one of the Seven Sisters, if not all of them."

"Ah. Dana Scully, the next Belle of Amherst."

Oh, thanks a lot, Mulder. The comparison to Emily Dickinson is
none too flattering on a personal level. Maybe it's hitting just a
little too close to home.

"Amherst isn't..." my objection begins.

"Bryn Mawr, Barnard, Vassar, Mt. Holyoke, Smith, Wellesley,
Radcliffe. Or is it Wellesley, then Smith? Too close to call, for
my taste."

Leave it to Mulder to rattle off seven women's colleges in
geographical order, south to north.

"I know, Scully. But, the Belle of Northampton just doesn't sound
as good."

Something about this display annoys me, although it isn't the
wealth of arcana that is Mulder's mind, nor is it the fact that he
dips into that trove with frightening ease. Mulder isn't doing it
to be showy. He does it with me because he knows he can. Maybe I
feel annoyed because this is what he expects of me, to be always
"on," to operate with the same ease and facility as he does. I
feel sufficiently confident to do it in short bursts, flashes. He
seems to think I'm capable of doing it constantly, and I'm not
sure that I can.

I don't think I've ever had this feeling before and, consequently,
am finding it difficult to understand. Whenever I've been in any
sort of competitive situation in my life, physical or mental, I've
always found a will and a way to excel. I've never doubted that I
could. But this isn't a competition for Mulder. I think he simply
believes me to be his equal. And I? Well, let's just say "I want
to believe." That's why I'm annoyed.

For the first time in my life, I am off balance, doubting myself.
Oddly, I know for a certainty that Mulder does not share my doubt.

Recently, I've had a dream where I've scaled a mountain,
outdistancing all the other climbers, only to find him already at
the top. Instead of feeling momentarily defeated and then
determined to hurdle this new obstacle, I feel a curious sense of
welcome, peace and completion. He greets me with an expectant
smile, saying, "Ah, there you are." I take his proffered hand and
we prepare to leave the mountain behind us. The dream ends there,
so don't ask me where we would go from the top of a mountain. I
don't know. What I do know is that we aren't headed back down.

All of a sudden, Mulder is standing in front of me and I have to
squint up into the sunshine in order to see him. I hope that
covers up my confusion at how and when he came to be on his feet
without my noticing.

He holds his hand out to me, and I have to ask what he wants.

"I guess we should head back, now, Scully, if you're finished with
your lunch, that is. Here, I'll throw your stuff away."

He leans down to pick up the plastic carton and paper cup I've
failed to proffer. My confusion is readily apparent,
unfortunately, and continuing.

I follow him to a nearby waste can, where he is bending over to
retrieve an errant napkin. My eyes follow him as he rises, and our
eyes finally meet. When he makes no attempt to close the distance
between us, concern propels me into his space. It is an
uncharacteristic move, a role reversal of sorts, but necessary
because he is looking at the ground and I need to see his eyes.
From this acute an angle, his face seems impossibly far above me.

Concern must be obvious from my expression and my proximity, yet
he doesn't respond to the unvoiced question. There is still a
cushion of time left on our lunch hour, if someone were to be
keeping tabs on that sort of thing. We both know that no one is.
Nor do we have anything pressing on us for once, a point he's been
trying to make. So, Mulder, what gives?

He gives an embarrassed chuckle and, with his fingertips lightly
pressing the small of my back, guides me away from the ripe scent
of the trash can.

"Were you checking out the goods, Agent Scully? That's
harassment." He accents the second syllable of the word in an
extremely weak attempt at a pun. It is, however, a somewhat
stronger attempt at deflection from whatever has just transpired.

Mulder's discomfort seems unusually close to the surface today,
and I feel compelled to respect that.

"It's only harassment if the victim feels aggrieved, Agent Mulder.
Besides, there really wasn't much to see." At that, he does look
aggrieved so I amend my remark. "Your trench coat was covering the
good stuff anyway."

I stride away from him, my head held haughtily, a grin spreading
over me. I look back to see Mulder standing mouth agape and his
hand clutching the air where the small of my back had been a
moment before. By the time he clears the cobwebs out of his head,
he's the one who has to jog to catch up, for once.

As he pulls astride, Mulder opens his mouth to speak but only
shakes his head again, surprise giving way to delight. Oh, he's
used to me parrying his innuendoes, but with sarcasm. I don't
usually give back in kind.

"So, I have good stuff?"

A tilt of my head and a slight shrug is my only response. I try to
convey that "I don't really give it much thought, to be honest. I
was just pulling your chain, for once." I smother a grin that
would have admitted to "Maybe."

His grin has begun to match mine. The clouds that had begun to
gather around us have scudded away, and I'm glad.

"Fuck the office, Scully. Let's go for a walk," Mulder says, his
hand ensconced even more firmly on the small of my back, as we
keep up a good clip.

Yes, it is rare but, on this occasion, my partner and I are in
total agreement.

*******************************
We've ended up whiling away the rest of the afternoon at the
National Air and Space Museum visiting childhood heroes, Marc Belt
for Mulder and Anne Morrow Lindbergh for me.

Mulder seemed delighted to have uncovered a girlhood interest of
mine. I have to admit that felt flattering. Also, well, I'm not
really certain, but the word that comes to mind is "warm."
Although, in saying that out loud, it seems childish.

The new plaque honoring Colonel Belt delved only into the thinnest
veneer of the complex heroism of the man. Even among those very
who know the full account, there is only a vague understanding of
the terrible force that waged war with Marc Belt for control of
his mind and soul. That he succeeded against these odds in
bringing a shuttle crew home alive is the true measure of his
heroism and his humanity. It is quite possible that the most
tragic aspect of his death that the public at large will never
learn the whole story.

Uttering a quiet prayer in the direction of the plaque for the
repose of Colonel Belt's soul, I'd placed my hand lightly at
Mulder's elbow and nudged us forward before a pall descended.

The memory of that case spurred a rather remarkable realization.

In our brief months together as partners, Mulder and I have shared
a lifetime's worth of experiences. The fact that this raft of
experience can not be understood or shared effectively with anyone
else but each other could seem lonely and limiting yet, in reality
it feels quite the opposite. It's liberating, exhilarating to
share knowledge of the unfathomable with someone, communicated
simply through knowing glances and unfinished sentences.

I'd decided that we needed the waning orange sherbet sky of a
brisk autumn afternoon to refresh our lungs and our outlooks, and
headed us toward the exit. Unfortunately, Mulder had his own idea
of refreshment and nodded toward the museum cafeteria with a
mirthful gleam in his eye.

"Hungry?" he'd asked, visions of freeze dried space food and Tang
dancing in his mind.

In a last-ditch (what an ironic phrase that is) effort not to
waste a precious minute of life arguing with Mulder whether the
"food of the astronauts" could truly contain "empty" calories, I
launched a preemptive strike.

"C'mon, partner. Let's go rustle up something that's more, uh,
down to earth."

Mulder whined a bit, but just for effect. It's not really as
attractive as he seems to believe. After his token display of
resistance, he smiled and nodded his agreement. I was instantly
suspicious. That was twice in one day. Why had we started agreeing
so frequently and so readily?
 

Not surprisingly, Mulder already had another restaurant in mind.
Somewhat surprisingly, however, halfway to our destination in the
Adams-Morgan neighborhood, Mulder is having second thoughts.

Of course, I am now totally intrigued.

"Um, Scully, maybe we should go to some place in Georgetown. This
place, well, I'm just not sure it's your kind of, um,
establishment."

"What is it, a strip club, Mulder?"

"No, no. No, it's a bar, a blues bar."

"Hey, I love the blues." Not precisely true. I'm not a devotee by
any means, but I've liked the various things that people have told
me are "blues".

"I don't think their food is supposed to be all that good. They
don't have a wine selection to speak of."

"Oh, and the places you've taken me to prior to this have had
fantastic food and drink?"

"Hey, those places were on the Bureau's dime. I don't think that
counts. Besides, this isn't on the Bureau, it's on me, so I
want..."

Another uncomfortable silence descends over us as the reality of
what we were doing comes precariously close to raising its ugly
head. This started as an extended lunch hour, playing hooky from
the office, if you will. That was in daylight. Now, however, it's
evening, for most people, a time after working hours. Date time.
This isn't a date. I don't know what it is, but it's not a date.
We're partners. We're just getting to know one another. Besides,
there are regulations governing the relationship between partners.
Mulder may not respect much Bureau protocol, but I know he
respects that one.

The silence ends as we pull into the block with Mulder's choice of
establishment. The first thing I notice is a record shop across
the street called "Flying Saucer Discs." I point it out, asking if
this is how he's heard of the place he's taking us to.

"Actually, no, I've never seen it before. But I'll definitely have
to check it out, huh?"

"Then how do you know of this place, Mulder?"

"Scully, I've changed my mind. I really don't think we should go
here. Driver?"

I tell the driver to stay put, and start to get out of the cab.
Mulder seems to panic.

"Tell me how you've heard about this place, then."

He's caught between a rock and a hard place, and it shows. I am
loving this.

"I, um, read that this place is known for an, uh, interesting
promotion, as well as its blues and, um, other things. It, uh,
serves half-price Rolling Rocks to redheads."

The fact that Mulder has just stuttered out as many "uh"s as I've
heard in our entire partnership pales next the dawning realization
that he's thought about coming to this place because of me, with
me.

"Now that I see the neighborhood, though, I'm thinking this wasn't
such a great idea."

Looking around, I have to agree. The restaurant, if that's what it
is, to the right of my door, is named "Tryst." I point to it and
ask him if that's what he has in mind because, if so, I'm not on
the menu.

"No, that's not our place," Mulder assures me. "But, if you loved
that name, your sure to flip over the name of this place," he
finishes morosely. In his face, I see that this outing, this
adventure, this evening, whatever this is, is not going as well as
he's hoped.

I give him an encouraging, "how bad could it be?" smile, pulling
him out of the cab behind me. As he leans back in to pay the
driver, I look up at the restaurant's sign and my jaw drops.

"Madam's Organ?"

I am shouting. I realize this. Mulder bumps his head on the window
frame of the cab's passenger side door in his haste to quiet me
down.

"Madam's Organ, Mulder?" I stage whisper. "I think I like Tryst
better."

That gets a little too much of a smile out of him, so I squash
whatever he's about to say. I'm just too annoyed.

"Not *that* much better, Mulder. What the hell is this place?"

"Sssh."

He's holding his head where he bumped it. Between that and Mulder
shushing me, I get an absurd impression of what he's like hung
over.

"It's a blues bar, I've told you. The organ in the name is a real
musical instrument, installed when this was a private residence.
It's still playable from what I understand."

It takes a couple of moments for my limbic system to calm down to
the same level that my reason and emotions have reached. This must
leave too uncomfortable a space for Mulder, because he leaps to
fill it.

"Look, Scully, I didn't mean to insult you. Honestly. It's just
that I've been searching for a place to hear some good blues. When
I found this one, with its discount beer for redheads policy, I
thought "it must be fate." I wasn't looking at it as a place for
the two of us to go, or anything, not at first, I mean not until
just now. It was a mistake. I'm sorry. You know, sometimes, my
intuitive leaps take me right over a cliff."

Not as often as you might think, Mulder. During his penitential
rant, I've taken the chance look around and get my bearings. The
music coming from inside sounds languid and wonderful and the
place itself isn't all that bad, really. Well, it isn't hideous.

"Mulder, it's ok. I could use a beer. At half price, I could use
two. You're buying."

With more confidence than I actually feel, I lead us through the
door.

The place isn't quite the dive I'd feared and the music *is*
wonderful. But, it is too loud to hold a normal conversation or
even exchange this small bit of confirmation when our food
arrives.

"The reviews were right, Mulder," I shout directly into his ear.
"The food stinks!"

He nods in agreement, his eyes downcast. Oh, boy. He's taking on
the blame for bad cooking in a blues bar. I have got to get us out
of here before he starts shouldering the blame for the cat house
decor.

"Looks like you're getting a case of the blues," I yell, and nod
for him to follow me outside.

"Now what?" He sounds every bit as dejected as he looks.

"C'mon." I take his arm again. "I think I know a place that's just
as friendly to redheads *and* serves decent food."

He shakes his head with a rueful smile, and hails us another cab.

****************************

During my freshman year at Maryland, Uncle Frank had taken me out
for my eighteenth birthday, to share the honor of my first beer. I
think he knew that "honor" had long passed, but wasn't about to
let reality dampen the celebration of my passage into adulthood.
We'd gone to "the Four P's," the nickname for a restaurant on
Connecticut Avenue called "Ireland's Four Provinces."

It is now a bona fide Washington institution. And, fortunately,
institutions don't become institutions by being fly-by-night. The
Four P's is exactly where I'd left it, eleven years before Mulder
and I pulled up out front in a cab. The moment we step into the
vestibule, I cross over a threshold of space and time, back to
that auspicious birthday.

As we entered, Uncle Frank leaned down and, with a conspiratorial
whisper, informed me that there was too much paraphernalia on the
walls, lyres, Irish flags, road signs and such, for this to be an
honest to goodness Irish pub. "But, lass, it'll do," he winked. My
uncle was born in this country and had, at that time, been to "the
Auld Sod" exactly twice in his life. I knew that this pub was
every bit as Irish, or not, as he. To this day, I thank God for
stopping me from saying whatever smart remarks came to mind about
"true Irishness" that night.

My Uncle stood me to a drink. He quieted the crowd around the bar.
Even the people seated to dinner at their tables stopped and
looked up at us. As the bartender handed him two huge mugs of
Guinness, looking for the entire world like the color of German
Chocolate cake with coconut icing for a head, Frank turned and
thanked the crowd for their attention.

"This is my niece, Dana Katherine," he said solemnly. "Today, she
turns 18, and I have the honor of sharing her first pint as an
adult. To Dana."

The crowd lifted their mugs to me and repeated my name in the same
solemn tone my uncle had used. Then, the entire place erupted with
cheers and music. Strangers congratulated me, kissing me on both
cheeks. It was all so exciting that I forgot my mortified
embarrassment and let myself be carried along with the tide.

"A Scully ought to have more than just proper beer when she
becomes an adult. She ought to have proper food!" Frank bellowed
over the din. For "proper" food, read "Irish" food. The Four P's
was authentic enough to get my uncle's seal of approval, and that
was good enough for me.

"Is this the same uncle with whose daughter you went on your
infamous road trip?"

For a moment, I am surprised that it is Mulder speaking. I feel
dislocated, as if Uncle Frank had just been across from me. He had
the same rosy chipmunk cheeks as Ahab does. I can almost feel and
bask in their glow.

"The one and the same," I admit, trying to keep darker feelings at
bay, trying but not succeeding.

"I miss him."

Mulder says nothing, but I can feel his attention riveted to me.
The mood is suddenly leaden, maudlin, and this time I'm the cause,
not Mulder. I determine to lighten things a bit.

"He made me swear never to tell Ahab that I'd gone out drinking on
Uncle Frank's dime."

Mulder smiles, his eyes relaxing. "Did you? Ever tell your
father?"

"Yeah, but not until Uncle Frank's wake. After hoisting many a
pint of their own in his honor, everyone was sharing memories of
Uncle Frank and, before I could stop myself, the story of that
night came flowing out."

Mulder's laughter was warm as melted chocolate, and just as
soothing. I started laughing, too, sniffing away tear that started
to well up.

Mulder has his hand stretched across the table, to get my
attention. He draws a glass of dark ale over to me and then raises
one of his.

"To Frank Scully," he says, "gentleman and true Irishman."

The sincerity in his voice and the kindness in his eyes are
unexpected.

"Uncle Frank," I whisper, raising my glass to Mulder's.

I try to hold a smile, but the tears that had been threatening now
spill over the brim, and the sound that comes out of me is half-
sob, half embarrassed laugh.

Just as I duck my head away, Mulder reaches across to brush a tear
from my cheek. I'm afraid I'm ruining this pleasant night out, but
he's being unbelievably tolerant.

"Hey." His voice is so soft I almost miss it over my sniffling.
The hand that has just wiped away a tear now lifts my chin up on
one long finger.

I don't want to seem weak in front of my partner. I don't want
pity, his or anyone's.

But, when I look up at him, I don't see pity. I only see
understanding, compassion. My partner is a surprising fellow.

"I'm glad you brought us here," he says, picking up a menu. "So.
What's good here, Scully?"

I smile at him, my tears gone. Good save, partner. I'm glad we
came here, too.

"Beef and Guinness stew?" Mulder crows. "Amazing. Two of my
favorite tastes together. Scully, I think I'm going to like Irish
food."

"There's a reason that it's just an appetizer, Mulder. Some Irish
dishes can be somewhat heavy."

"What about the mixed grill? That looks good. What's black and
white pudding?"

Ugh.

"Some Irish dishes can be downright disgusting, Mulder. Find
something else."

"Why? I love pudding."

"This isn't a dessert pudding, Mulder."

"Scully, I did go to school in England, you know. I know about
savory puddings. I just want to know what black and white pudding
is."

You know what they say about curiosity and the cat, Mulder?

"The black is blood pudding, and the white?"

"Forget it, Scully. I don't want to know."

Mulder looks like he's just gotten indigestion.

"To be honest, Mulder, there's a lot of Irish cuisine that I just
can't stomach. I'm going to have a salmon and spinach salad. Maybe
you'd like a Cottage Pie?"

"No, I'll be okay, Scully. I think I'll have the Whiskey Chicken
Tullamore."

"My mother refuses to order chicken at a restaurant because it's
so easy to cook it at home. She always orders something exotic.
So, now, I never order chicken, either."

"Your mom is a wise woman, Scully. But, since I never make chicken
at home, it's exotic to me."

After placing our orders, we raise our drinks again.

"What are we toasting this time, Scully?"

"Eight months."

At his confused expression, I hurry to clarify that it's our
partnership to which I'm toasting.

Mulder raises his glass to rest gently against the rim of mine, a
wistful smile on his face.

"And they said it would never last. Actually, I think I said
that."

"Who cares what "they" think, Mulder?"

"You should, Scully. You have to report to them."

A sore subject. It's time to take the sting out of it.

"Actually, I think they are ignoring my reports these days,
Mulder. If they thought I was going to debunk your work for them,
they've since found they picked the wrong spy."

Mulder's gaze grows serious for a moment, and it throws me.

"Mulder. I was just kidding about the spy part. Honestly, I
believed they just wanted a scientific perspective on your cases.
The challenge of applying science to otherwise inexplicable
phenomena was too hard to pass up. There was also the challenge of
matching wits with, well, um, you."

I almost let slip with "Spooky Mulder."  He appears not to have
noticed, however. His expression is unchanged, although his gaze
dips to the table.

I'm worried, now. I dip my head low to the table in order to see
up into his eyes.

"Mulder?"

"I think you should continue to write full-blown, serious reports,
Scully. Give them their debunking."

"Mulder! I *will* give them a scientific slant on the cases we
have. I will *not* help put an official stamp of disapproval on
the X-Files simply because that's what they'd hoped I'd do. I
can't believe that you'd think otherwise."

"I don't, it's not that, it's just," he sighs, unclenching his
jaw. "I'm sorry, Scully."

At least when he dips his eyes this time, it's to hide a sheepish
smile.

"It's just that, if you don't give them what they want, then they
might take you off of the X-Files, take you away from..."

Mulder pauses and swallows. Whether he just swallowed what he was
about to say, I might never know. Do I want to?

"...our work. I need you, Scully. I don't want to endanger that."

Okay. Okay. That was an unexpected little rush, there. But, be
honest. Mulder *is* talking about needing you for the "work."
That's his only priority. You know that. When did you start caring
whether this man needs you or not?

"Get your head together, Starbuck, on the double." Right you are
sir.

"Mulder."

Okay, his name came out fine. Now, try stringing words together
into a sentence.

"I write my reports based on my own judgment, and on my judgment
alone. And if, in my judgment, the work that we do on the X-Files
is invaluable, then I will say so. We solve cases that the rest
of the Bureau won't even touch. Mulder, if I choose to defend "the
work," that's because it's worth defending. If they try to take me
off, I will fight them because I want to do this work. I don't
*always* agree with you, that's true. If that fact gets them
off of our backs, so much the better. If, in my scientific
opinion, the cases aren't solved because of the paranormal, that
shouldn't matter to us. That we get to the truth is what should
matter."

Whew. I hope that last bit softened the little rant I just threw.
I was reacting to a little embarrassment, pure and simple. Yeah,
in front of the best profiler in the Bureau. Dana, you're dead
meat.

Mulder is, at this very moment, inventorying the crime scene that
I've just created, when one of the waitstaff appears at his elbow
and asks if we're ready to order. When Mulder orders for both of
us, I feel my eyebrow shoot up, and the rest of my face go very
still.

"I'm sorry, Scully. Had you changed your mind? I just thought it
would be simpler to do it this way. I'm sorry, I, you go ahead."

I wave his second apology off. It's actually all right that he's
ordered for both of us. For one thing, I understand that Mulder is
not doing it out of inherent sexism. His manners are almost
courtly and his solicitousness, when he's focused on someone not
the subject of an investigation, can be charming. For another, I
can't trust my voice at the moment.

Besides, his perceived gaffe has gotten me off of the hook for
that little rant of mine.

It's incredible. Despite our different frames of reference and
belief, and in spite of Mulder's propensity to ditch me at the
drop of a hat, we work quite well together. We have a working
relationship that has developed with remarkable speed. Yet, off
the clock, here we sit as awkward as teenagers. We're adults,
competent ones at that.  We can do this, whatever this is, can't
we?

After placing our orders Mulder motions to the server to refresh
our drinks. I catch her sleeve, and ask for some water, too.
Turning back to Mulder, I look at him for a moment and we both
drop our eyes to the checkered tablecloth.

This is silly.

"Mulder," I begin.

"Look, Scully, I" he says over my voice.

We're both silenced for a moment, waiting for the other to
continue. When neither of us does, we both begin to laugh, and the
tension has once again evaporated. How did we do that?

Two tall mugs of warm ale appear in front of us, perfectly timed
as if by magic. Only out of my peripheral vision do I catch a
flash of sleeve as evidence of the server's slight of hand. With
the nervous chuckle I find endearing, Mulder smiles shyly at me,
and the gleam of our day away from work returns to his eyes. He
lifts his mug to me and, this time, neither of us has to ask what
this toast is for. It's for getting past the awkwardness and
learning to be ourselves around each other.

"For better or for worse, partner," I say, regretting it when I
see his eyebrows begin to rise. Why haven't I begun to anticipate
what he's going to turn into a double entendre? I hope that what
he's going to say isn't completely annoying.

"Proposing, Scully?"

Okay, Mulder, that was both tame and lame. But at least it wasn't
annoying. He winces at his own pallid joke, and seems eager to
move on. When he does, I begin to get nostalgic for his double
entendre.

"So, you never finished telling me about your road trip."

"Oh, Mulder. You don't really want to hear about that, do you?"

His expression is surprisingly soft, neither teasing nor
indulgent, just expectant.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"It wasn't all that interesting, Mulder. What was wild and crazy
for me back then is actually pretty tame. To make a long story
short, we went up to Princeton to visit Katey's boyfriend. the
three of us went to an off-campus party and they promptly
disappeared for the rest of the evening. I was alone, I didn't
know anyone else at Princeton, and the party seemed at least to me
to be mostly men, drinking hard and being boorish. To tell you the
truth, it was, um, uncomfortable."

"To say the least." Mulder is leaning in slightly over the table,
forearms draped loosely on the tablecloth, his frame as quiet as
his voice. "At age 16, I'd have been terrified to have been in
that place with all those people I didn't know, Scully. And that's
even after the summer where I grew four inches and put on a manly
20 pounds."

I somehow doubt Mulder would have ever gotten himself into such a
predicament by accident. Even if he had, I think he'd have handled
himself better than my teenaged self had. But, things do change
over time. I've learned how to handle myself, now. I feel buoyed
by this thought, and then embarrassed that I've needed to resort
to it. Fortunately, Mulder mistakes my blush for something else.

"Oh, yeah, laugh if you will, Scully, but it wasn't all glory and
girls after growing that much that fast. For one thing, everybody
expected me to become a hoops sensation overnight."

"I thought you did end up playing basketball, Mulder. There's that
ball and a trophy in your office."

"Yeah, but back then I wasn't quite the stud that you see before
you now, Scully." Mulder's tone belies the brashness of the
statement. I know when Mulder believes in something, when he is
convinced of a truth. There is no conviction in his self-image.
"It took some work to become the hero of the hardwood that I am
today."

Mulder is distracted by something just over my shoulder and
straightens up off of the table just in time for our food to
arrive. After our server has been assured we're fine for the
moment at least and has faded away, Mulder tucks into his chicken
without a word. After three bites, he notices that I'm staring,
and gestures to my plate with his fork.

"Dig in, Scully. It's a bad half hour to lose."

"I want to hear more about this young Jordan, Mulder."

He gestures again in a circular motion with his fork, while he
finishes chewing. "Some other time. If you're half as hungry as I
am, you're starving."

To my astonishment, he's right. We eat in companionable silence
for some minutes.

"What happened that night, Scully? If you want to tell me, that
is."

Maybe it's this place, maybe the food. Maybe it's the company. I
haven't even strolled down this memory lane by myself in years.
Yet, I do feel like telling him this story, as painful a memory as
it is. Nevertheless, my inherent reticence reins me in.

"I don't know, Mulder. It's not all that interesting."  I realize
that I'm picking at my dinner. Moreover, I realize that Mulder is
watching me pick at it.

"Interesting isn't the point, Scully. Look, I can see you're
uncomfortable. It might help to talk about it, that's all."

There is concern in his eyes as well as in his voice.

"Nothing really awful happened, Mulder. It's not like some drunken
frat boys tried to have their way with me, or anything."

Mulder appears to relax at this, as if he's just let out a breath
he's been holding.

"It was just nightmarish, that's all. I was trying to blend into a
corner of the frat house as best as I could, while the crowd kept
growing, getting noisier and noisier. I nursed a single beer for
an eternity, just feeling sorry for myself, mad at Katey and her
boyfriend for ditching me..."

I look up to see whether Mulder will wince at this. If he does,
he's really good at covering it. He is listening intently,
however. I've forgotten what a flattering feeling that is.

" ...all the while keeping an eye out for the two of them to
reappear and rescue me. At some point, I reached out blindly to
pick my beer up off of the windowsill where I'd laid it. I took
one good swig before I noticed someone had put a cigarette butt
out in it."

His lip curls into a grimace at this image. Just you wait, Mulder.

"I barely made it outside before I lost every drop of that one
little beer into the bushes in front of the house. As if I wasn't
feeling bad enough, at that moment some guy came barreling through
the front door after me. I was afraid of this guy, Mulder, I
didn't know why. All I knew is that it made me mad to be afraid of
him. I told him I was fine, and that if he wanted to stay fine as
well, he could stay right where he was."

Mulder smiles and dips his eyes away from mine. I am dying to know
what he's thinking but know that if I follow that train of
thought, I'll probably lose the one I'm on or, at least, lose the
nerve to reboard.

"Surprisingly, he didn't appear to be drunk and only wanted to
know whether I was ok. It turns out he lived on the same hall as
Katey's boyfriend, his R.A. as a matter of fact. He'd seen us come
in together and he'd seen them leave without me, so he'd taken it
upon himself to keep an eye out for me."

"Nice guy," Mulder says, sounding anything but convinced.

"No, he was, actually, Mulder. He left the party immediately to
escort me to his floor, in an effort to locate Katey. By the time
we got to her boyfriend's room, they'd fought, broken up, made up
and probably would have gone through the whole cycle again if they
hadn't passed out drunk across his bed."

I'm amazed that this seems amusing to me now. It certainly did not
seem so, then. Mulder echoes my feelings with a rueful chuckle of
his own.

"Anyway, the R.A...."

"Name?" Mulder interjects.

"Not that it matters, but Pier." For a moment, I'm afraid of the
retorts I think I can sense bubbling up inside him. Did you go off
the deep end with Pier, Scully? Did he peer at you? What, is it
short for J. Pierpont Morgan IV, or something? Maybe my mien
is warning enough, but Mulder says none of these things.

"He was a perfect gentleman, Mulder. He called a fellow R.A., a
woman, who had an empty single on her floor. I ended up sleeping
there for the night. That Mulder seems relieved by this turn of
events is both curious and amusing. I smile at him before
continuing.

The next day, Katey was incredibly hung over and apologetic. She
wanted to stay at Princeton for the weekend, and then she had to
return to Swarthmore. So, I decided to continue on up to Boston on
my own."

"Pretty brave thing to do, wasn't it? I mean, after what you'd
gone through the night before?"

"Hey, I'm a navy brat, Mulder. I can..." but his expression cuts
right through my bravado. "Yeah, I suppose it was. I felt
different somehow, Mulder. I'd gotten through what, at the time,
seemed like a nightmare, on my own. I felt, I don't know, I felt
older."

Mulder just nods.

"Anyway, neither Katey or her boyfriend were in any shape to be
driving, so Pier ended up driving me to Trenton to catch the
train."

"There's that name again. Gallant knight to the rescue."

"Stop it, Mulder. He was gallant. He was also very kind to me." At
Mulder's snort, I feel defensive, and launch into a recitation of
how complimentary he was that I'd stood up for myself the night
before and how he'd told me that this was a great strength that
would take me quite far. Only by the time I'm talking about how he
waited with me until I boarded my train, do I realize that I've
overreacted. But, if he feels hurt, Mulder doesn't show it.

He says simply, "Did you keep in touch?"

"No." I think this surprises me as much as it does Mulder. "No,
Mulder, we made noises about staying in touch, but I think he was
just being polite. Besides, I was young. By the time the train
pulled out of New Haven, I'd found a new love of my life."

"Oooh. Do tell."

Oh, crumb. Why do I get myself into these situations with him?

"It was *nothing*, Mulder. Just some guy across the aisle
from me on the train."

"Name?" His eyes are dancing at my expense.

"I never knew his name." Shit. "I never even talked to the guy,
Mulder." Why am I upset about this? "It wasn't like that. I told
you, I was young, prone to crushes, and too shy to do much about
them. I was on the train, for God's sake."

"Whoa, whoa. Scully, slow down." Mulder reaches across to still my
hands with the light touch of a fingertip. "I'm sorry. I didn't
really mean anything by it."

"I'm sorry for snapping at you. It's just, just a nice memory. I
guess I don't like it being meddled with, you know?"

"Tell me about it. I promise, Scully, I won't tease you. Even
though, after Sam, it was all a pretty bleak run, I have a few of
those sorts of memories from that age myself."

I look up to see him in his sincere mode. That's not quite fair.
Mulder is nothing if not sincere. He's sincere in whatever he
does. I'll have to ask him about those memories some day. As the
pause draws out into a lull we both come to the realization that
we've been lost in our own thoughts but staring straight across at
one another now for I don't know how long. When this thought hits,
we both let out an amused chuff.

"It's really silly, Mulder. Just a young girl's fancy."

If I expected Mulder to make a joke about that, I'm disappointed.
He smiles gently, as if he knows exactly what I'm talking about.

"I'd been staring out the window for most of the trip, although I
don't recall the scenery being all that pretty to look at. Some
time after we left Manhattan, I noticed him. Across the aisle and
up one seat. I remember that he was wearing a tennis sweater. I
can't really remember all the physical details clearly. He
seemed," what? "Thoughtful. Sad, almost mournful. He spent the
entire time writing in a small, leather bound book. I imagined he
was a poet. See? Silly."

I have the impression that he was tall, lanky, graceful, although
I never did get a good look at him standing. Oh, I can't say this
to Mulder. He'll pounce all over the similarities. I would rather
he simply not trash this memory. I shouldn't have brought it up.

"No, it's not silly at all, Scully." Mulder's voice is startlingly
hushed. His gaze, when it rises from the table, is diffuse, not
seeing in the present. "That's such a difficult time in a person's
life. I don't think adults can pass judgment fairly on the
perceptions of a teenager. I..." His gaze seems, if anything to
have receded into the mists.

"Mulder? What is it?"

He snaps back into the present, waving off my question with the
vague promise of  "some other time."

"So, what happened with this guy, Scully?"

"Nothing, really. Sometime after New Haven, he very nearly caught
me staring at him. I turned away in time, but was too chicken to
catch more than a peek at him after that. The one glimpse I *was*
brave enough to take, though, I saw him sketching in that little
book."

"Ah. A poet and an artist."

I stare hard at Mulder, to warn him that he'd better not be making
fun of me or of that long ago flame. He only seems sad, perhaps
lost in a memory of his own?

"Truth is, I never did get a good look at what he was drawing,
only enough to see that it was a portrait. Of course, I imagined
that it was my portrait he was drawing."

Mulder smiles, but doesn't interrupt.

"The strange thing was that I could have sworn I could feel his
presence near me, like a mild electric tingle all over the side of
me nearest his seat. I was still trying to avoid getting caught
staring when the train stopped in Providence. As passengers were
moving down the aisle, I remember I felt like I received a shock.
I tried to find out what had caused it, but couldn't. When the
departing passengers had all filed out, I chanced a glance across
the aisle, but he'd been among those disembarking."

"Do you think it was his presence that gave you the shock?"
Mulder's expression belies no sarcasm whatsoever.

"Oh, Mulder. It was static electricity, it could have come from
any one of the passengers shuffling up the carpeted aisle, and
been transferred onto me. But, back then? Sure, I wanted it to be
from him."

The rest of the trip was uneventful, even less so in its
retelling. Met by friends of my parents, took me on all the Boston
"must sees," a 'Duck' tour of the Charles, Lexington and Concord,
the U.S.S. Constitution, Legal Sea Foods, the works. But it was
just like being with my parents. This, too, probably contributes
to the fondness with which I view this memory of the guy on the
train.

"I was wrong, earlier, wasn't I? When I called it the Scully
cousin tour of debauchery? I mean, I know you're not the debauched
type now, Scully, but I thought, you know, young, on your own,
feeling your oats...But, I was off base. It was different. I can
see it in your face."

I nod, feeling somewhat sheepish that I wasn't the normal sort of
teen who would indulge in a tour of drunken exploration.

But when I look up at my partner, I don't see censure. I see
comprehension dawning. I have given something about myself away to
him. This pleases Mulder. As much as it would normally horrify me,
tonight it pleases me too.

This is new, this level of communication. It is beyond work,
uncharted territory for us both. Beyond this point, there be
monsters. We're both afraid of venturing these waters. But, if
this evening has been any indication, it will be okay. We will be
okay.

I know that tonight has been about me. There will be time to learn
about him, later. Still, I need to be reassured about that. I have
to ask.

"Mulder? That trip to Boston you'd mentioned?"

"Scully, I'm rethinking that. From what I've been told, we'd just
be babysitting for some English peer, with Scotland Yard looking
over our shoulder. It's a waste of our time. I'm not going to let
us get roped into this."

And I'm not going to let him off of the hook.

"Wait a second. I thought you said that the point of going up
there was not the case, but that it would be an excuse for some
time away from work. Are you backing away from that offer,
Mulder?"

Are you backing off from sharing Chilmark with me?

"I know what I said about the case, Scully. In fact, I wasn't
totally honest with you."

Why did my breath just catch in my throat?

"I'd already decided that this case was just a glorified
babysitting job. The only reason I was even considering it...Look,
forget it. We can each take some time off. You deserve it. Go see
your brother. Where is he again? Not the Navy guy, the other one.
The foreign service guy. I shouldn't take up what little free time
you have, Dana."

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not letting you back out, Mulder. And the name is 'Scully'."
I smile to counterbalance my tone of voice.

"Look, Scully..."

Something in his inflection on my last name reminds me of the very
first time I ever heard him say it. "Who'd you tick off to get
stuck with this detail, Sssscully?"

"No, Mulder. You promised."

"Scully, there will be other cases."

"It's not about the case, Mulder. It's the other thing."

He looks like he's trying to play dumb. He's too smart for his own
good. "Dumb" doesn't suit him well at all.

"The Vineyard?" I prod.

"It was an impulse, that's all. Scully, I shouldn't have even
mentioned it. I don't want you to feel obligated, no, that's not
it. I don't want you to have to do everything just because of my
whims, my weaknesses."

He's talking about his obsession, his sister.

"Mulder. You wanted to show me, or you wouldn't have said
anything."

"There is such a thing as too much disclosure, Scully. This is one
of those times. I should have realized this. I don't want you
pulling back from me, from the work, because I'm heaping personal
crud into the mix. It was a mistake to suggest it. I shouldn't
have even entertained the notion. It's a waste of your time. I've
wasted enough of your time."

"Mulder!"

Where the hell did all the self-abnegation blow in from? If he
wasn't still sitting at our table, I'm pretty certain he'd be
pacing, talking mostly to himself. Which one of us is he trying to
convince here?

I'm putting a stop to this right now.

"It's not a waste of time. We have a case."

"No, we don't. The case *is* a waste of our time, Scully."

"No, it's not. It's an excuse to get away from the office, just
like you said."

"Scully, you can't be serious. You don't need to humor me by
poking around my old haunts and watching me get maudlin."

"I wouldn't be humoring you, Mulder."

I want to do this. I want to know about you. I just can't admit
it.

"Of course you would be. That's not what I'd intended. Scully,
just forget it, alright?"

There's a note of desperation in his voice, now. He's in full
retreat. I don't know why, but I can't let him back away. If I do,
I'm afraid something will be lost irrevocably; I just don't know
what that is.

"I would not be humoring you, Mulder. I, I would be, it would be
interesting."

Man, it took me long enough to find a safe way to say that.

"Oh, now see? Took you long enough to come up with that. Scully,
you're humoring me. You might not even see it, but you are. I know
you have the best of intentions, don't get me wrong. But, I didn't
want to be humored."

Wow. You almost had me convinced, Mulder. You're good. But, I'm
better.

"Why would you want to see Chilmark? My family hasn't lived there
in fifteen years. I don't even know if the old house is still
there. It's a place for ghosts."

"Sounds like an X-File."

"My ghosts."

"Okay, so maybe it's stranger than the average X-File." Well, that
got a smile out of *me* anyway.

"There's no reason for you to go with me. You don't have to."

"Yeah, Mulder. Yeah, I do."

Eventually, the set of his jaw softens into a smile that matches
mine.

"Hey, Mulder?"

"Hmmm?"

"Maybe we can take the train."

-End-