TITLE: Status Quo
AUTHOR: JLB
CLASSIFICATION: V, A, MSR
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: somebody's unhappy with the status quo
ARCHIVE: sure, go ahead.
FEEDBACK: you know it!  amory20@aol.com 
DISCLAIMER: not mine, not mine, not mine.  CC and 1013 all the way.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: okay, i fully admit that scully's frustration in this
story is one i happen to share. <g> after a very promising start to 
the season, i've been a little bit disappointed lately, as i'm sure 
scully is too, so i had to fix things.  enjoy, and of course, i'd 
love to hear what you think. 

for michelle -- think of this as a little housewarming gift. :)
 
 

Status Quo by JLB (amory20@aol.com)
 

She hadn't told him where she was going simply because she
didn't think of it.

There was no subterfuge involved, no conscious desire to get
lost or slink off to a quiet corner alone.  Without thinking, she
crossed the motel parking lot, hitting the edge of the sand
almost without realizing it, without stopping to consider
her actions, consider him, that he might become concerned.

Something pulled her there -- she didn't understand it exactly,
didn't question it -- and once on the beach, she couldn't hear
herself, her thoughts over the roaring of the sea and howling
wind.

She wanted to see the sun set.  She had to see the sun set
over the cold, dark water.

Once, someone had told her that winter in New England was
beautiful, and even though it had been a mild season so far,
with little snowfall to speak of, it was still cold on the
beach in late afternoon.  Cold, like when she was a child and
her mother would bundle her up in layers of clothing so thick
she'd be on the verge of toppling over.  Not the coldness she'd
come to know over the years -- that dark, dangerous cold that
somehow seeped inside a person, and left sharp, brittle icicles
everywhere it touched.

On the beach, staring out at the ocean, she felt the cold
of her childhood -- cold that promised snow angels and hot
chocolate and days off from school.  She relished it for a
moment, trying to remember if she'd ever built a snowfort
or if it was simply something she had read in a book.

Four days earlier, they had arrived on Cape Cod, and she had
wished then that they were on vacation -- a simple weekend
trip to walk the beach in late February, take in the clean,
brisk air, sit on the balcony of a seaside hotel room,
wrapped tightly in blankets, sipping hot cider, or maybe hot
buttered rum.

It was a silly wish, she knew, because they never did things
like that, had never done anything like that in eight years
together.  There was a case to be solved, and she had known they
would rise to the occasion -- all business, professional.  It
was simply who they were together.

But she could pretend.  She could pretend that she had come
here on a whim, for a holiday, a weekend at the beach.  And even
as the cold began to hit her like a dull ache -- the innocence of it
losing its charm quickly -- she tried to play the role of careless
vacationer, soaking up the last few rays of winter sunshine.  She
tossed her scarf over her shoulder, fishing around in her pockets
for gloves.  She slid the leather over her hands as she sat down
on a rock near the shore, a safe distance from the lapping tide
to protect her shoes.

She sat there, absolutely still, breathing in the cold air despite the
burning in her chest, savoring the salty tang of the ocean.  The wind
whipped her hair around her face, and she licked at cracked lips as
the strands flew about her head like flames, wild and out of control.

Then, finally, she looked up at the sky, as if it was the first
time she'd ever seen it, the first moment she had bothered to look, and
the sight made her breathless for a moment.  She watched, transfixed,
as the sun melted into the ocean, the sky shifting colors slowly, now
deep blue, lilac -- cool, wintery colors, not the bright pinks and
brilliant oranges of summer.

It fit her mood -- this winter afternoon -- but then winter afternoons
seemed to fit most of her moods.  She wondered briefly if that meant
something, if it said something about who she was.  She thought of that
weatherman in Kansas who Mulder had thought could control the weather.
Maybe, she thought.  Maybe.

It didn't seem to matter that the case was solved, and satisfactorily
at that.  The bad guy had been caught, confessed, and all was right with
the world again.  Case closed, tied up with a neat little bow.  Somehow,
she didn't care.  Sitting alone on the beach, she still felt the cold, the
wind.  She still felt the same.

In two days, she would be thirty-six.  She had actually lived thirty-six
years -- that in itself seemed a miracle to her sometimes, that she
woke every morning, pulled herself out of bed, threw herself out into
the dull, grey world to fight the battles, the enemies... and she survived.

Survived, made it to the next year.  To year thirty-six.

And yet, she knew what she would see every morning when she opened
her door, what she would do, what would be done to her -- the routine
perfected, fine-tuned over the past eight years -- and that was reason
enough to stay in bed.  To contemplate what more there was beyond
survival, what more she could have, what more she wanted for herself.

The tide was coming in now, blue-black, almost violet water just inches
from her expensive Italian heels -- she should have taken them off before
she crossed the damp sand; it would have made the walk easier regardless.
Kicking the toe of her shoe against the beach, she watched the sand fall
from her foot, several of the grains slipping inside.  So small and yet she felt
them against her skin, even through her stockings.  She thought about
shaking them out but remained still, feet firmly planted on the shore.

As she sat there contemplating the sand in her shoe, she realized she
wasn't alone.  It was instinctual -- the way her entire body tensed,
waited for the footsteps.

As always, she felt him before she heard or saw him.  It was the strange
sort of warmth he seemed to bring with him that alerted her -- a warmth that
made her shiver somehow, clutch her coat around her more tightly, hunch
over into herself to stop the trembling.

Of course he had found her.  She had never doubted that he would.  Not
that she was hiding from him in the first place.  They didn't play games
like that, the games most men and women inevitably found themselves
engaged in -- all coy and mysterious, ulterior motives abounding.  Often
she wondered if those kinds of games weren't somehow more honest than
the ones they did play, that maybe hiding from him, intentionally being
coy, manipulative, wouldn't convey something more decisively, say
something more clearly than a kiss to his forehead or squeeze of his
hand or even a chaste, ambiguous kiss to her lips in a hospital waiting
room as clocks struck midnight and people danced.

It didn't matter, she realized, because it wasn't who they were, wasn't
how they related to one another.  If she had suggested a weekend trip
to Cape Cod to drink hot buttered rum, batting her eyelashes, twirling
a strand of hair around her finger, he would have looked at her as if he
didn't recognize her, as if she were a stranger.  He wouldn't be able to
understand her in that context.

He liked games well enough.  But his were infinitely more complicated,
serious, with so much more at stake.

And, really, in the end, when she analyzed it fully, something had
changed.  He had been the one to set the new precedent.  He had
opened a door, pushed them across that line they had drawn years
ago.  She could kiss him now, she reasoned, directly because of
what he'd done.  She could stand on wobbly legs as he approached,
grab him by his lapels, and kiss him brutally, wildly, with all the
frustration, confusion, and passion that she felt.

He had taken that first step.  She would simply be following his
lead.  She didn't have to wait on him any longer.

But she knew she would.  She knew she wouldn't do anything but wait.
Somehow, she couldn't accept the responsibility, assume that control.
Maybe she would never be able to.

Some things never changed.

He didn't say anything as he approached her, silently coming up alongside
the rock she sat on.  Just as he reached her side, when she would have
been able to spot him in her peripheral vision, she closed her eyes,
hearing only his sharp intake of breath, as if the air was colder than he had
expected.

Then it was silent -- just the sounds of the ocean and wind.  He knew
she knew he was there but still he didn't speak.

When she couldn't take it any longer and finally opened her eyes, he stood
just to her left, hands jammed in the pockets of his coat, trying to keep
the fabric from flapping around him.  He stared out at the sea, the short
spikes of his hair blowing atop his head like tiny, dark blades of grass.

In his black coat, with the deepening sky and wild ocean in front of him,
the empty beach around him, he was intensely beautiful, a tragic figure
set out against the wintery evening -- quiet, sad, lovely.  Her breath
caught as she watched him silently appraise the horizon.

"About twenty-five miles out that way..." he said finally, nodding out
across the ocean.  "Twenty-five miles out that way, and you'd reach
the Vineyard."  He stared at the miles of ocean fiercely, so hard he
was squinting, his face tight and drawn.

"It's funny but I haven't thought of it all week."  His voice was soft
and low, that quiet, somber tone that made her think of symphonies
or piano sonatas.  "Being here, so close, and I didn't stop to think of
it once."  He shook his head then as if he didn't understand himself,
as if he never had.

She didn't respond, just followed his eyes out to the edge of the sky,
the point at which it faded into the water.

"I wondered where you'd gotten off to," he said, finally looking directly
at her.  Gingerly, he sat down beside her on the rock, offering a slight
smile as he tried to warm himself.

"We've been here four days, and I haven't had a chance to see the ocean.
So I figured now was as good a time as any," she said softly, turning
away from him again, back to the sea.

He didn't speak, but nodded as he pulled his overcoat tightly around
him.

After eight years, they could sit together comfortably in silence.  It
was something that pleased her -- that at times, however brief the
moments, they were easy and simple together, closer than words
could ever bring them.  It was a silly, frivolous thing to be happy
about, she knew, but sometimes it was all she had to go on, and
she allowed herself the indulgence.

Lately, though, she felt that something had shifted, ever so slightly.
It was impossible to pinpoint it exactly because she didn't believe that
things had changed between them.  On the surface, they were still
content to silently with one another, but now there seemed to be
a desperate need to know what the other was thinking, what they
were choosing not to say.  She had felt this before -- a similar
tension showing itself during difficult cases or arguments over
the dark conspiracies and alien abductions.  But those things didn't
factor into the equation now.  There were other questions they
could ask themselves, questions that had no basis two months
ago.  It made her strangely nervous and excited to feel that
curiosity pulsating between them, thick and heavy in the air.

That feeling always gave way, however, when she realized the
questions would never be articulated.  That they would forever
go unasked, joining the hundreds of other sentiments they had
chosen not to share with one another over the years.

There were just some things they would never discuss.
 
"It's damn cold out here," Mulder said suddenly, the words leaving
his mouth in a puff of icy white air.  "I think my ass is frozen to
this rock."  He smirked at her, all boyish charm and amusement,
and she forced a smile in return -- tight and thin, pulling at her
chapped lips.

He watched her for a moment -- she could feel him analyzing her
expression, posture, and mood.  It amused, angered, and unnerved
her all at the same time.

That was nothing new.  Mulder had a way of making her feel
ten things at once.

"You seem entirely too somber given the way this case ended,"
he said gently, turning his body toward hers slightly.  "You
know how rare it is for a case to have such a happy ending...
seems like we've seen so much sadness this past year..."  He
paused, and she watched his eyes slip shut.  She wondered
which horror show was playing behind his eyelids, what
tragedy he was reliving -- there were so many to choose
from.

"We should be celebrating now..." he said softly as he opened
his eyes.  "For a variety of reasons."  He slid closer to her,
their shoulders touching now, warm against one another.

She smiled quickly, and simply watched him for a moment,
pushing hair out of her eyes so she could get a better look.

"What are you thinking about out here, Scully?"

His voice was barely above a whisper, so low and deep that
it seemed almost musical again.  He looked at her intently,
as if he expected her to do something extraordinary -- swallow
swords, juggle flaming balls.

She would choose her words carefully, as she always did.  There
were so many things she could tell him, so many things that she
had kept from him over the years.  But that was part of the
problem -- there were too many things that needed to said now,
too many words that needed to be heard.  She couldn't start at
the beginning -- they had waited too long, been afraid for
too long.  She couldn't articulate eight years worth of thoughts and
feelings in one wintery evening, two days before her thirty-sixth
birthday.  It wouldn't work like that.

Mulder has asked a simple question.  She would give him a simple
answer.

"We are essentially the same people we've always been," she said
simply, flatly.

He stared at her, confused, shaking his head, squinting in an attempt
to draw more out of her.

"What I mean is..." She licked her lip, her tongue catching slightly on
the crack along the edge.  "Doesn't it ever bother you ... how static our
lives are?"
 
She looked at him intently, realizing his answer was all-important.
The sun had almost entirely disappeared into the ocean, and the
beach was mostly covered in hazy shadows, but she could see his
eyes widen, confusion coloring his face.

"Scully," he laughed suddenly, deeply, throwing his head back.  "Scully,
I can safely say that you and I see more action..." His eyes gleamed
wickedly for a moment as he leered at her.  "...more turmoil in a month
than most people see in a decade."

She couldn't argue that, and had no interest in trying.  It didn't surprise
her that he thought immediately in terms of the X-files -- they were so
much a part of who he was, how could he separate? --but she was
disappointed anyway.  It was so damn difficult for them to be on
the same page.

He nudged her with his shoulder, smirking.  "Come on, Scully.  We
travel all over the country, investigate all sorts of *freaky* stuff
... it's exciting, it's thrilling, it's unpredictable..."

He smiled blandly, and she could tell he suddenly knew he wasn't
convincing her, answering her question satisfactorily.

"Well, at the very least, it's better than desk duty or investigating
heaping mounds of fertilizer."  He was sober now -- no smile,
no smirk, no soft, teasing eyes.

She turned away, staring down at her lap, and played with a button
on her coat.

"That's not what I meant.  Not work," she sighed softly.  "Does
anything ever change?  Do we ever move forward?  As individuals,
as... I just feel... nothing ever changes for us."

When she finally had the courage to look up at him, she was startled
by the sad, watery eyes that confronted her, the slumped shoulders
and pouting mouth.  Under her scrutiny, he straightened up, dark eyes
flashing fiercely again.

"Scully, I think... I feel that things are changing," he said firmly,
eyes trailing down her face, lingering on her lips for the briefest
moment.  "I feel that."

She didn't respond, couldn't move.  She closed her eyes, and breathed in
as deeply as she could, feeling a small, sad smile taking shape on her
mouth.  And then his hand was on the back of her neck, cold and dry,
somehow reaching every nerve ending in her body like a spark, light
and heat surging through her.  She consciously had to slow her breathing,
relax her posture.

When she finally opened her eyes and looked at him again, she
caught a glimpse of his tie -- brilliant blue silk that shined
in the fading light.  She had been fascinated with it earlier that
day as he stood under florescent lights signing paperwork.  She
wondered if it wasn't a bit too much for work, too sensuous for the
office, though she admired the way it laid against the paler blue
of his dress shirt, the silvery gray of his suit jacket.  It flapped
gently in wind, and she found herself reaching out to tuck it back
inside his jacket, pulling his coat closed across his chest.

"Thanks," he said softly.  His cheeks were flushed as he looked
down at his shirtfront.  "It's new."

"I like it," she whispered, almost as if she were confiding a secret.
Her fingers lingered on the knot at his neck briefly.

He smiled, and they sat still, watching each other.  Finally Mulder
looked away as he blew on his hands, and Scully lowered her head,
wiping delicately at her eyes, which were beginning to tear from
the wind.

As he stood, Scully felt his body brush hers and she looked up
at him -- his silhouette against the sky again so terribly
beautiful that she sighed as he reached his hand out to her.

"Come on, Scully."

She cocked her head to the side, not moving.

"Get up, Scully," he said, exasperated.  "I'm freezing here."

He bounced up and down on his feet, arm still extended.  Finally,
she put her gloved hand in his, and reluctantly stood up.

"Where are we going?"

"We're going to facilitate a little change..." he said, his voice
husky and warm.  He bent down so he could breathe his next
words against her ear.  "Shake things up.  Think you can handle
it, Agent Scully?"
 
She pulled back, rolling her eyes at him, but still allowed him
to drag her behind him, his hand tightly around her wrist.

*****

He refused to answer any of her questions as he lead her from the
beach, refused to give her the smallest hint regarding their destination
as they walked across icy motel parking lot.  When she stopped beside
their rental car, thinking he was going to drive them somewhere, Mulder
had continued walking, only turning back momentarily to impatiently
wave his hand as an indication that she should continue.

And then they were walking beside the road, two dark figures in the
deepening night -- she had feared that an oncoming car wouldn't be
able to spot them in the darkness, but Mulder had pushed forward,
finally turning back to grab her hand again, and lead her along beside
him.  There was no sidewalk to speak of, just grass and weeds,
and she had seen patches of ice on the road, shining brightly on the
blacktop.  For some reason, the image of a car skidding, hitting them,
throwing them into the murky marsh area, wouldn't leave her mind.

But as usual, her fate was worse than anything she could imagine.

When he finally stopped in front of "Skippy's Pier 1 Jazz Lounge,
pulling the door open and ushering her inside, Scully couldn't help
laughing, quietly of course.  It was strange that he knew exactly
where he was going, that in the midst of the case he had noted
that the dingy bar beside their motel was in walking distance.
She didn't ask him about it, simply allowed him to guide her to
one of the red plush booths in the back, and settled in.

Skippy tried to claim his establishment as a jazz lounge, and the
red faux velvet of the booths, the mournful, piped-in sax music,
and thick, smoky air worked somewhat to create that illusion,
but the bar struck Scully as more nautical and earthy than
sophisticated or trendy.  Most of the patrons and wait staff
swore faded jeans, flannel shirts, and boat shoes -- those
silly loafer type shoes with the tassels her mother had always tried to
force on her when she was a child.  And there wasn't a martini or gin
and tonic in sight.  Beer was the drink of choice -- Bud Light an
overwhelming favorite.

Mulder silently reached over to help Scully out of her coat,
handing it beside his on the hooks next to their booth.  She
watched him settle back against the booth, his arm resting
against its curve, fingers achingly close to the bare skin at
her neck.  If she leaned back slightly, contact would be made.
But she forced herself to sit perfectly upright and look
straight ahead.

He didn't seem to notice their proximity.  Instead, he scanned
the bar, looking for something only he would see.  She didn't
bother trying to see what he saw any more -- she had learned
her lesson long ago.

With a quick nod of his head, Mulder beckoned a cocktail waitress
over -- a young girl who looked all of twenty-one, tired and bored but
pretty in a simple, faded way.  She wiped a hand on the leg of her
jeans, forcing a thin smile when she reached their table.

"I'll have a shot of tequila," Mulder told her, smiling boyishly.
Scully wondered momentarily if he was flirting, surprised to
discover that she was amused rather than jealous.

He turned to Scully then, eyes sweeping over her in appraisal.
She stared back, meeting his challenge.

"And she'll have the same."  He indicated Scully with another nod of
his head, never taking his eyes off her, staring blatantly.

Scully turned to watch the waitress amble off, and still
neither of them spoke.  When she looked at him again, Mulder
was studying his surroundings with the keen eye of an
investigator -- she recognized the strange glimmer in his
eyes.

She, in turn, focused him -- his wild hair, reddish cheeks,
the lip caught between his teeth.  And then she was raising a
hand to her own lips, sliding fingers against the rough dry
surface.  Wondering.  Imagining.

The waitress returned quickly with their shots, a shaker of
salt, and some lime slices.  Scully watched her set the glasses
on the table, a strong whiff of alcohol hitting her.  Running a
finger along the edge of her glass, she watched Mulder shake
some salt on the skin between his thumb and forefinger, with
such concentration and care she almost sighed aloud.

"So this is how you propose we break out of the status quo?" she
asked, her voice shaking slightly.  "We become alcoholics? Abandon
our careers as federal agents and start touring dive bars nationwide?"
Her voice was stronger now, as she raised an eyebrow in challenge
and swirled the amber liquid around in her glass.

"No, Scully," he said impatiently, as if he were speaking to a small
child.  "That's not what I'm proposing."

She watched, mesmerized, as he licked the salt from his hand, quickly
threw back the shot, and reached for a lime slice, holding it enticingly
between his wet lips.

When he caught her watching -- she was certain her eyes were glazed
over -- he smiled triumphantly.  He made a show of removing the lime
slice, licking his lips for any trace of tequila or lime juice.  Then he
pushed the salt shaker and bowl of lime slices her way, and looked at
her expectantly.

Demurely, she reached for her glass, downing the shot on its own rather
gracefully, like it was nothing more than water.  The alcohol stung her
raw lips, and bit back the back of throat as it went down, but she
showed no reaction, simply licking her lips as she finished and carefully 
pushing the empty shot glass away.  Mulder smiled at her, shaking his head 
as if he hadn't expected what he'd seen but approved nonetheless.  Still 
shaking his head, he signaled the waitress for another round.

He didn't speak again until their second shots arrived.

"What I am suggesting here, Scully..." He paused to down the shot, this
time without salt and lime.  His tongue darted out, the quick glimpse
of pink glistening in the dim lighting.   "... Is that every once in a
while ... every now and again, we allow ourselves to be human.  Just feel.  
Be." He reached for the bowl of limes, selecting a plump wedge and bringing
it to his lips.

She sat back heavily against the booth.  Human.  Is that what they were?
Is that what he wanted them to be?  How he saw himself?

He was a man -- it was so easy to lose tack of that sometimes, to buy
into the tragic, wounded hero facade and forget that he breathed and
bled and wanted like any other man.  That he wasn't a God, couldn't
be perfect.  That despite the path he had chosen for himself, the
sacrifices he had made, there were still times when he wanted more
for himself, needed more.

She knew what that felt like.  The dull ache of wanting.  The guilt
that inevitably followed, guilt that ultimately kept her from moving
forward, from taking what she wanted, needed.

Mulder sat next to her now, so warm and solid.  A drop of alcohol clung
to his smooth, full lower lip, and she wanted to run her fingertip along
it, capture the splash of tequila and taste it herself.  The shadow of
stubble on his face -- would his jaw and chin be sandpaper rough now if
she moved her fingers, her lips against them now?  What would the
muscles of his calves, his thighs, feel like under her fingers?  How
warm was the skin of chest?

Involuntarily, she closed her eyes -- the image that formed was vivid,
bright and intense.  A dark room, warm and quiet, Mulder pressed against
her, no space between them at all.  His hips bearing down on hers
insistently, his hands on her skin as gentle as she already knew them to be, 
but now moving over her entire body.  Not simply her hands or the small of her
back, her cheek -- everywhere.  His breath warm and erratic against her neck,
the skin on his back so terribly soft and smooth under her clutching
fingers.  And once inside her, the hot, full feeling making her tremble,
shut her eyes and cry out.

Being human.  Getting what she wanted.

She brought a hand to her cheek, her skin burning against her fingers.  It
could be that easy, she thought.  If she'd only allow it.

"I've given this a lot of thought," Mulder said suddenly, quietly.  "With
everything that's happened in the past year, I've really thought about
our expectations for ourselves, each other.  I think the problem lies
entirely in what we demand from ourselves.  What we think we have
to be."

He didn't look at her, instead staring at the tabletop where he tore a
bright red napkin to shreds.

"You've always wanted to be normal," he continued, his voice firm and
deep again.  "And I suppose I've never understood that exactly.  Because
all I've ever wanted for you... and me... is the opportunity to be human.
Openly flawed, selfish, concerned with nothing but our own wants and
needs.  To not feel guilty about doing what we feel for once.   To be
able to say 'Screw it' and have a drink when we finish a case, or shoot
hoops in the middle of the afternoon, eat a whole bowl of *real* ice
cream instead of that no fat tofutti crap..."

He looked up at her finally, with dark, insistent eyes.  "More than that
... but you get the point."

Her mind whirled.  He had thought about all this, had taken a break from
aliens and lights in the sky and all his pain to actually contemplate
what would make her happy, what indulgences he wanted for himself.
She couldn't believe that.  Almost didn't want to accept what that
meant.

She reached for her untouched shot, and tossed it back.  Again, it
stung her lips but now the taste barely registered with her.

"So in answer to your question... am I frustrated with our static lives?"
he said, playing with an empty shot glass.  "Yeah.  Yes, I am.  I wish
you didn't feel the need to be so strong all the time, so selfless.  It's
too hard on you.  I wish I didn't direct all my selfishness towards my
work.  I know that's where I focus all my energy now, but that's because
it's easier than wanting what I can't have."

"But that's your point, isn't it?" she asked timidly.  "Why are there
these things that you won't allow yourself to have?"

He looked shocked for a moment, wide haunted eyes fixed on her.

"Scully, there are things I have to do.  There are things regarding
our work that I have to accomplish or at least attempt to accomplish.
I couldn't turn my back on the X-files, on what we've learned any more
than you could."  He smiled at her weakly, and she felt him inside her,
reading her thoughts, mining her feelings.

"So where does that leave us?"  She tried to control her voice, tried to
fight back the tremor, the pleading.  "Exactly where we started I believe."

He cocked his head, smiling apologetically, sadly.

"It seems like there's always something more important than what
you and I, as people, as a man and woman, need.  But I want all that
for you, Scully.  So badly.  Even if we have to do it our way.  Even
if it can't be normal."

She let out a sharp breath, her brow furrowing as she attempted
to make sense of Mulder's words.  To really understand what he
was telling her.  She couldn't respond.  She didn't know where to
begin.

He took her silence for disagreement, and she watched his face
harden, his eyes darken.

"Look, Scully," he said quickly.  "This--" He threw a hand out in
front of him to indicate the bar, the empty glasses, the conversation
as a whole.  "This is all new for us.  We've never done this before.
It may be a small thing but it's a change, Scully."

Mulder was right.  It was something new.  There was a new feeling
between them -- a sense that they both wanted to try, were willing
to risk themselves, fully, as part of the game.  That they were willing
to stop asking so much of themselves, and start asking more of each
other.

It was terrifying.  She couldn't control the buzzing in her head --
all the desires, doubts, fears.  But the strange thing -- a new thing
 too -- was that she couldn't make out the individual noises because
Mulder's presence was simply too loud.  He stood out above all of it,
and for the first time, she allowed him to.  She allowed him to be
the only thing she would listen to.

When she looked over at him, he was staring at the mess of torn
napkin he had created in front of him.  His fingers slowly pushed
the paper around in tiny swirls.

"You know, Scully... most changes are slow, gradual," he said
quietly, his voice flat and monotone -- the voice she heard in
the office when he spouted off his latest theory.  "So slow
that you don't even see them happening.  We've started. It's
just a matter of seeing it through now... which is probably
the most difficult part."  He reached for her hand, smoothing his
callused fingers over her knuckles.  She let him take hold of her
hand, and he used it to pull her entire body closer to him in the
booth.

They were almost embracing one another, but not quite.

She nodded finally.  "I know, Mulder.  I'm sorry.  I just--"

"Don't apologize.  You never have to apologize for the way
you feel."  He looked at her intensely, dark eyes shining with
something fierce and bright.  She felt incredibly small and
fragile as he studied her.  Human.

They sat together, barely holding one another, for several minutes,
continuing their conversation silently.  She never needed to look
further than his eyes, she thought.  They said it all.

"I think we're approaching our limit, Scully.  What do you say we
head back?"  She wasn't sure if he was talking about the tequila or
something else.  She watched him reach for his wallet, and extract
several crumpled bills, laying them on the table beneath an empty
shot glass.

He stood slowly, and exited the booth -- too quickly she thought, but
he showed no ill effects as he easily retrieved their coats, holding hers
out to her in a very gentlemanly fashion.  It reminded her of an old black
and white movie with Cary Grant or Jimmy Cagney, one of those solid,
dependable men who would always take care of you.  She knew Mulder
would scoff at the comparison.

As she stood, she felt flushed and knew her cheeks were stained bright
crimson, not simply because of the alcohol. Mulder seemed unconcerned,
slipping his hand to the small of her back and leading her to the exit.

When the reached the street, the sky was coal black above them,
entirely clear and smooth.  Dozens of stars filled the darkness,
small and bright.  Mulder stopped to point out Orion for some unknown
reason -- surely he knew she could recognize the constellations --
but she followed his finger anyway, focusing on the belt of stars at
Orion's waist as Mulder huddled closer.

She looked over to find him watching her, smiling dreamily, soft
and hopeful.  It was then that she realized she wasn't the least
bit cold.

Mulder reached for her hand and lead her toward the road.

*****

The hallway in their motel was wallpapered with tiny blue
anchors and clipper ships, cheerful in a low-key sedate way.
Its carpet was a matching shade of muted blue, worn and
thin from years of use.  The decor reminded her of a Captain's
home she'd been in with her father once when she was young.
She had wondered then, in a childishly naive way, if everyone
decorated his home in a way that conveyed who he was, how
he made his living, the type of life he lead.  Now, walking down
this hallway beside Mulder, his fingers moving tensely beside
hers without touching, she remembered the first time she had
entered his basement world, the way he had seemed almost a
part of the surroundings.

It was a home more personal than any she had ever visited.  It
was who he was -- champion of lost causes, king of the
paranormal, a dreamer.  He was something more, though, she
knew, and she wondered if maybe that was what her presence
conveyed.

They hadn't been able to get rooms next to one another -- Scully
stuck in the middle of the block of rooms and Mulder at one of the
ends.  She had thought that strange when they checked in since it
was winter, and she doubted there were many vacationers on the
Cape now.  But she hadn't been able to bring herself to ask the desk
clerk about it.  Not with Mulder standing there, leaning on the counter
beside her, watching her every move, noting the inflection of each
word.

She wished she had now, angry that there was more than a thin wall
between them.

When they reached Scully's door, Mulder stopped hesitantly.  She felt
him watching her as she took the key from her pocket and shakily fit
in the lock, opening the door halfway before turning back to him.

"Thank you, Mulder."  She smiled shyly as she leaned back against the
door jamb.  "For ushering in the tide of change."

"No."  He shook his head emphatically.  "I merely brought it to your
attention that it had already been ushered in.  Tonight was simply
a demonstration.  We brought about this change together."  He grinned
down at her, a little foolishly but she was shaken despite it.

She nodded slowly, allowing the idea to take hold.  It made sense, she
thought.  She could believe.

When she looked up, his eyes were half closed, only a bit of soft
grey-green visible, and she shivered.

"Good night, Scully," Mulder whispered.

But instead of moving off to his room as she expected him to,
he extended his arm against the wall, hand resting just above
Scully's shoulder.  Then he leaned in, slowly, giving her every
opportunity in the world to turn away, run off, slam the door
in his face, smack him back to his senses.

But she did none of these things -- instead she simply watched
as his face came closer, his eyes that same smoky green, lips wet
and ready.  And though she prepared herself for it, slowly closing
her eyes, moistening her dry lips, it was still a shock when his
mouth touched hers, when his tongue gently traced the seam of her
lips, when her lips parted and accepted him.

It wasn't the confusing, chaste kiss of a hospital waiting room.
It was slow, wet, thorough -- leaving no room for doubts, no question
unanswered, no cell in her body unchanged.

No one had ever kissed with such conviction before, she was certain.
Mulder was a man who knew what he wanted, and was taking it,
without hesitation or second thoughts.

Without guilt.

When he finally pulled away, Scully almost yanked him back against
her, eyes still shut, lips swollen, her body aching and breathless.
She felt his thumb streak across her bottom lip, probably wiping
away smudged lipstick.

"I've never done that before, Scully" He spoke right beside her ear,
dangerous and low.  "The times they are a-changin'."

When she opened her eyes, he was smiling smugly.  She wasn't in
a mood to shoot him down.  He didn't deserve it after that kiss.

"They certainly seem to be," she agreed, trying to smooth her
hair.

She felt his lips at her temple, placing a delicate kiss as he
whispered against her skin.  "Good night."
 
He took a step back, wiping his own mouth, and started down
the hall backwards, refusing to take his eyes off her.

"Good night, Mulder," she called.  "Sweet dreams."  She teased
him with a quick lick of her lips.

He nodded, then stopped abruptly, moving forward again until
he was barely inches from her.

"Someone has a birthday coming up," he said quietly, in a
confidential tone.  "Perfect time for trying new things, don't
you think?"

They were both smiling like idiots, she knew.

"So does this mean you're actually going to acknowledge my
birthday this year?  Within a month of the actual occurrence
I mean."  She raised an eyebrow, watching him smirk.

"I always acknowledge your birthday, Scully."  She gave him
her skeptical look.  "I do.  Just not always with you around."
He smiled, clearly pleased with himself.

"I see."

"But this year, I've got big things planned," he said huskily.

"What?  More baseball?"  She reached out to smooth his tie.

"Nope."  He leaned in closer.  "How do you feel about a little
birthday one-on-one, Scully?"

"Mul-derr!"  She yanked on his tie gently as she smiled.

"See, I knew you'd like that idea."  He laughed against
her neck.

She raised her hand to wind through his hair, laughing
along with him.

He pulled back, and smiled at her.  "It's late.  We should get some sleep.
All these changes really take a lot out of a guy."

"Right," she said, lowering her head, taking a step back
into her room.

He smiled, licking his lip, and headed down the hall.
Turning back quickly, he winked at her and then
continued down the hallway.

Scully stood in the doorway, watching him disappear
into his room.  She almost called out to him, to remind
him to set his alarm so he wouldn't over sleep.  But then,
Mulder never overslept.

And some things would never change.
 

the end.
 

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