TITLE:  Unusual Liaisons
SPOILER STATEMENT:  Anasazi/The Blessing Way/Paper Clip;
Gethsemane/Redux I/Redux II; small ones for Pusher, The Field Where I
Died, Paper Hearts, Never Again and Detour.
TIMELINE:  This story takes place sometime between Redux II and Detour.
RATING:  PG-13, mostly for language
CONTENT STATEMENT:  Scully/Frohike friendship.  M/S UST.  ScullyAngst,
FrohikeAngst
CLASSIFICATION:  VA
SUMMARY:   Sometimes it gets to be too much, and you just have to have
someone to talk to.
THANKS:  To Brynna, Robbie & Trixie
AUTHOR'S NOTE:  This story occurs in the same universe as "Tebori", my
recently-completed casefile.  
 

Unusual Liaisons

by Brandon D. Ray
 

She doesn't call me very often.  But when she does, I always respond.

How could I refuse?  Dana Scully is smart, she's tough, she's beautiful
and she's almost unbearably sexy.  In short, she's everything I've ever
wanted in a woman, and I fell for her -- hard -- within five minutes of
first meeting her.

Unfortunately, she didn't fall for me, and she's made that abundantly
clear, without ever quite saying anything directly.  So I've tried to
cover myself and my feelings by resorting to jokes and innuendo. 
Anything to avoid acknowledging -- especially to myself -- that
something I want very badly just isn't ever going to happen.  Most of
the time, it works.

Most of the time.

In any case, this afternoon she called me for only the third time in our
non-relationship.  Not that I'm keeping track, or anything.  Of course,
she didn't just call and ask for help; that wouldn't be Scully.  Dealing
with her, you have to learn to read between the lines -- which is yet
another reason for me to be in love with her.  I can never resist a good
mystery.

I was at the office, working on an article for the next issue of the
Lone Gunman.  It was a silly-ass thing -- an idea Langly cooked up and
then dumped off on me.  He fancies himself an "idea man", but at least
half the time I wind up writing his "concepts" -- and *more* than half
the time Byers winds up spiking the whole damned thing, or at least
demanding a major rewrite.  So I wasn't too displeased when the phone
rang; a bit of a distraction is always welcome when I'm dealing with one
of Langly's brainfarts.

"Lone Guman," I said, cradling the phone on my shoulder and leaning back
in my swivel chair.

"Frohike, it's me.  I was hoping you'd be there."

I recognized her voice immediately, and I reached over and turned off
the tape without being asked.  "Well, if it isn't the lovely Agent
Scully," I replied.  Almost against my will, a happy smile started
spreading across my face.  "What can I do for you this fine afternoon?"

I actually had a pretty damned good idea what she wanted, of course.  As
I said, Scully doesn't call me very often, but when she does, it's
always for the same reason.  Mulder.

"I was wondering if you had any plans for this evening," she said, her
voice cool and professional.  As if she were following up on a tip, or
something equally innocuous.

And of course, I did have plans -- contrary to popular belief, I
actually do have a life.  But as I've already mentioned, I can't refuse
this woman anything, so all I said was, "Nothing special.  Whaddaya need?"

"Do you think you could spare a couple of hours?" she asked calmly. 
"I've got a few matters I need to clear up about one of our old cases,
and I could use your help."

"Sure," I replied.  "What time?"

"Around eight?" she suggested.  "Is that okay?"

"Sure," I repeated.  "Do I need to bring anything?"

"That won't be necessary," she said.  "I think I have everything we'll
need."  And the connection was broken.

I hung up the phone, and sat looking blankly at the computer screen,
just letting my thoughts drift for a few minutes.  Remembering how we
got to this.

It all started because of the shit that came down as a result of Ken
Suna hacking into the DOD's computer net.  After Mulder apparently died
in that boxcar fire in New Mexico -- well, I took it kind of hard.  I
wanted to let out my grief with someone who would appreciate it, and
maybe share it -- and that's a short list.

So I wound up at Scully's that night, drunk as a skunk.  Fortunately,
she took me in and let me talk -- and after a while she started talking,
too.  We reminisced and we commiserated, and finally she made some
coffee, got me sobered up, and sent me on my way.  A few days later
Mulder showed up again, alive, and everything pretty much got back to
normal.

Or so I thought.

A few months later *she* called *me* for the first time.  It was after
the Modell case -- the guy who called himself "Pusher".  She and Mulder
had both had a rough time, but when she tried to reach out to him and
make it better, he wouldn't allow it.  No one could have been more
surprised than I was when she called and asked me to come over, but once
I figured out what was going on, I did my best to pick up the pieces. 
We talked and we drank, and then we talked some more and she cried a bit
-- and somewhat to my surprise, I cried as well.  And after a while,
just like the first time, she made me some coffee and I went home.

The second time Scully called was the better part of a year later, right
after the two of them got back from the Melissa Ephesian case.  It had
been so long since the first time that I'd written that off as a fluke,
and figured it would never be repeated.  But there she was on the phone
again, in her cool, reserved way, asking me if I could drop by and
consult with her on some technical matter.  And of course, I dropped
everything and went.

But that was more than a year ago, and there's been a lot of water under
the bridge since then.  Mulder's apparent suicide, the business with
John Lee Roche -- and of course, Scully's bout with cancer.  It was only
a couple of weeks ago that the cancer went into remission, opening up a
future that has her in it, when all of us -- except, perhaps, for Mulder
-- had pretty much given up.  And so I guess I shouldn't really be
surprised that now she's suddenly called me again.

In any case, here I am, sitting on Dana Scully's living room sofa.  I've
been here for over an hour, matching her drink for drink as she works
her way through a bottle of rather expensive brandy.  Make that *very*
expensive brandy -- a European import, one of the brands that's actually
made from wine, rather than just distilling it from grape juice. 
Straight up, of course; I don't think Scully drinks very often, but when
she does, she gets it right.

Scully finishes her latest shot and sets the glass carefully on the
coffee table, then settles back into the sofa cushions and turns her
head to look at me.  She has a faint smile on her face, but there's no
joy or humor in it.  I've seen this expression on her features a few
times before, and I know that we're finally about to get down to it.

"So, Hickey," she says at last.  "I suppose you're wondering what it's
all about *this* time."

I simply shrug.  I know from past experience that attempting a response
would simply divert her, and make it that much harder for her to come to
the point.  I can see her searching my face, measuring ... something. 
Apparently she finds what she's looking for, because finally she nods,
and leans her head against the back of the sofa, closing her eyes.

"I have a problem, Hickey," she announces, with the same solemn
precision that she uses in discussing a case.  She's always so serious;
so intense; and it occurs to me -- not for the first time -- that I have
never seen Scully laugh.  I wonder if Mulder has?

"Yes, I have a problem," she continues, dragging me out of my brief
reverie.  A short pause; then:  "I'm going to live."

I feel my eyebrows rising up on my forehead, and despite the promise I
made to myself on the way over -- that I would simply sit and listen --
I can't keep myself from commenting.  "Most people wouldn't regard that
as a problem," I say, trying to keep my voice noncommittal.

"Yeah, well, most people don't know what they're talking about," she
replies, the words slightly slurred by alcohol.  She opens her eyes, and
turns her head to look at me again.  "In fact, most people are full of
shit."

I can't argue with that, so I simply nod in agreement.  After a moment
she continues, in a meditative tone of voice, "When I was dying,
everything seemed so simple.  You know?  I didn't have to worry about
the future, because there wasn't going to be one.  And I didn't have to
worry about the past or present, because I wasn't going to be around to
deal with the consequences."  She shakes her head and closes her eyes
again.  "I guess that's a pretty selfish attitude."

I hesitate for a moment.  It's always hard for me to find fault with
anything Scully says or does -- I'm that far gone on her.  On the other
hand, if I know anything about Dana Scully, it's that she values honesty
above all else.  And so at last, very reluctantly, I say, "I guess maybe
it is."

I force myself to look at her face, and I see that now her smile has
turned bitter.  "It's okay, Frohike," she says, with a tone that matches
her facial expression.  "It's okay.  I'm fine."  She leans forward and
grabs the bottle, and pours herself another drink, then downs half of it
in one quick gulp before leaning back into the sofa cushions again, her
glass cupped in her hands.

For a few minutes we sit together in silence.  I've never quite figured
out how to get past the walls she builds around herself; I don't think
she even lets Mulder into her inner sanctum.  And her use of the phrase
"I'm fine" is usually a signal that the drawbridge is up, and the moat
is filled with burning oil.  The only thing to do in that situation is
to be patient, so I take another sip from my own drink, and wait.

Finally, she shakes her head again, opens her eyes, and murmurs, "Sorry,
Hickey.  Mulder hates it when I do that."  She drinks a little more
brandy, and goes on, "So my problem is that I'm going to live.  And that
means that I'm going to have to deal with a whole bunch of ... of *shit*
that I had locked away in a box because it didn't seem like it was ever
going to matter."  Her eyes gradually drift shut as she delivers these
words; abruptly, they pop open again.  "You see what I mean?"

I nod cautiously.  "I guess so," I say.  I take another drink.  "Of
course, I really don't know what --"

"Oh, bullshit, Hickey!" she interjects, an edge of anger in her voice. 
"Don't give me that crap.  You know what I'm talking about -- at least,
in general."

I sigh, and nod, and now it's my turn to apologize.  "Sorry, Scully. 
You mean Mulder, of course."

"Yes, I mean Mulder, of course," she says with a grimace.  She looks at
her glass, which is once again empty, then eyes the bottle sitting on
the table -- but apparently she thinks better of it, and looks back at
me and shrugs.  "What I want to know, Hickey, is just when that son of a
bitch got to be the center of the universe."  She shakes her head once
more.  "No.  Not the center of *the* universe -- the center of *my*
universe."  And then she does lean forward to grab the bottle again, and
pours herself another drink.

"I mean, I even told him once that he wasn't," she continues, swirling
the pale amber liquid in her glass.  "The center of the universe, I
mean."  She stops and takes a sip.  "'Not everything is about you,
Mulder,' I said.  Can you believe it?  I actually said that:  'Not
everything is about you.'"

She stops again and looks at me, and now I almost feel as if I'm reading
from a script.  "Well," I say, trying to choose my words carefully,
"that's true enough, of course.  Isn't it?  Not everything is --"

"Dammit, Frohike!"  She stops and sighs, and puts down her glass. 
"Sorry.  Maybe I've had enough."  She leans back into the sofa again,
and stretches one arm out along the back as she turns to face me.

"You're right, Hickey," she goes on.  "I'm right.  We're right.  Not
everything is about Mulder."  She smiles crookedly, and without humor. 
"Even if I *did* get a tattoo of an Oroborous one night because of the
bastard."  I feel my eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but this isn't the
time or place to pursue the matter, because suddenly her eyes are
glistening with unshed tears.  And she adds, in a choked whisper, "But
if that's really true -- if everything really isn't about him -- then
why does it hurt so much whenever I say that?"

"I think you know the answer to that one, Scully," I reply quietly.  And
on this point, at least, I'm holding nothing back, because I know
*exactly* how she feels.  "You know why it hurts.  It's because ...."  I
feel my throat constrict, and I find myself unable to complete the
sentence.  "Just because," I repeat, feeling lame, and more than a
little woozy.  Maybe I've had enough, too.

Once more, silence descends on the room.  A minute goes by; then two. 
And again, it's Scully who finally breaks it.  "Yes, I do know why," she
says, very softly.  "And I know that you know why."  Something in her
voice forces me to look at her, and I find myself staring into her eyes.

God ... I could spend the rest of my life looking into her eyes.  I
could write poetry about them.  They're so bright, and blue; even in her
current drunken state, her intelligence shines through like a
searchlight.  It would be easy to lose myself in them.  So very easy --

I force myself to look away.  There's nothing there for me, I remind
myself.  Nothing but very occasional companionship, and only when she
calls; only on her terms.  I shake my glass slightly, and try to focus
on the brandy sloshing back and forth.  There's nothing there.  I repeat
the words in my mind.  There's nothing there, there's nothing there ....

I'm so absorbed in my mantra that at first I don't notice her moving,
sliding closer to me on the sofa.  And when I do notice, it's too late
-- I feel her breath against my cheek, warm and moist and smelling of
very expensive brandy.  And then her lips are brushing lightly against
mine, and it's heaven, it's everything I've ever dreamed of, everything
I've ever wanted, but it's not mine, it will never be mine, and I should
stop this, I have to stop this right now, but I can't, I just can't --

And as suddenly as it started, it's over.  As my eyes focus once again,
I see Scully sitting a foot or so away on the sofa, looking at me with
big, sad eyes.  The expression on her face is unreadable -- some strange
mix of emotions I don't really want to explore.  Confusion.  Surprise. 
Despair.  Grief.

But no love.

Not that I expected there to be any.

It's time for me to leave.

I'm halfway to the door before I hear her stirring behind me.  I tense
my shoulders slightly, but I keep on walking.  She's not coming after
me, I remind myself.  Not me.  If I were someone else -- if I were
Mulder -- then maybe she would stop me from leaving.  If I were Mulder --

"Frohike?"

I freeze in place, my hand resting on the doorknob, and I sigh in
resignation as I slowly turn to face her.  She's still sitting on the
sofa, her face so very sad and solemn.  I wish I could be the one to
erase that sadness; I wish I could be the one to bring a little joy to
her life.  I wish it could be me.  I wish I could at least find the
balls to walk on out of here, but even as the thought crosses my mind,
she's speaking.

"Frohike," she says, very softly.  "I'm sorry.  That was cruel."

I shake my head, and somehow I find it in me to smile.  "it's okay.  But
I think I'd better go."

"I'm sorry," she repeats.  She starts to rise from the sofa, but
something -- perhaps it's in my eyes -- dissuades her.  "Wouldn't you
like some coffee first?"

Again I shake my head.  "Better not," I reply.  "I have to .... to
finish an article for the paper.  And it's getting late."

"Okay."  She studies me for a moment, and her expression becomes even
sadder.  "Frohike, what did I just do to you?"

Again, somehow, I manage to smile.  "You gave me a great gift, Scully,"
I say softly.  "You .... you gave a man who's been blind from birth a
chance to see, even if it was only for a moment."  I stop and swallow
the lump that's suddenly taken up residence in my throat.  "That's
pretty special."

She nods slowly.  She isn't buying it; I can see that she isn't buying
it.  But at least she's giving me the dignity of pretending that she
believes me.  "Okay," she says at last.

I want to leave; I should leave.  This room has gotten very
uncomfortable, and I need to get out.  But I have one more thing I have
to say.  "Scully?"  I wait until I'm sure I've got her attention.  "Tell
him."  She raises an eyebrow at me, and I repeat, "Tell him.  I know
it's hard; I know there's been a lot of ... history.  But if it's going
to end, you're going to have to end it, because he never will.  So just
... tell him."

I know better than to expect an answer to that; somehow I just know that
Scully is going to be sitting there on her sofa for a long time
tonight.  Long after I've gone.  In another world, perhaps I would be
sitting with her --

I shake my head sharply.  There's nothing there, I remind myself yet
again.  Nothing for me, at any rate.  I take one more look at Scully,
sitting quietly on the sofa, her hands folded in her lap.  She looks so
calm and peaceful, but her eyes -- her eyes are someplace far away.

"Tell him," I say, one last time.  From the lost, hurting expression on
her face, I'm not sure she's really listening anymore, but I go on
anyway.  "You can do it, Scully.  Just ... show up at his door some
night with some cheese and a bottle of wine."  I gesture at the nearly
empty bottle on the table in front of her.  "And tell him."

She glances briefly down at the bottle, then looks back up at me again
-- and the sad little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth tells me
that maybe, just maybe, I've gotten through to her.  She still doesn't
say anything, though, and after another moment I turn away and pull the
door open.  I step on out into the hall, and shut it quietly behind me.

And even now, deep in my soul, a part of me is holding out hope that
maybe Scully will come after me.  But as I approach the elevator, I
don't hear anything moving behind me.  Her door doesn't open, and I
don't hear the soft pad of footsteps hurrying closer.  There's no hand
tugging gently on my elbow, and a low, feminine voice is not speaking my
name.

Not in this reality, anyway.

The elevator ride to the ground floor seems to take a long, long time.
 

Fini