The Actor:  Prologue
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
17+  (for profanity, sexual allusions)
S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder)

Disclaimer:  (1)  Most of the characters and many of the 
concepts in all parts of this story are absolutely the property of 
Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox.  I intend no infringement 
whatsoever.  

(2)  The character of Stuart Novak is based, in physical 
appearance and in some biographical details, on the actor 
Patrick Stewart.  I have used a few terms that are the property 
of Paramount, and again, I intend no infringement whatsoever.  I 
also apologize to Mr. Stewart.  I'm not sure why I chose him, but 
apparently he was in the right place at the right time.  

Summary:  After Mulder's soul searching in Apison, Skinner 
offers Scully the opportunity to make some changes in her 
professional and personal life.  




Skinner rose from his desk and took a weary turn about his 
office.  He paused in front of the portrait of the Attorney 
General and stretched, reaching his muscular arms high above 
his head and rising up on his toes, loosening the taut muscles in 
his back and legs.  He let out a grunt of satisfaction as he 
resumed his normal posture.  It was after eight o'clock.  He was 
tired of working, at least for this day.  

He pulled his jacket off the hanger on the back of the door and 
slipped it on.  Standing in front of the window, he adjusted the 
fit of the jacket and tightened his tie.  He absently took in the 
flickering lights of Constitution Avenue, cabs and cars, 
ambulances and limousines, all waiting their turn to pass 
through the intersection with Sixth Street.  The street lights were 
beginning to flicker on in response to the encroaching darkness.

Skinner's view of the setting sun was obscured by the heavy-
shouldered buildings of the Smithsonian across the street.  
Nonetheless, the mauve light of the Indian summer evening 
managed to creep around the sidestreets and grace the street 
corner opposite Skinner's window.  There wasn't much to see in 
this aseptic block of government office buildings besides traffic 
and a few scrawny Bartlett pear trees planted in small gaps in 
the sidewalk.  

Skinner had pondered that corner countless times during the 
four years he had occupied this office.  Tonight was the first 
time, however, that he found himself entranced by the sight of a 
female jogger, her auburn ponytail bobbing against her back as 
she approached the corner.  She jogged in place as she waited 
for the traffic light to change, giving the Assistant Director 
ample time to assess her well-toned legs, pale below her tight 
black lycra shorts.  Her torso was hidden by a baggy gray tee 
shirt emblazoned with "UNC MED".  She blew her panting 
breath through full, rosebud lips that looked as if they might be 
inflamed by too many kisses.  As she set off across the street, 
and she flashed a stunning smile at a familiar face as she 
approached the Hoover building.  

Skinner smiled too.  He knew her well, thought not as well he as 
he sometimes wished.  He hadn't realized that she was a runner.  
That explained the trimness of her shapely body, which had not 
gone unnoticed by him in their many meetings in this very office.  
He had, in fact, spent the last three hours considering the report 
of her most recent case.  She had been very much on his mind.  

He rushed to his desk and picked up the telephone.

"This is AD Skinner.  Would you please stop Agent Scully as she 
enters the building and tell her that I'm on my way to meet her in 
her office.  Thank you."

XXXXXXXXXXX

Scully received the message from the guard as she walked into 
the building.  She paused in front of the hulking man with the 
sweet smile, trying to catch her breath, and nodded.  

"Sounds like I'm in trouble again, Pete," she said with a wry 
smile.

"I thought that was Agent Mulder's department," Pete said, 
cracking a wide grin.  

"Guilt by association," she said.  "I shoulda gone to law school 
instead of medical school, you know?"

"He didn't sound mad," Pete said by way of comfort as she 
trotted away toward the stairs.  

Her running shoes squeaked on the hard vinyl tile floor as she 
wound her way through the maze of box-lined corridors.  She 
knew there was no chance of cleaning up before she saw Skinner.  
He had seen her in worse shape than this, she mused.  
Nonetheless, she hated to be wearing such abbreviated armor 
when he began his tirade about Mulder's behavior in Tennessee.  
She could guess what he would say.  Why didn't you stop him.  
You have no control over him, Agent Scully.  I thought you were 
the only one he listened to.  I can't trust you to handle Mulder 
anymore.  He jeopardized his own life and the lives of others....

"Oh, so what's new?" Scully moaned aloud as she opened the 
door that bore her partner's name.  

She began to peel off her sweaty tee shirt and nearly had it over 
her head when she heard a purposeful cough behind her.  

"Sir, I --"

"You got my message?"

"I did.  I just thought I could put on a clean tee shirt before you 
made it down here," she said, smoothing the shirt back down 
over her belly and silently thanking God that she was wearing a 
modest athletic bra instead one of the usual lace demi-cup 
models she favored under her conservative suits.  

She looked up at her boss and was surprised to see that he was 
wearing a small smile.  That caught her off guard.  Maybe this 
wasn't going to be the nightmare she had predicted.  

"You wanted to speak to me, sir?"

"I've spent the afternoon reading you report on the case in 
Apison, Scully," he said, closing the office door behind him.  
"And, since I was there on this one, I wanted to talk to you 
about what I saw."

"You saw something that conflicts with my report?" she asked in 
her steady, professional demeanor.  

"Not at all.  Like all of your work, Scully, it was thorough, 
precise, well-reasoned."  He tugged at his tie and popped the 
top button on his shirt.  Then he gave her his shy smile again.  "I 
wanted to speak off the record, which is why I wanted to meet 
here, instead of upstairs.  Have a seat, Scully."

She watched him carefully as he sat on the creaky old sofa 
Mulder had salvaged from the renovations of the Director's 
conference room.  Skinner stretched one arm across the back of 
the sofa and leaned casually into the corner.  She continued to 
watch him even as she went to the small refrigerator behind her 
desk and pulled out a bottle of water.

"Water, sir?"

"No thanks.  How far did you run?"

"I'm not sure how far, exactly.  I was gone for an hour.  I went 
down to the Lincoln Memorial and across to K Street and then 
back here."

His brows peaked into his forehead.  "That's quite a ways, 
Scully.  You planning on doing the DC 10K next month?"

"What?  Oh.  No sir."  She sat in Mulder's swiveling chair and 
turned it around to face her visitor.  She not unaware of his eyes 
straying down to her bare knees as she crossed her legs.  

"Then why so far?" he asked.  "For the runner's high?"

"No. It's pure agony most of the way.  I do it to -- well, because I 
need to be fit for my job.  And it helps me sleep."

"Mulder's a runner too, isn't he?"

She nodded as she drained a third of the bottle of water.  She 
had no clue as to what Skinner wanted.  He was acting 
strangely, and she wondered if he'd been drinking.  She just 
hoped he hadn't come to express his concern for her partner.  
She had met her quota of worrying about Mulder, at least for 
this month.

"Scully.  Dana."  Skinner saw her eyebrow pop up at his use of 
her first name; he continued nonetheless.  "Mulder treats you like 
shit."

She gaped at him as if he had told her that aliens had landed on 
the White House lawn.  

"Forgive me for delving into your personal affairs, but after what 
I saw in Apison, and what I didn't see in your report, I......"

"What are you talking about, sir?"

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and locked his brown-eyed 
gaze on her.  

"It's easy enough to see that there's something between you and 
Mulder.  Something other than the usual bond of partnership.  
Now, hear me out.  I'm not here as your boss.  I'm here as a 
friend.  I sense that your work doesn't allow you many hours to 
spend with friends on the outside."

Scully's stomach was beginning to knot.  She put a protective 
hand over her belly, and was amazed to see Skinner's eyes 
follow her hand and linger there for a moment.

Finally he looked back to her face.

"Dana.  I don't know what he saw in that Ephesian woman, 
other than the big brown eyes, the helplessness, the craziness -- 
some men are driven to try to save women like that.  I know 
about that past lives bullshit.  I know he believes in that, in all 
kinds of things, and more often than not his unconventional 
beliefs result in really impressive work for the Bureau."

She nodded numbly.  

"Sometimes even the best agents get too involved in a case.  It's 
happened to me, it's happened to you, and I guess it's happened 
to Mulder many times, including last week.  I -- are you all right?   
You look a little green."

"I feel a little green," she admitted, dropping her head into her 
hands and leaning over her knees.  

Skinner reached out and pulled Mulder's chair toward him until 
they sat knee to knee.  He touched Scully's forehead with the 
backs of his fingers.  She was clammy from her run, and her the 
roots of her hair were dark with sweat.  

"Maybe you overdid it on the run," he murmured.  "Just take a 
few good breaths."

She did as he instructed and soon was able to lift her head.  She 
looked at him with bleary eyes.

"Sir, I really don't want to talk about this."

"I know you don't.  But I think you need to."

Scully reached up and pulled the elastic band out of her hair, 
allowing the copper thickness to cascade across her shoulders.  
With the release of her hair seemed to come the loosening of her 
back and shoulders, followed by a deep sigh.

Skinner watched her fingers pull nervously at the elastic.  He put 
a large hand over both her small ones, ostensibly to still them.  

"Dana, I believe that Mulder feels very deeply for you.  And that 
you feel the same way about him.  But he's hurt you -- again -- 
with his one-track mind.  He's a genius.  He can also be a real 
asshole."  He lifted a hand to touch under her chin, tilting her 
face up toward his.  "I'm here to tell you that you don't have to 
work with him anymore if you don't want to.  You have a great 
future with the Bureau, or wherever you want to take your 
talents.  We can rewrite your job description.  We can send you 
out of town for an extended assignment.  Whatever it takes for 
him to wake up and stop doing this to you.  You mean a lot to 
me, Dana.  I hate to see you suffer because of him."

Two enormous tears escaped from her eyes and dripped onto 
his hand.  Skinner immediately wiped away the succeeding 
tears, and then allowed his hand to slip into her hair.  He pulled 
her closer, and leaned across to place a gentle kiss on her lips.  

"Sir....." she gulped.

"Please don't sue me, Dana," he whispered.  "I've wanted to do 
that for years.  I swear it'll never happen again."

She put a tentative hand on his knee, so close to her own, and 
then kissed him back to show him that she understood his 
intent.  

Skinner blushed from his collar to the top of his bald head.  

She pushed the chair away from him and stood a little 
unsteadily.  She coughed to clear her throat, and then spoke.

"Thank you, sir.  You're right.  I needed to.....for someone else to 
notice.  And I would like a change.  Shall I write up a plan for 
you?"

He stood in front of her and looked grimly into her eyes.  But 
before he spoke, he indulged in one last fantasy.  He put his 
arms around her small body and pulled her into a firm embrace.  

He heard her sniff once or twice as he stroked her hair.  Finally 
he patted her gently on the back and released her.  

"Just tell me what you want, Scully, and I'll try to get it for you.  
On my desk, Thursday morning?"

She nodded, her eyes glimmering with tears.

Skinner tugged at the lapels of his jacket and smoothed down 
the tails of his tie.  

"Well then.  I'd better be on my way.  You go home and get some 
rest, Scully.  I'll see you tomorrow."



XXXXXXXXXXXX



The Actor, 1:  Falling
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity)
S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder)

Please see the Prologue for disclaimers.

Summary:  After taking Skinner up on his offer, Scully meets a 
man who truly appreciates her.  

Author's Note:  The hotel mentioned here and in future chapters 
is based on the Ritz-Carlton on Massachusetts Avenue in 
Washington, DC.  As far as I know, there is no such hotel on 
Capitol Hill.  The Folger Shakespeare Library is very real indeed.  


Every Sunday morning since the first of October, in spite of a 
few weeks of miserably hot and humid Indian summer,  and 
copious rains drifting in off the Potomac, Scully had taken the 
Metro down to the Mall to run.  On this morning in mid-
November, however, the temperature was unusually frigid, but 
Scully was not deterred.  She was running for the health of her 
heart -- both literally and figuratively. As she saw her thirty-
third birthday looming only a few months in the future, she was 
struggling to maintain her physical endurance and to stabilize 
the emotional arrhythmias caused by her job.  In the cold 
November dawn, she piled on layers of polar fleece and 
Goretex, silk glove liners and double socks, even the much-
despised watch cap to keep herself warm.  As she emerged from 
the Metro station, the sun had only just begun to crest in the sky.  
She set off in a moderate pace along one of the walkways that 
crisscrossed the Mall between the East Wing of the National 
Gallery and the Smithsonian Castle.  

She rarely saw anyone on these Sunday outings.  That was the 
point of coming all the way downtown to run.  She could run in 
her own neighborhood, uptown, but there was the risk of running 
into people she knew -- people she would have to be nice to.  
After these many years of chasing bloodsucking, cigarette-
smoking, Gap-dressed alien clones -- they all ran together in her 
head now -- she was feeling twinges of misanthropy.  She 
actually hated running as a form of exercise, but the discipline 
required to continue in spite of the physical pain it caused her 
(she had a vulnerable spot in her right hamstring from an 
accident during her Academy days) was enough to keep her 
mind off her troubles.  

Ice was forming on the bare trees along the sidewalk and the 
wind was picking up as she climbed the slope up to the Capitol 
grounds.  She jogged in place at the intersection, her warm 
breath clouding in front of her face as she waited to cross the 
street.  There was very little traffic at this time of day, so she 
was soon off and running again.  The cold was making her wish 
she had stayed in her bed when she was distracted by the sight 
of a male runner coming toward her.  She was calculating a plan 
to avoid him when he ran across a patch of black ice and fell 
with an agonizing twist to the unyielding cement.  

Scully ran to him, carefully avoiding the ice herself,  and knelt on 
the pavement beside him.

"Are you okay?  That was a nasty fall," she said, resisting the 
impulse to examine him.

The runner scowled and replied breathlessly.  "I feel like an 
idiot.  Didn't see it coming.  Nothing broken -- at least I don't 
think so."

"I'm a doctor.  Want me to take a look?"

"Thanks."  

She ran her hands over his legs, not unaware of the outline of 
powerful muscles beneath the sleek black lycra of his pants.  She 
grasped an ankle with one hand and rotated his foot with the 
other.  

"That hurt?" she asked.  He shook his head and she tried the 
same operation on the other foot.  "What about this one?"

"No.  It's fine.  However, I think my pride needs major surgery.  
I've been running for twenty years, and the first time I fall it's in 
full view of a beautiful woman.  I'm horrified."

Scully grinned and offered him a hand up.  He was not a 
particularly tall man, but his vivid eyes, silvery beard, and 
chiseled face drew her attention to the exclusion of everything 
around them.  Once he was on his feet and standing in front of 
her she could clearly feel a river of carefully controlled energy 
pouring off him.  The sidewalk seemed to unfurl itself for him, 
the trees hung on his every word, the Capitol itself dwindled in 
the background as Scully pondered the crackling current he 
seemed to emanate.  He had spoken again, but all she heard was 
the crisp British accent and deep, silky voice with which he 
formed the words.

"I'm sorry.....What did you say?"

"It's snowing," he said, laughing up at the sky.  "Let's get out of 
this.  I'll buy you breakfast, doctor.  It's the least I can do."

"Wait.  I think I've met you before."  She gazed at his face, the 
broad, facile mouth, square chin, imposing nose, piercing eyes, 
and slightly protruding browline.  "I think I met you at a 
pathology conference last year.  You gave a paper on --"

"It would have to be something about Shakespeare, because 
what I know of science would hardly amount to a lecture."  He 
grinned at her as if delighted with her error.  "No, my dear, 
you're off by a mile.  I look familiar to you because I'm an actor.  
I'm on television every week, every night in some areas.  Stuart 
Novak.  How d'you do?"

Scully took his hand but continued to stare.  An actor.  That 
explained, at least in part, the aura of intensity about him.    "I 
don't recognize the name.  I'm sorry.  I work all the time -- I'm 
rarely home to watch TV."

"Good for you.  Don't want your brain going soft.  Come on, 
then.  I'm freezing.  These pants aren't much between me and the 
elements."

Scully followed him into the street.  A cab stopped as if on cue 
and they climbed in.  

"Ritz-Carlton Capitol Hill," Stuart Novak intoned.

The cabbie peeked at him in the rear view mirror.  

"It is a great honor, Captain," the cabbie said in his own Anglo-
Asian accent.  "But would you have me beam you to the hotel 
instead?"

"I think ground transport will suffice," Novak said good-
naturedly.  He turned to Scully and smiled.  "But you haven't 
told me your name yet."

"Scully," she replied.

"Scully?" he repeated, slightly puzzled.  "Dr. Scully?"

She watched his lips as he spoke her name.  His teeth were even 
and very white.  

"It's Dana Scully, actually, but no one calls me Dana."

"No one?"

She smiled, a little embarrassed, and sat more erectly, crossing 
her blue lycra ankles demurely.  

"My mother, I suppose.  That's about it."

"What a pity," he murmured.  "Forgive me for asking, but why 
is that?"

"Well....in my job, we tend to go by last names because.... 
because......"  Because my partner hates his first name, she 
thought.  I let him determine my identity based on his own 
myriad neuroses.  The name's just the tip of the iceberg.  
"Because it implies a certain professional distance.  It's 
important not to form personal attachments with your 
coworkers."

He glowered at her, and she realized the absurdity of what she 
had said.  

"I'm a forensic pathologist.  I work for the FBI," she confessed.  
"It's a very -- dark -- job and it's best to keep it out of your 
heart."

"I don't believe for a moment that you keep much of anything 
out of your heart," he said quietly.  

Scully shifted under the steady gaze of his deep blue eyes.  

"You just met me.  How --"

"I'm an actor.  Character study is my life.  And my heart is very 
much involved."

Scully's quick mind whizzed with the effort of changing the 
subject.  "Are you making a movie in Washington?"

"I'm finishing up a fellowship at the Folger Shakespeare Library.  
I made three films last year -- that's rather a lot -- and this has 
been my sabbatical."

"Hm.  So you're teaching?"

"Teaching, directing, acting, writing.  Bit of everything."  His 
eyes flickered down to her hands and back up to her face.  "Do 
you like the theatre?"

"I do.  I go when I get the chance.  Maybe I'll come see you."

"I'd like that.  Here we are, Dr. Scully.  My erstwhile home."

The wide glass doors were opened silently for him.  They 
crossed the plush lobby to the tall mahogany desk, where a 
dark-haired woman in a dark green uniform wordlessly passed 
a bundle of messages to him.  He smiled his thanks, and the 
clerk smiled back.  Scully had endured enough painful crushes to 
know one when she saw it.  She smiled sympathetically at the 
woman and, cautiously stealing a glance at his muscular 
backside, followed Stuart through a pair of paneled doors to a 
small dining room reserved for breakfast and afternoon tea.   It 
was decorated in a traditional English style, full of down-
cushioned sofas and chairs in varying patterns of yellow, 
apricot, and green.  Three wide, mullioned windows hung with a 
sea of flowered yellow chintz offered a view of the somber, low 
edifice of the Folger Library and the feathery snow swirling 
down from the sky.   

"This is my usual spot at this time of day," Stuart said, 
directing her to an overstuffed wing chair next to the fireplace.  
He took the matching chair opposite her, and a waiter brought a 
round table and placed it between them.  Another waiter 
slipped a thick white cloth over the table, and yet another one 
brought flatware and dishes.   A squat crystal bowl filled with 
yellow roses and a pot of tea were placed on the spotless white 
tablecloth.

"Tea, Earl Grey, hot, sir," the last waiter said, blushing.

Novak nodded a little wearily.  "Yes, thank you, but I really do 
prefer Ceylon Breakfast, if you have it."

The waiter cocked his head like a confused puppy.  "But --"

"You must be new here," Novak said gently.  "On television, 
you see me drink Earl Grey.  But this is reality, and here I prefer 
Ceylon Breakfast.  We're very hungry.  Dana?"

"Er -- poached eggs, toast, fruit."

"Same for me."  

The disappointed young man left them alone with each other.  

Novak pulled off his polar fleece beret, revealed a rather peaked 
bald pate with a light fringe of silvery white hair.  Scully had to 
smile -- he reminded her of her boss.  

She pulled off her own hat and fluffed out her flaming hair.  She 
was surprised to hear him emit a small gasp at the sight of her 
hair.  

"Sorry," Novak murmured, faintly embarrassed to be caught 
looking.  "I've always had a fondness for ginger-haired girls.  
When I was a boy I was enchanted by my cousin Moira.  She 
had mass of red ringlets, freckles, and a tiny nose.  Now I think 
she manages a Ford assembly plant outside of Leicester."

"Are you from Leicester?"

He shook his head.  "I was born in Yorkshire, but I grew up near 
London.  My father was an officer of the Royal Navy."

"Oh, really?  My father was a Captain in our navy," Scully said.  

"Let me guess:  you've lived in San Diego, Norfolk, Guam --"

"Charleston and Annapolis.  How did you --"

"I had a part in one of those Tom Clancy films.  Had to do an 
accent.  I hate doing accents, except for my own, of course."  He 
touched the petals of one of the roses.  "How did you end up in 
the FBI rather than the Navy, Dr. Scully?"

A new pot of tea had arrived, and Stuart poured for them both.  
Scully held the cup in her hands, savoring the warmth as it 
spread through her chilled fingers. 

"I wanted to fight crime,"  she said with a sheepish smile.  "It 
sounds trite, I know, but that was my plan."

"And has you plan succeeded?"  he asked, raising an eyebrow 
as he peered at her over the rim of his cup.

Scully sipped the steaming tea.  "Some days -- some years -- are 
more successful than others.  But generally I have a very good 
resolution rate.  And I've been able to conduct some research 
around the edges.  I can't complain."

She could see that he wasn't buying that last sentence.  

"You seem quite alone," he said softly, fixing his dark eyes on 
her face.  

"As I said, my job is very dark," she said quietly.  "I hardly 
have time to get my hair cut, much less meet anyone."

"Unless someone falls on his ass right before you eyes." 

"You said it yourself," she said laughingly.  "Usually only my 
partner does that."

"Your partner?"

"We we've worked together for five years.  He's a bit -- clumsy.  
He's the only live patient I work on these days."

"Well then.  Now you can count me among your live patients," 
he said, rubbing his hands together.  His eyes had a devilish light 
in them.  "Perhaps I'll come up with another injury that requires 
more a extensive examination."

Now it was Scully's turn to question him with an arch of her 
brows.  Just then, breakfast arrived, and she was too hungry to 
take time to quiz him about his intentions.  

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

With the light breakfast and several cups of tea in them, Scully 
and Stuart had warmed up.  The fire in the hearth was beginning 
to be a source of discomfort.  He suggested that they leave, and 
before Scully could talk herself out of it, she was walking with 
him to the elevator, allowing him to kiss her palm and the tips of 
her fingers as they rode up to his floor. 

He held her hand in his and took her down the hall to his room.  
He did not kiss her until the door closed behind them.  

She leaned against the heavy door and inhaled deeply his scent 
of soap, sweat, and tea.  He touched her cheek, her hair, her 
pale ear lobe.  

"Dana, I never actually stopped to ask you...."

She laid her palms flat against the front of his sweatshirt and 
read the Royal Shakespeare Company logo that had nearly 
faded over years of wear.  She reached up to grasp his broad 
shoulders.  She wanted to feel the thickness of the muscles there.  
Slipping her arms around his neck, she pulled him to her, 
delighted that he wasn't over six feet in height.  He could bend 
down to her lips with ease; she hardly had to stretch to kiss 
him.  

His mouth was wide and his lips generous.  She kissed him 
lightly and tasted on his lips a hint of the melon and pineapple 
they had shared at breakfast.  

"What time is it, Stuart?" she asked breathlessly.

"Bit after nine, I think.  Why?  Am I keeping you from 
something?"

"No, not at all.  I was wondering how much time we have."

"That sounds like a line out of 'Casablanca'," he said.  

"It could be.....I have to catch a plane early tomorrow morning.  I 
need to get home in time to pack."

"I think I can get you where you need to be," he murmured, 
leaning in for another kiss.  

She gently pushed him away.  "What's you HIV status?"

 "Negative," he replied huskily, unzipping the high collar of her 
anorak.  "I have my doctor's phone number handy.  It's about 
three o'clock in London.  Let's ring him."  

She reached above her head so that he could pull the anorak off 
of her.  

"I'll take your word for it," she said, and shimmied out of her 
turtleneck faster than he could get his own sweatshirt over his 
head.  She stood in her black athletic bra and lycra running 
pants, laughing softly.  This was actually fun, she thought.  
When was the last time.....

"What is it, Dana?"

"Women must throw themselves at you all the time.  How do 
you handle that?"

He chuckled and ran a finger under one of the wide black straps 
of her bra.

"I catch them," he replied, his eyes twinkling.

Dana pulled the tight bra off with one graceful sweep of her 
arms and tossed it over Stuart's shoulder.  He immediately 
covered her pale breasts with his hands.

"Three hours ago I never would've thought I'd be doing this with 
anyone, certainly not a famous British actor who lives in the 
Ritz-Carlton," she said.  

"I've never done this so -- precipitously -- either," he said, 
peeling off his tee shirt to reveal a magnificently defined chest 
and abdomen.  "I haven't had time for a relationship in at least 
two years, and suddenly there you are.....a flame-haired 
physician....Dana, are you sure?  I know this is all rather abrupt-
-"

"To say the least," she murmured, her hands caressing his 
pectorals and slipping around to his back.  

"We could defer...."

Scully bowed her head to nuzzle the silvery curls in the center of 
his powerful chest.  She licked him and, tasting salt, trailed her 
tongue to one pink nipple and then the next by way of an 
answer to his offer.  She could feel a low moan originating deep 
in his chest, roiling up like a wave through his ribs before it burst 
from his lips.  

Scully wrapped her arms around him and kissed him.  She 
wondered if she had lost her mind until she looked up at his 
face and felt from deep within herself a rush of warmth in 
response to the emotion she saw there.  It was cold everywhere 
but right where she was, and for the first time in five years, she 
could feel the sun shining for her alone.  

The Actor, 2:  Telling Mulder
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity)
S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder)

Please see the Prologue for disclaimers.

Summary:  Scully spends the day with her new friend, and 
Mulder reflects on his own loneliness.  

Author's Note:  I'm indebted to the most excellent Paula Graves 
for sending me back to my books for these bits of Donne, and 
some of the other quotations that appear later.  Paula, you have 
such a graceful touch with the greats!


Busie old foole, unruly Sunne....
Shine here to us, and thou art every where;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare.

John Donne, "The Sunne Rising"


Mulder had just returned from a run through his neighborhood in 
Alexandria.  He stomped the snow off his shoes and went into 
his apartment.  He peeled off his clothes as he walked through 
the living room.  He paused at the answering machine, his 
sweatshirt half on and half off, and saw that the light was 
black.  No calls.  No calls from anyone.  No calls from Scully.  

"Boring," he whined to the walls.

In the shower, he tried to remember when he had first begun to 
hang on Scully's every word, her every move, her every breath.  
Probably sometime after her abduction.  She acted like it had 
never happened.  It was just as well.  If she caved, just once, he 
would be forced to admit to her that every day he wanted to 
protect her in his embrace.  She would hate that.  She had never 
been a woman who tolerated vanity in the guise of heroism.  

Yet Mulder couldn't stop feeling the urge to treasure her every 
breath.  It had become more intense as the years went by, or 
perhaps as he grew older and more aware of his aloneness.  Of 
course he was not utterly alone, and certainly not celibate.  He 
had a complicated relationship with Marita that was chiefly 
about sex and skullduggery.   With Scully it was more about love 
and commitment -- in his mind, at least.  He knew that Scully 
knew about Marita, even though she never asked about his 
personal life anymore.  They no longer spent time together 
outside of work as they had done in the first three years of their 
partnership.  Now he was peripheral to her emotional life.  
When they weren't actively working side by side, he felt like an 
afterthought.  She hardly noticed him anymore unless he was 
extolling a theory of transmigration or possession or something 
equally bizarre.  

Dousing himself under the shower, Mulder grinned ruefully at his 
thoughts.  I'm becoming an old woman.  Thirty-seven and ready 
for menopause.  God damn it all to hell.  

He was drying off in the steamy bathroom and considering going 
up to New York and spending the night with Marita.  Then he 
remembered the tomorrow's trip.  He would be locked in a plane 
with Scully for three hours, maybe longer.  If he was lucky, 
maybe he could lure her into a conversation about something 
other than work.  

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

In a wide, firm bed on the fifth floor of the Ritz-Carlton Capitol 
Hill, Dana Scully was laughing, rolling, squirming with delight 
under the hands of Stuart Novak.  He was tickling her.  She 
giggled until tears sprang from her eyes, and he said, "No more.  
I can't bear the sight of your tears."  And he kissed them away, 
kissed her neck, her jaw, her lips, her collarbones.  "I'm mad for 
you, Dana, absolutely mad..."

"That's not an accepted diagnosis, Stuart.  The correct term for 
your problem is tumescence, and I think you need medical 
help...."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder dialed her home number and got her answering machine.  

"Hey Scully, it's me.  Are you home?  Are you asleep?  Will you 
pick up?"

She wasn't home.  At ten o'clock on a snowy Sunday morning, 
where could she be?  She had given up going to church after 
Melissa died.  At her mother's?  Maybe stranded in the snow?  
He dialed her cell phone number.  It rang six times -- he was 
counting -- before she picked up.

"Scully," she said breathlessly.

"Hey, it's me.  Where are you?"

"On the Hill," she replied in all honestly.  

"What are you doing on the Hill on a Sunday morning in the 
middle of a snow storm?" Mulder demanded.

"Uh...running?"  She giggled in the distance -- she was trying to 
cover the phone with her hand, but Mulder heard a basso 
profundo laugh in the background.

"Scully, is this a bad time?" he asked irritably.

"Kinda...is it the case?"

"No, no.  I was just worried about you.  The temperature 
dropped really fast -- I couldn't get you at home and I thought 
you might be stranded somewhere.  Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Mulder."  She cleared her throat, and he could hear the 
rustle of sheets.  She spoke more seriously.  "I'm fine.  Are you 
all right?"

"Yeah, just freezing my ass off."

"Put some clothes on," she said lightly.  

"Scully, how did you know?"  he asked primly, wrapping his 
towel around his waist.

"Look Mulder, as delightful as it is to hear your voice, I have to 
go...I have another engagement this morning.  Is there a reason 
you called?"

"Nothing important.  I'll meet you at the airport tomorrow. That 
is if we're not snowed in -- Scully?  Scully?"

She had hung up.  He stood staring at his telephone, clutching 
his towel, and wondering how he could be so alone.    

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Stuart rolled her onto her stomach and began caressing her 
freckled back, making slow circles around her shoulder blades.  
He heard her whimper into her pillow.

"Are you tired now, Dana?"

"A bit.  But not too tired," she said, lifting herself up on one 
arm.  Her red hair made a fiery cloud around her head and her 
lips were a bit swollen from his attentions.  "I'm thirsty.  Could 
you --"

"Of course.  What would you like?"

"Water, please."

She watched his nude form as he walked across the room to the 
refrigerator hidden the armoire.  His musculature was so well 
defined that she could have used him to teach an anatomy class.  
No extra ounce of flesh could be found on him anywhere.  

He turned and saw her watching him.  His response was 
immediate.  The sight of her, one leg hitched over a pillow, her 
creamy flesh barely contrasting with the sheets except for the 
deep rose tint of her nipples, made the blood rush to his groin.  
He opened the bottle with one sharp twist and handed it to her.

She drank greedily, dripping water on her chest and belly in her 
haste.  Stuart lost no time in kneeling on the mattress next to her 
and lick the errant drops.  He found a reservoir in her navel and 
repeatedly flicked his tongue into the tiny crevice, continuing 
long after the water was gone.

Scully felt a sharp stab of pleasure between her legs in response 
to his ministrations to her belly button.  She was reminded of 
summers spent on the beach with her brothers, and Melissa.  
They teased each other about their innies and outies -- and she 
was the only one with an innie.  

"What are you thinking about?" Stuart murmured into her skin.

"My belly button," she replied, giggling.  "What are you thinking 
about?"

"I've moved down the road a bit," he said, and nuzzled the 
auburn curls between her legs.  He pried the delicate folds of 
flesh apart with his thumbs, then caressed her with his tongue, 
the tip of his nose, and finally with the rough silver hair of his 
beard.  He tugged at her clitoris with his lips, gently and then 
insistently, alternating with sweeps of his tongue among the 
folds and into her opening.  He nibbled daintily with his even 
white teeth and then went back to his insistent suckling of the 
tiny mound of pink until he felt her thrashing against the crisp 
sheet.  He held her by placing a large hand flat on her belly and 
another around her hip.  

Unwelcome images were flooding Scully's mind; it was because 
of them that she struggled.  The more firmly he held her, the 
more lurid the images became.  She saw Donnie Pfaster's face as 
he opened the door to the tiny closet where she had hidden from 
him.  She saw Duane Barry's face splintering through her 
window.  She saw her father sitting in the chair in her living 
room, murmuring the Lord's Prayer.  And over and over again, 
she saw Mulder -- sitting next to her in a car at night, sleeping by 
her side in a plane, running away from her into the field as she 
cried "Mulder!  You're dead!"

Her lips silently formed Mulder's name at that moment, not out 
of longing for him, but because he had been her greatest 
vulnerability for so long.  

She heard Stuart calling her name in the distance, Dana, Dana,  
come back to me....

"I need to see your face," she murmured, reaching out for him.  

He was immediately above her, wrapping his arms around her.  
He peered at her with concern.

"Dana, what is it?  You're thinking of someone else, aren't 
you?" he said gently.  

She wrapped her fingers around his rigid cock, as 
proportionately thick as his biceps were bulging, and guided him 
to the warm, dark home between her legs.  She groaned as he 
filled her.

"I'm thinking of you now, Stuart."  She shifted beneath him so 
that they were more comfortable, twisted her legs around his 
waist.  She cupped his lean buttocks with her hands and pushed 
until he plunged deeper into her.  

Now it was his turn to groan.  He thrust into her, slowly, deeply, 
tenderly as she tilted her pelvis upward to meet him with each 
stroke.  Her movements brought up an even more urgent desire in 
him.  He increased his pace, as did Scully, until she was 
breathless beneath him and his sweat was dripping onto her 
shoulders.  

"Dana?"

She wiped the moisture from his brow and nodded vigorously.  
"I'm ready."

"Quite sure?"

But she had already left the realm of the speaking.  All the 
ghostly faces fell away as she felt herself hurtling toward a 
white-hot star, through coronas of gold, orange, and pink.  
Stuart was there with her, waiting for her on the other side, 
smiling down at her.

"Unruly sun...." he murmured, dropping a thousand tiny kisses 
on her face and neck.  "Look at your chest!  You've got a 
sunburn, darling."

"Have my wings melted?" she whispered breathlessly.

"Not as long as I'm around."  

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Stuart took her home at dusk.  They sat cuddled in the back 
seat, sleepy and warm.  

"Can I take you to lunch when you come back?" he murmured in 
her ear.

"I usually skip lunch.....how about dinner?"

"I can do dinner until December 3, and then I'm starting 
'Coriolanus.'  It usually runs about three hours....."

"Then I can come and see you and afterwards we can go back to 
your hotel and --"

"Order room service and have a nice warm bath and some 
champagne," he said drowsily.

"Oh yes, please," she said, kissing him lazily.  

"But between now and then," Stuart began.  "When will you be 
back in town?"

"I don't exactly know.  Depends on the case, and on my 
partner......next week at the latest."

"I'm doing a reading at the Library of Congress next Tuesday 
evening.  Why don't you come?"

"What will you be reading?"

"Love poems of John Donne," he replied with a alluring smile.

"In that case, I'll definitely be there."

Once in her apartment, Scully undressed and carefully placed 
her running clothes in the laundry basket.  She held her forearm 
to her nose and sniffed; she smelled of the lavender-scented 
soap in Stuart's hotel bath.  She was looking forward to falling 
asleep with the scent of him and his soap on her skin.  

She pulled on her favorite flannel nightshirt -- the long white one 
with the random pattern of tiny blue and green stars -- and 
headed into the kitchen for a glass of milk and some graham 
crackers.  She turned on the television and began flipping 
channels.

The phone rang.  It was Mulder.

"Hi, Mulder.  I was just trying to find a weather report.  What 
have you heard?"

"So far, so good.  The snow's turned into rain and it's warming 
up.  Should be in the fifties by noon tomorrow."  

"Oh..."

"You sound disappointed," he said.

She put her nose to her wrist and took in that lovely smell again.  

"Scully?  Got a cold?"

"No.  I just wish we didn't have to leave town right now.  Since I 
cut back on traveling with you I've really learned to like D.C.

"I miss you out there," he said quietly.    

She sighed heavily.  She already missed Stuart terribly.  

"Scully?  You there?"

"Yeah, I'm here."  She made an effort to rouse herself from the 
sex-induced stupor.  "So, Mulder, did you have a good 
Sunday?"

"Pretty dull," he replied.  "Did some laundry, cleaned up, 
banged around the Net.  What about you?"

"I had a wonderful day."

"When'd you get home?" he asked.

"Half an hour ago, I suppose.  I lost track of time," she said, 
flipping through the cable channels.

"You lost track of time?  Scully, you didn't --"

"Not **lost** time, Mulder, I just lost **track** of time.  I was 
having fun, the hours flew by, you know."

"I'm not sure I do know, Scully.  Should I be concerned?" he 
asked soberly.

"What?   Mul-- Oh my God!  There he is!  I can't believe it!"  She 
gaped at the television screen, where Stuart, dressed in his Star 
Fleet uniform, was crossing the bridge with an authoritative glare 
in the soft blue eyes that had gazed so lovingly at her just 
minutes earlier.  "Mulder!  Channel 22!  Quick!"

A second later, he said, "So?  Star Trek.  I thought you only 
watched PBS."

"No, it's him, it's Stuart," she said in a strangely girlish tone 
that he had never heard before.  "It's Stuart.  He looks so -- so 
**imposing**."

"What are you talking about, Scully?"

"Stuart Novak, Mulder.  I met him this morning.  I spent the day 
with him."

The Actor, 3:  Madison
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity)
S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder)

Please see the Prologue for disclaimers.

Author's Note:  Saki is the pseudonym of Hector Hugh Munro 
(1870-1916), who wrote short stories including "the satiric, the 
comic, the macabre, and the supernatural" (from _The Concise 
Oxford Companion to English Literature_, Drabble and Stringer, 
eds.).    Right up FWM's alley, I'd say.

Summary:  Scully accompanies Mulder on a case, and Mulder 
persists in questioning her about her new relationship.



"Check it out," Mulder said, thrusting their boarding passes in 
her face.  "I got us first class upgrades."

"Well done, Mulder," Scully said with as much warmth as she 
could muster.  "I'm totally beat.  I hardly slept at all last night.  
I'm actually going to have a drink on the way this time.  
Hopefully a little Scotch will knock me out and I can sleep until 
we get  to Madison."

"Think I can get you drunk and have my way with you?"

"On a plane, Mulder?  That's almost as bad as the back seat of 
a car," she said, and walked toward their gate. 

He trotted along behind her.  "And how would you know?"

"The same way nearly every red-blooded American knows, 
Mulder," she retorted. "Not all of us spent our adolescence reading
 Saki and swooning over Julie Andrews."

"How did you know about Julie?" he cried.

She ignored him and boarded the plane.  

When they were settled in the mercifully spacious seats in first 
class, she took off her shoes and planted her feet atop her 
carryon bag.  Mulder took the opportunity to sneak a peek at 
her legs -- she was wearing a short pleated skirt -- and saw that 
they were encased in opaque black lycra, rather than the usual 
sheer nylon.  

"Scully, you're wearing tights.  Forget to shave your legs?"

"Shut up, Mulder," she mumbled, pushing a pillow behind her 
head.  

Mulder began disentangling the headphones to his Discman, 
trying to hide his nerves.  

"So, this actor, he likes hairy legs?"

"Minibrained iguana," she mumbled under her breath.

"How exactly did you meet him?"

"Running," she replied, still not looking at him.  

"Were you wearing those tight blue running pants?"

She glared at him.  "Mulder, is there something other than the 
usual constellation of neuroses up your ass today?"  

Mulder shrugged innocently.  "I can understand how a man that 
age would want to run after a prime specimen like you ........."

"Don't talk about me like I'm a zoo exhibit," she snapped.  
 
The flight attendant handed Scully a tumbler of Scotch and ice, 
and Mulder a cup of coffee.  

Mulder arranged his coffee on the tray table and proceeded to 
dump four packets of unrefined sugar in it.  

"So are you actually a Star Trek fan, or is it just his general 
wealth and fame that attracts you to him?"

Even Mulder was surprised at what a jerk he could be.  He had 
a sincere apology on the tip of his tongue, but never got to use it.  

"You want details, Mulder?  Do you?  I'll give you what you 
want if you'll promise to shut up and let me sleep."  

Mulder stuck out his lower lip, making a show of considering the 
proposition.  "Okay."  

"He's very charming.  He's intelligent, well-mannered, well-read 
--"

"Well-hung?"

Scully's eyebrows answered for her, as they so often did.  

"He's very good in bed, isn't he?" Mulder persisted, an impish 
sneer on his face.

"Maybe he could give you some tips," she said, loud enough for 
their neighbors to hear.

"You're making an assumption there, Scully.  Maybe I could give 
**him** some tips. After all, I've known you for a lot longer than 
-- oh, what is it, now -- the twenty-four hours that he's known 
you?  And I employ the verb 'to know' in both the archaic and 
modern usages."

She took a sip of her drink, exasperated.  "All right, Mulder.  
He's very -- skilled.  He's very graceful.  And he smells divine."

Mulder repressed a moan of disgust.  

"Is that all you wanted to know?" she asked sweetly.  

"How many times?"

"How many times what?" she echoed.  Then she saw the leer on 
Mulder's handsome face.  "Oh.  Three.  Three times."  

Mulder let out a low whistle.  "Pretty good for a guy his age.  
How old is he, anyway?"

"Fifty-one," she replied.  

"I should be so lucky when I'm that old," he said.  I should be so 
lucky right now, he thought to himself.  "So, I guess you liked it, 
huh?"

"What do you think?" she asked irritably, taking another sip of 
Scotch.

I think you liked it so much that you're exhausted this morning 
and would give anything to be sleeping next to him right now 
instead of on this plane with me, Mulder said inside his head.  

"Scully," he said in a sober tone.  "I want you to be happy.  I 
also want you to be alert enough to cover my ass in the field."

"Don't worry about that, Mulder.  I wouldn't want anything to 
happen to your lovely round ass," she said sarcastically.  

He frowned at her.  "Too round?"

"No,  goldilocks.  Juusssstttt right."  She gave a weary laugh at 
his expression of disbelief.  "Don't look so shocked, Mulder.  I'm 
not blind.  Can I go to sleep now?"

"By all means," he murmured.  

Scully finished off her drink and pulled her tan cashmere shawl 
up to her chin.  She curled up as best she could in her seat, 
nestling her head only a few inches from his.  

"Scully?"

"Hmm?"

"I'd like to meet him sometime.  Do you think we could arrange 
that?"  

Scully opened her eyes and saw him gazing at her sincerely.

"I'm serious," Mulder said.  "I want to meet him.  Sit down, 
have a nice civilized dinner somewhere, get to know him."

"You're kidding," she declared.

"No.  Not at all.  You pick the place, and it's my treat.  Make it 
so, Number One."

"Okay, Mulder.  But don't call me that," she said, and closed 
her eyes.  

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Scully squinted at the monitor of her laptop.  

"Mulder.  I think I've got it."

Mulder looked momentarily away from the television to see her 
pale face illuminated by the blue glow from the monitor.  
"Well?"

"The encoded note that was found with the body.  That code -- 
I think it's a made up of phonetic symbols.  Not the standard 
set, exactly -- possibly a bastardized version unique to the user.  
It may be our link to the glossectomy."

Mulder squinched up his mouth and made a retching sound.  
"Jesus, Scully.  That word."

"Okay.  It's the link to why he cut the tongue out and shoved it 
down her throat."

"Ow."  He stuck his tongue out a few times and flexed it, 
checking to be sure that it was still as it should be.  "The threat 
of not being able to express yourself through speech really --"

"Sticks in your craw?"

"Very funny," he said, dragging himself off the bed and walking 
over to the table where she had spread out the documents in the 
case.  "Of course there are many other good uses for your 
tongue, besides talking."

"Like eating ice cream," she said, revealing the urge she had been 
suppressing since lunch.  Breyer's chocolate chip, or butter pecan 
-- either one would do.  She wasn't picky about ice cream, as 
long as it was the real thing.    

"Or taking your temperature," Mulder said, loosening the knot 
in his tie.  

"Or kissing," Scully said, staring into the monitor with a 
faraway look in her eyes.  

Mulder sat across from her, deliberately putting himself in her 
line of vision.  

"Kissing?  With your tongue?  What would a nice Catholic girl 
like you know about such a thing?"

"A thing or two," she answered, smiling as she took off her 
steel-rimmed spectacles.  She closed her eyes and rubbed her 
nose where the glasses has made matching red marks on either 
side of the narrow bridge.   "But don't tell anybody.  Wouldn't 
want my chilly reputation ruined, would we."

The sounds of David Letterman's intro jarred the quiet room.  
Mulder grabbed the remote and shut the TV off.  

"You must be tired," Mulder said gently.  "You've been at it for 
nearly five hours.  Thanks for working so hard, Scully."

"'S my job, Mulder," she said with a yawn.  "Who does all this 
research when I'm not with you?"

"My other partner," he teased.  "You know, the husky brunette 
with the latex wardrobe."

"Oh, yeah.  I forgot about her.  Is she as good as I am?"  Scully 
asked with a sleepy smile.

"Scully, no one will ever be as good to me as you are," he said 
steadily.  

She put her glasses back on slowly and took a good look at him.  

"Sometimes I miss this, Mulder.  Tomorrow I may not admit to 
having said that, but at the moment, it's how I feel."

"Why did you do it, Scully?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"Convince Skinner to let you spend more time in D.C. and less 
time on the road with me."

"I told you---"

"You told me some story about needing to give more time to 
your research projects, to finish those papers you were writing 
and start a new one......"  He pressed his fingertips together and 
rested his chin on them.  "That was over a year ago, Scully.  Did 
I lose your trust somewhere along the way?"

"Mulder --"

"You can tell me, Scully," he said earnestly.

She watched him.  Tonight all the lines of stress and encroaching 
age were standing out on his tanned face.  His hair hung limply 
over his brow, and nearly twenty hours of stubble darkened his 
chin.  His dark eyes were bleary and red.  She longed to reach 
out and push the hair back from his face and close his eyes with 
her thumbs, then massage his temples and the tight hinges of his 
jaw.  He looked as if he needed to be touched.  

Mulder shivered when he saw her get out of her chair and take 
the two steps toward him.  She stood toe to toe with him and 
reached out to touch his face.  She got as far as closing his tired 
eyes with a light touch of her fingertips before he grasped her 
wrists and pulled her hands away from him.

"I have to go to bed," he said hoarsely.  The torment in his eyes 
was unmistakable.  "See you in the morning?"  

She nodded almost imperceptibly and stood aside to let him go.  

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The following day they interviewed the chairman of the 
linguistics department and convinced him to describe the face of 
the suspect for a police artist.  They were given a copy of the 
suspect's CV and copies of a few of his letters of reference.  

"The problem with Kaparthy's CV," Scully said as she closed 
her cell phone, "Is that there's no trace of him before he came to 
Madison.  Madison thought he came from Chapel Hill, Chapel 
Hill thought he came from Jackson, Jackson thought he came 
from Berkeley.  Each institution checked out his references and 
got enough positive information to hire him.  Now none of those 
references can be found again.   I think we have a chameleon on 
our hands."

They were driving back to the motel after a grueling day spent 
all over the university campus -- in the driving Wisconsin snow.  

 "Fargo," Mulder said as he pulled up to a Shoney's.  

"North Dakota?"  

"Could there be a connection between the phonetic symbols in 
which the notes were written, the -- as you put it -- 
glossectomies, and the regional dialects spoken by each of the 
victims?"

"Possibly.  Each victim was a native of the state in which she 
was murdered.  Each was an underclassman, hardly out of the 
nest long enough to realize that not everyone speaks the way her 
parents do.....But what about North Dakota?"

"North Dakotans have a very distinct accent," Mulder stated.  

"Don't you think that's a gross generalization?" she challenged.  

"Didn't you see 'Fargo'?"

"I did, and I repeat -- a gross generalization.  Like assuming that 
everyone from the South is ignorant because they speak with a 
slower cadence than people from other parts of the country."

"But Scully, if you had a particularly sensitive ear -- the ear of a 
dialectician or grammarian, for instance -- you might find all 
these variations on the spoken language a little hard to take.  
You might idealize a certain accent as the one true way to speak 
English."

"And cut the tongues out of everyone who differs from the 
ideal?  I think you're reaching, Mulder."

Mulder looked out at the snow.  It had already blanketed the 
windshield and blotted out what little light had been leaking 
through the clouds.  

"He'd never want to do a glossectomy on Stuart Novak," 
Mulder observed.

She scowled at him.  "What are you talking about now?"

"Your boyfriend, Scully."  He saw her flinch at the term.  "He 
speaks the Queen's English perfectly.  Trained at RADA, twenty 
years with the Royal Shakespeare Company -- essentially he 
speaks for a living.  His English has to be perfect."

"And how does that relate to this case?" she asked coolly.  

"Maybe you should ask him how a person would go about 
erasing an accent, or adopting a new one."

"He hates doing accents.  We were talking about his films, and 
he mentioned it."

"You actually talked?" Mulder said.

Scully flipped the visor mirror down and turned on the little 
light.  She pulled her black beret down over her ears.  About 
three inches of red hair spiked out from under the hat.  Mulder 
mused that she looked like little Madeline, who said to the tigers 
in the zoo, poo poo.  

"Of course we talked, Mulder.  Looks alone don't do a whole lot 
for me."  She flipped the visor back into place and turned to 
him.  "If they did, I would've thrown myself at you a long time 
ago."

Mulder felt his face stinging with a rare blush.  

"Are you saying that you think I'm attractive?"

"I'm saying that you're handsome in that -- you know -- that 
soap opera hunk sort of way.  The lips, the mole, the 
hair.....Most women love that."

"Most women, Scully?" He shook his head at the bitter irony of 
her words.  "But not you?"

"You clean up very nicely Mulder," she said, patting his arm.  
"But you're not my type."

"Thanks, Scully.  It's good to know I don't have to worry about 
what to do in case you throw yourself at me," he joked, barely 
concealing his misery.  

"You're welcome," she said brightly, and stepped out of the car 
and into the snow.  


The Actor, 4:  Telling Scully
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity)
S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder)

Please see the Prologue for disclaimers.

Summary:  Scully spends a quiet evening with Stuart.  The 
following day, Mulder confesses his feelings to Scully.  

Author's Note:  The poetry that Stuart quotes to Scully is from 
John Donne's "On Going to Bed."


Scully had rushed back from Madison, leaving Mulder at the 
airport, to catch Stuart's reading at the Library of Congress.  She 
arrived half an hour late, only to be astounded by the size of the 
crowd that spilled out of the reading room and down the 
marble-floored corridor.  She could hear Stuart's well-trained 
voice even as she stood with the other women in the hallway.  
She scanned the ladies' rapt faces as they hung on Stuart's every 
utterance of Donne's words, swooning with every erotic 
reference.  Without actually laying eyes on him, Scully could 
almost forget how well she knew Stuart.  It never occurred to her 
that these women would be intensely jealous of her if they knew.  
She was accustomed to receiving evil looks from women who 
perceived her to be more than Mulder's partner, but she had 
never actually been involved with a man who could inspire this 
kind of lust among strangers.  

Weary and unwilling to stand on the hard marble floor any 
longer, Scully shuffled into a nearby alcove and scanned the 
shelves there for something to read.  Choosing a volume at 
random, she sat in a wide wooden chair and settled her 
briefcase and purse on the floor nearby.

She opened an old blue-bound book and saw by the frontispiece 
that it was the collected works of Robert Browning.  Before she 
could think the better of it, she turned to 'Paracelsus' and began 
skimming the verse play.  

She had found a dog-eared copy of Browning in Mulder's coat 
pocket as Mulder slept on the plane on the way home from 
Apison, Tennessee, just over a year ago.  He had used an 
evidence tag to mark a passage that she guessed had served to 
bolster his conceit about his past lives.   At the time, she had 
regarded the book in disgust.  He could so easily use his 
powerful intellect to rationalize anything, and had made 
Browning's words work for him.  She saw by the imprint in the 
cover of that book that he had lifted it from the tiny Apison 
library.  She had no difficulty in piecing together his actions:  he 
had read the play at Oxford, and retained it in the recesses of 
his vast memory.  When their encounter with Melissa Ephesian 
began to stir his soul, he called up the memory and, when all 
was said and done in the compound, went to the library to 
verify the words.  

She had wondered then, as she did now in the Library of 
Congress, if he had found that Browning's words were actually 
more of an indictment of the kind of arrogance that he so 
regularly displayed, rather than a rumination on the romance of 
reincarnation.   Scully had read further on the plane returning 
from Apison, and had found lines on the next page that she had 
wanted to beat into his brain.  She read them again on that 
November evening in Washington --  'How can that course be 
safe which from the first/
Produces carelessness to human love?'.  And later in the same 
passage, the words that had particularly piqued Scully's outrage 
back then --

Were I ...like you,
I would encircle me with love....
.....it should seem impossible for me to fail, so watched 
By gentle friends who made my cause their own.....

She closed the book.  She had carefully avoided thinking of 
Apison since that day, so long ago, when she had gone to 
Skinner with the proposal that she would allow her the freedom 
to choose when and if she accompanied Mulder on a case.  She 
would no longer follow him blindly into the field on every wild 
goose chase.  Skinner had nodded sagely, congratulated her on 
her decision, and sent her off to her lab.  And six months later, 
on the merit of her research as well as her accomplishments in 
the field, she had been given a staggering raise that had allowed 
her to buy a spacious new apartment in a newly renovated co-
op building in Cleveland Park.   What she may or may not have 
given up by changing the terms of her partnership with Mulder 
had been counterbalanced by what she had gained in self-
respect.  

She heard thunderous applause rocketing out of the reading 
room.  She ran into the walkway to lean over the railing in hopes 
of catching Stuart's eye.  She smiled to herself when she realized 
that all the dozens of women gathered in the hall below had 
exactly the same idea.  

He was being moved along by the throng of fans, shaking hands 
and signing autographs, smiling and saying gracious things to 
prove that he didn't take the fans for granted.  She knew him 
well enough to know that while he didn't take them for granted, 
he nonetheless hated to be kissed by strangers and called by his 
character's name. 

Scully considered arresting him and dragging him out of the 
building, but then decided that this would make for too much of 
a scandal in the tabloids.  Instead, she walked halfway down 
the stairs and stood serenely above the crowd, her red hair 
glinting like a halo in the light.

Then Stuart looked up and saw her.  

"Dana!" he bellowed in his enormously deep voice.  

The throng looked to see who he was calling to; they looked at 
her with ire as Stuart reached out for her.  

Scully ran down the rest of the stairs, grabbed his hand, and 
pulled him away.  They ran out into the street, about twenty 
restless fans chasing after them.  

"My angel," he said breathlessly.  "You've come to save me."

"I'm afraid I've offended them.  Should you stay a bit longer?"

"Good Lord no.  I've spent an hour answering the usual 
questions about what kind of boxer shorts I wear.  The only 
problem is --"

"Now they're going to want to know whose hands are in them," 
she said, stepping into the traffic to stop a cab.  "Get in."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

They sat in a bath of warm, vanilla-scented water, Scully resting 
against Stuart's chest, her hands on his knees.  His arms twined 
around her neck and held her possessively.  He kept one hand 
over her heart, feeling its strong, regular rhythm.

"Dana?"

"Hmm."

"Are you awake?"

"Oh yes."

"What are you thinking about?"

He could feel her smile as it spread across her face and utilized 
the fine muscles under her neck and upper chest.    

"I saw you on TV," she said.

"Oh, no," he moaned.  

"I did.  You were negotiating with these hideous creatures with 
big wrinkly ears -- what are they called?"

"The Ferengi," he intoned.

"That sounds like some kind of exotic mushroom."

"It's three hours in make-up, every day, for the recurring 
Ferengi," he said.

"How long does it take for you?"

"About half an hour, because I have virtually no hair."  

She reached behind up to scratch his beard lightly.  "I like you 
with a beard.  It softens your face.  You look less -- 
authoritative."

He caught her fingers with his teeth and growled.  She turned 
gingerly, careful not to slosh the water out of the tub, and, 
freeing her fingers, used them to stroke his beard.  His lips 
seemed very rosy in the midst of the silver hair.  She tilted her 
head back a little to kiss him, and felt his wet arms slip around 
her back.  

He returned the kiss, pressing his lips against hers, gently at 
first, then with the unspoken demand for entrance.  She opened 
herself to him, and in her small mouth he tasted the smoky scent 
of the night air, a hint of cinnamon toothpaste, and, further 
back, a silky sweetness that reminded him of weightless warmth 
found between sleep and wakefulness.  

He pulled away so that he could see her.  His desire for her was 
now in the company of something new:  an unmistakable 
emotional yearning for the safety that he instinctively knew 
could be found in loving her.  He felt as if he had just sailed over 
an unexpected bump in the road, and his stomach had flip-
flopped.  

"You realize that I'm probably old enough to be your father?" he 
said in a voice husky with emotion.  

"Barely," she whispered, and reached up for more of the kiss.  

"Danaaaa," he moaned into her throat.  "I can see what's 
happening.  Do you want me to tell you?"

"Maybe you should let me discover it on my own," she said, 
lightly touching the crown of his head, tracing his ears with her 
fingers, massaging the lobes, palpating the arteries of his neck.  
His pulse was racing.  "I'd like to take my time with you.  I can 
tell that you have a lot to teach me about so many things."

Stuart knew that they had to get out of the tub before 
progressing any further.  He slipped out from behind her and 
stepped onto the fluffy white mat, allowing her an exhilarating 
view of his sculpted legs, buttocks, and back.  He took the 
terrycloth robe from the back of the door and slipped it on 
without tying it.  When he turned back to her, she could see the 
impressive erection that her kisses had drawn.  

He offered her his hand and pulled her up and out of the tub.  
He opened his robe and pulled her close, wrapping her in it.  She 
sighed and snuggled into his warmth.  He put out a hand and 
switched off the light.  There in the soft light that spilled in from 
the bedroom, he spoke some of the lines he had performed 
earlier that evening.  This time, however, he didn't have to 
project to the back of the room.  He merely whispered them in 
her ear.  

Licence my roving hands, and let them go,
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America! my new-found-land,
My kingdome, safeliest when with one man man'd,
My Myne of precious stones, My Emperie
How blest am I in this discovering thee!

She kissed him again, lightly this time.  She was flooded with 
emotions, many of which she couldn't, or didn't want to, name.  
Tears poured down her cheeks, and when she tried to speak, a 
ragged sob came from the back of her throat.

"Dana, forgive me, I didn't --"

"No, no, don't apologize."

He put a hand to her cheek and wiped away the tears with his 
thumb.  "What is it?"

"My heart is overflowing.....that's so corny, isn't it?  But it's 
true.  I haven't felt like this in years, Stuart.  You're making me 
so happy.  It's almost frightening."

"I'll help you get over that fear, my darling," he said, hoisting 
her up in her arms.  He carried her to the bed and lowered her 
gently into the sheets.  "Comfortable?"

She nodded and reached out for him.  He looked down at body, 
quietly memorizing every inch of it before touching her.  

"We should spend some time talking to each other," he said, 
running his broad hand up and down her sternum.  

"What about?"

"What's your favorite color?" he asked, trailing his fingers along 
her neck and shoulder.

Dana watched his eyes.  She could almost see the gears turning 
in his mind.  

"Green, I suppose," she replied.  

"What is your second name?" he asked, his hand at her waist.

"Katherine," she said.

"Sisters and brothers?"

"Two brothers," she said purposely.  She wasn't about to bring 
her sister's death into this moment.  

"Where were you born?"

"Puerto Rico," she said.  

"How old are you, exactly?"

"32."

"Thank God.  Older than my children.  Now I know I'm not 
robbing the cradle," he said, stroking her thigh with the back of 
his hand.  

He seemed to be watching the patch of reddish curls between 
her legs, as if waiting for something to happen there.  

"Stuart?"

"Hmm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Thinking," he replied cryptically.  

She lifted herself up on her elbows.  "Is something bothering 
you?"

He shook his head and turned his head to face her.  His eyes 
were glistening with tears.

"I had wondered if it would wear off.....You were gone for nine 
days, and not a moment went by when I wasn't trying to either 
talk myself out of loving you or planning how I would tell you 
that I did.   And now I can't remember any of my plans."

She sat up and slipped her arms around his waist.  She laid her 
head against his solid shoulder, rubbing her cheek against the 
soft cloth of his robe.   He sighed into her embrace and stroked 
her back. 

"Isn't there anything you want to ask me?" he whispered.

She shifted slightly and pressed her cheek against the warmth of 
his neck.

"Do you love me?"

"Yes," he said, without hesitation.  

"That's all I need to know," she said.  

She put a firm hand to the back of his neck and pulled him 
down on top of her.  He placed his hands on either side of her 
small face and kissed her reverently.  She felt his breath coming 
and going through his powerful lungs.  She felt his heart 
thundering and his skin warming with the flush of arousal.  She 
felt the muscles of his legs rippling as he gracefully maneuvered 
his lower body to rest between her legs.  She wanted to freeze 
this time and make everything else go away.  She closed her eyes 
and allowed herself to be loved.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Two days later, Scully sat shivering at her desk.  The basement 
office was, predictably, an ice box.  She opened the thermos of 
tea she had brought -- Ceylon Breakfast -- and fired up her 
PowerBook.  And then Mulder appeared.

"Scully.  What're you doing here so early?" he asked, trying to 
sound nonchalant.

"The same thing you are, no doubt.  Don't take you coat off -- 
it's freezing in here.  Want some tea?"

"You didn't make coffee for us?" he said with a frown.

"Nah.  I wanted to bring something comforting from home.  It 
was hard enough to leave this morning.....You want some?"

"Sure."  He handed her his mug and sat on the edge of her desk 
as she filled it.  He held the warm mug in his hands until the 
sensation began to return to his fingers.  "So.  Did we talk on the 
phone last night, or did I dream that?"

"We talked.   Around seven, I think.  I went to bed pretty soon 
after that."

"Early to bed?  Alone?" he asked pointedly.

She smiled and pushed her chair back from the desk -- and 
away from him.

"Mulder, it's been a long time since you've meddled in my 
personal life.  You must be bored lately."

"I **have** been bored, actually.  But I hope I'm not meddling.  
I'm concerned about you, Scully.  You met this man -- when? -- 
last week, and jumped into bed with him almost immediately, 
today you look like the cat that swallowed the canary -- forgive 
the expression -- and I have to wonder what provoked such 
uncharacteristic behavior."
     
She looked up at him and wondered how he could spew such 
bullshit at her, of all people.  

"Mulder, how would you know what constitutes 
uncharacteristic behavior in the world of Scully?  You haven't 
been there in about fourteen months, if memory serves me."

"Ah, that's right, 'the world of Scully.'  Throwing my own words 
back at me.  Now that's more like it!"  He grinned devilishly at 
her.  "So, how are things in the world of Scully, anyway?"

"Ask me no questions, Mulder, and I'll tell you no lies."  She 
stood and crossed the room.  Making a show of rummaging in a 
file cabinet, she tried to gather her wits.  She had no reason to be 
so angry at Mulder, she told herself.  He had a right to be 
curious.  He probably thought that Stuart was the only lover she 
had known in their lengthy partnership.  If he thought that, then 
he thought right.  "Look....I'm a little edgy about this.  I know it's 
not like me.  Believe me, I've thought about that."

"You've had time to think?  You must've been in bed with him 
within minutes of meeting him," Mulder said quietly.

"It was sudden.  It was almost an out-of-body experience."

"Almost, but not quite," Mulder said with a bittersweet smile.

She nodded.  Leaning back against the cabinet, she sighed and 
said, "I guess you have a point.  I must've lost my mind."

"No, Scully.  I don't believe that.  It's just that I'm not 
accustomed to thinking of you with other men."

Her gaze snapped up at him.  "What do you mean, 'other' 
men?"

Mulder squirmed under her scrutiny.  

"I was afraid you were going to ask me that."  He slid off the 
desk and paced around the room for a moment.  "We've been 
partners for over five years, Scully.  We've been through too 
much to....I feel....I feel very strongly....."

"Spit it out, Mulder," Scully said with a faint smile.

He faced her from across the room.  He took a deep breath.

"Scully, I -- I was hoping that when you found time to fall in 
love, to have a relationship -- I was hoping it would be with 
me."  He let the breath out, amazed that he was still alive.  

Scully squinted at him as if he were exuding a blinding light.  She 
took one hesitant step, and paused, a hand over her eyes, 
shaking her head in disbelief.  

"Oh, Mulder......" 

Then he realized that she was shedding silent tears.  When she 
took her hand away from her face, revealing to him the 
expression of tender confusion in her lovely eyes, Mulder went 
to her.  He pulled her into his arms and held her there, 
wondering if this would be his last chance to feel her so close.  

"Scully, is it that bad?" he murmured into her hair.  "I'm sorry -- 
I didn't mean to upset you.  But I had to stake my claim, even 
though it sounds like I don't have much of a chance against this 
guy."

"How long has this been going on?" she asked, turning her 
tearstained face to look at him.

He was startled by the emotion in her.  It was as if he had torn a 
bandage off a gaping wound in her heart, and now all the 
resentment and affection of five intense years poured out of her.  
     
"That's a good question."  He hesitated before answering.  He 
was a little embarrassed to admit just how long he had harbored 
this secret.  "A long time.  Almost since the beginning."

She rested her hands on his chest and looked at him searchingly.  

"But what about --"
     
"I didn't say I'd been a martyr to these feelings.  I've tried to 
involve myself with other women.  It never works out."
     
"I'm not so sure that's because of me," she said, disentangling 
herself from him to search out a tissue.  

"I was afraid to offer myself to you; you're so sensible, you're 
bound to turn me down.  What would a woman like you want 
with a neurotic workaholic man like me?  I may very well have 
paranoid delusional tendencies, you know," he added with a 
smile.
     
She laughed a tear-sodden laugh and delicately blew her nose 
into another tissue.
     
"Mulder.....in spite of what I said to you in Madison, I have to 
admit that I'm attracted to you, and I have been from --"
     
The telephone on her desk rang.  Their eyes met in a one-second 
challenge:  don't answer it -- it might be Skinner -- we have to 
answer it.  
     
Scully picked it up.  Mulder could tell by the soft smile that 
came across her face that Stuart Novak was on the other end.  
Mulder had to smile, ever so slightly, at the sight of her joy.  He 
loved her enough to be happy for her.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

When she was finished, Scully found Mulder in the copy room.  
He was making enlargements and reductions of his hand.  

"Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious by this Sun 
of York," he said.

"How did you know he was from Yorkshire?" she asked.

"I didn't.  It's the first Shakespeare that came to mind."  

She touched the papers bearing pictures of his hand.  "But is it 
art?"

"Probably not.  I came in here to give you some privacy.  How's 
the Captain?"

"He took a nasty fall while we were out running yesterday 
morning and is having some residual pain today.  Nothing a 
little ibuprofen won't take care of," she replied in a cool, clinical 
voice.

Mulder rose to his full height and peered down at her.

"Are you sure the fall's the cause of his pain?" He couldn't 
resist the jab.

She glowered at him.  "Cut it out, Mulder.  I came in here ready 
to discuss this situation with you.  If you're not up to it --"

"Oh, I'm up to it, Scully.  Just try me."  He grabbed her around 
the waist and hoisted her up onto the copier in one fluid motion.  
He insinuated himself between her knees and began kissing her 
insistently, one hand steadying her head and the other caressing 
her hip.  He felt her squirming beneath him, but in his 
desperation wanted to taste her at any cost.  Finally he released 
her mouth.  "Scully, you overpower me.  Doesn't that count for 
anything?  I'm -- I adore you.  Doesn't it matter?"

"Of course it matters, Mulder.  But this isn't getting us 
anywhere," she said in a steady voice, barely containing her 
anger.  "Help me get down, OK?"

He lifted her off the machine and stood back while she 
readjusted her clothes.  He fixed his gaze on the curve of her 
thigh as she smoothed the seat of her wool trousers.  When she 
looked up at him, he did not flinch.  He refused to be ashamed 
of his feelings.

"Well?  Aren't you going to scold me, Scully?  That's the usual 
content of our conversations.  I do something stupid, you tell me 
it's stupid, I tell you I acted on the strength of my beliefs..."

"Jesus, Mulder.  You're so defensive.  Doesn't it occur to you 
that I may be very confused by all this?  I had just begun to 
wrap my mind around the idea of being with Stuart when I find 
out that you're --  you're--"

"Breaking the Prime Directive?"

She almost smiled. 

"You could say that," she replied.  

As she turned toward the door, Mulder reached for her hand.  
"Please, Scully, forgive me for being so aggressive.  I was 
overwhelmed.  I just wanted you to know --"

"I know, Mulder.  I think I've known for some time.  I'm sorry I 
didn't have the courage to speak of it.  It's just too frightening to 
think of being rejected by you, of all people."  She paused, 
remembering.  "Is that what you were afraid of?"  He nodded 
soberly.  "I thought so.  Look.....I'm pretty overwhelmed myself.  
I have to sort this out for myself.  It may not be tomorrow, it 
may not be next week, but I promise I'll get back to you on this.  
Is that acceptable?"

 "More than acceptable," he whispered with a rueful smile.   
"And until then, we'll proceed as usual."

"Do you really think that's possible?" she asked.

"I don't know, but I'm going to try, for both our sakes."



The Actor, 5:  Impromptu
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity)
S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder)

Please see the Prologue for disclaimers.

Summary:  On Thanksgiving Eve, Stuart and Mulder finally 
meet.  


The rehearsal of 'Coriolanus' broke up early on Wednesday 
evening.  The cast and crew were eager to get started on the 
Thanksgiving holiday.  Stuart assented, and the stage manager 
darkened the theatre at 8:00.  Stuart could hardly complain.  He 
had thanks to give for what he regarded as his greatest blessing 
since his series' pilot was picked up eight years ago:  Dana 
Scully.  He walked out into Constitution Avenue and caught a 
cab uptown.

He signed an autograph for the cabbie and asked him to stop at 
the corner of Scully's block.  He trotted back down Connecticut 
Avenue to a grocery he had spotted from the car; there he 
bought a bouquet for her and signed two more autographs.  
Stuart didn't mind; he was just glad that no one kissed him.  

He found his way to Scully's door and knocked quietly.  He felt 
suddenly insecure about showing up uninvited.  She might be 
working, or in the bath, or -- with someone else.  

Stuart looked down at the bouquet of pink sweetheart roses.  
Was it a cloying gesture?  

He sighed.  Twenty years' difference between them, and here he 
was standing on her doorstep like an adolescent.  No fool like 
an old fool, he mused.  Then he reminded himself that he never 
felt foolish when he was with Dana.  Stuart smiled, smoothed 
his beard with his fingertips, and knocked again.  

"Come on in, Mulder," he heard her call.

Stuart tried to think of a witty reply -- and came up dry.  "It's 
Stuart, darling."

After a few seconds, the door opened.  She stood just inside the 
door, partially cloaked in darkness.  

"How did you know where to find me?" she asked in a low 
voice.  

"I asked the concierge to get your address for me," he answered.  
The hand that held the flowers dropped limply at his side.  "I'm 
sorry I didn't ring you first.  I came straight from rehearsal....You 
were expecting someone else, weren't you."

"Not really.  I had a feeling my partner might stop by tonight.  
We had some unfinished business.  Come in, Stuart.   Please."

She stood aside and allowed him into the room.  

Stuart viewed the room as if it were the set for a romantic 
comedy.  Unfortunately, he wasn't sure of his lines.  The lush 
fabrics on her furniture, the soft lights, the sound of Sarah 
Vaughan wafting through the fragrant air brought one of Tom 
Stoppard's more accessible comedies.  The one that no one ever 
produces, he mused.  What's it called....

"Stuart?"

He turned to her and, remembering the gift he had brought, 
presented the flowers.  

"Hope you like roses," he said, suddenly feeling hot under his 
leather jacket and cotton tee shirt.  His jeans were beginning to 
chafe.  Whenever he looked at her for more than a few minutes 
he wanted to take off his clothes and wrap himself around her.  
Tonight, however, she did not appear to be interested in joining 
in the fun.  At least not yet.  

Scully smiled and sniffed the blossoms.  

"Oh, thank you.  They're lovely.  Come in here while I take care 
of them," she said, leading him through the living room to the 
kitchen.  

He sat at the pine plank table in the dining room, where he had 
a good view of her as she unwrapped the flowers at the kitchen 
sink.  She was dressed in pajamas made of pale blue cotton 
jersey, trimmed with a slender band of satin of the same shade, 
like a perfect summer sky.  A pair of horn-rimmed spectacles 
rested on the bridge of her nose, and her recently shampooed 
hair was curling as it dried.  In a matter of minutes she had  
artfully arranged the roses in a globular crystal vase.  As she 
turned from the counter to bring the flowers over to the table, the 
light filtered through the thin cotton knit and revealed to him the 
peaks and valleys of her body that he already knew so well.  

She placed the vase in the center of the table and then lit the fat 
white votives that sat in shallow bisque saucers on either side of 
the it.

"Perfect.  There're very sweet.  Would you like something?  
Some tea?"

"You.  All I want is you," he said, slipping an arm around her 
waist and pulling her down onto his lap.  

She took off her glasses and put them on the table.  

"I feel a bit -- awkward," Stuart confessed.  "Coming here......I 
feel as if I'm invading your real life.  I'm breaking out of our little 
hotel fantasy."

"It had to be done at some point," she said, putting a hand to 
his bearded cheek.  "Now you know I'm real.  These pajamas 
aren't the stuff of fantasies."

"That's where you're wrong, Dr. Scully," he said with a sly 
smile.  "Now that I've seen you like this, your black lace pales in 
comparison."

"Liar," she said, laughing at him.  

"Any man who tells you that every fantasy features a perfect 
woman in sexy lingerie is lying to you," he said.  He touched the 
satin trim of her top with his fingertip, followed it over her collar 
bone and down the front placket.  "Some men fantasize about 
their schoolmistresses.  Or a nurse who took care of them in 
hospital.  Or a stranger they see every week at the laundromat.  
Or a gorgeous gingerhaired runner......"

"Who happens to cut up dead bodies for a living,"she added.

He grimaced.  "You aren't joking, are you?"

Scully shook her head.  "Definitely not.  I told you I was a 
forensic pathologist.  That's what it involves, at least at the FBI.  
In academics you might work on the molecular level, but I get the 
gore.  My trip to Madison was to examine the body of a woman 
who had been mutilated rather cruelly."

Stuart paused in his attempt to unfasten the top button of her 
pajama top.  

"And what does your partner do?"

"He handles the more theoretical end.  He's a psychologist.  His 
specialty is criminal profiling."

"Sounds....spooky," Stuart mused.

"Ah.  You're right on that count," she said with a snort.   

She took his hand from her chest and kissed the blunt fingertips, 
then allowed him to clasp the back of her neck and pull her face 
toward his.  

"This partner of yours," he began, kissing the tip of her nose.  

Scully draped her arms around his broad shoulders, all thoughts 
of the analysis of the Kaparthy case that had occupied her until 
his arrival flying from her brain like so many smashed atoms.  
She lightly kissed his bare scalp, drawing a soft moan from 
Stuart.  

"Is he attractive?"

"Mulder?"  She laughed momentarily, until she saw what he 
was getting at.  "To some women, I suppose.  I think his looks 
are a little quirky, at best."

"And do you travel with him often?" Stuart asked, moving on 
to the second button.  

"Only a few times a year now.  Why do you ask?"

She shivered as his hand slipped over her bare breast.  She 
immediately felt a rush a warmth through her belly and into her 
groin.  The familiar, thick wetness was coming quickly to the 
cache between her legs.  She squirmed.  

"The two of you, alone in some remote town, pursuing these 
dark, existential questions of violence and madness, life and 
death, mystery and truth....it's a very titillating scenario, don't 
you think?"

Instead of making the usual automatic denial, Scully considered 
his suggestion carefully as he undid the rest of her buttons and 
pushed the pale blue fabric away from her breasts.  He cupped 
them in his hands, mounding the soft ivory flesh better than any 
bra she had ever owned.  He buried his nose in the impressive 
cleavage he had created, and Scully moaned softly.  She was 
imagining Mulder, in the motel room back in Madison, following 
Stuart's actions.  She even reached up to touch his dark hair.  
Instead she found Stuart's baldness.  She was not at all 
disappointed.  

He began to nibble in earnest on one of her mauve nipples, while 
plucking at the other one in the way he knew she liked.  She 
shifted in his lap, and tried to push the heavy leather jacket off 
his shoulders.  Stuart shrugged it off and wrapped his ropy 
arms around her again.  Scully's hands slipped under the tight 
sleeves of his tee shirt, massaging the ridges of his triceps as she 
went.  

Stuart's mouth wandered across to the other nipple, and Scully 
reached up to the one he had abandoned.  She pinched it 
fiercely, making herself yelp with the pleasure of the pain she 
caused.  The sound she made brought a feral growl from Stuart, 
who looked up at her, panting, his lips glimmering with saliva, 
his eyes nearly black with the expansion of his pupils in 
response to his mounting arousal.  

"Tell me what you want, Dana," he said hoarsely.

"The candles....blow them out," she replied, reaching for the 
table's edge.  

He lifted her out of his lap, his strong hands steadying her as 
she stood.  She began to struggle with the waistband of her 
pajama pants.  He blew out the candles, and removed them and 
the vase of flowers in one graceful motion.  He returned to her 
quickly, and helped her push the thin pants over her hips.  They 
fell in a puddle around her feet.  

Stuart put his right hand on her lower back, his left under her 
right thigh, and simultaneously lifted her from the floor and 
lowered her onto the table.  

She heard the scraping sound of his zipper.  She was blinking up 
at the light fixture that hung over her kitchen table, noticing, in 
spite of her state, that a spider had left a strand of web between 
two arms of the chandelier.  She felt his hand on her, slicking 
over her inflamed flesh, searching out the oscillating aperture.  
The target sighted, he plunged into her, unaware of the roar that 
he produced as he met with the entrance to her womb.  

He thrust deeply into her, three, four, five times, and then she 
abruptly put a hand to his chest to still him.  She covered his 
mouth with her hand and listened.  

Stuart raised an eyebrow; she took her hand away from his 
mouth.  

"It was nothing," she said quietly.  She grinned up at him, a 
challenge in her eyes.  "Come on, then.  Don't keep me waiting."

He returned to his work, pistoning himself into her until she was 
whimpering a warning of the impending crash.  Stuart pushed 
one last time, and saw the telltale flush come over her chest and 
face.  It was matched by her thundering internal shudder.  He 
cried out softly as she wrested every ounce of pleasure from him 
with her powerful contractions.  

Pulling her with him, Stuart collapsed into the chair where, just a 
few minutes ago, he had been asking her about her partner's 
looks.  Scully straddled him, still holding him inside, and 
dropped her head to his shoulder.  

"You amaze me," she whispered.  

"I know," he agreed, and laughed breathlessly.  

Outside the door to Scully's apartment, Mulder stood 
motionless, listening.  He heard rustling, the scrape of a chair leg 
against the floor, and a soft trill of laughter and voices.  His 
instinct told him to turn and leave, but he could not.  He leaned 
against the door frame and strained to hear Scully's voice.  Now 
he could hear nothing.  

He put his keys back in his pocket and knocked loudly.  

Scully was returning the candles and roses to the tabletop when 
she heard his knock.  She pulled on her pajama pants and 
quickly buttoned the top.  

Stuart sat in his chair, fully dressed, and watched as she went 
stealthily to the door, gun in hand, pajamas hanging loosely 
from her small frame.  

"Scully, it's me," a low voice said from the other side of the 
door.  

Her shoulders relaxed and she opened the door for the second 
time that evening.  From his seat in the kitchen, Stuart could only 
see the back of the door and Scully, her gun held loosely at her 
side, her other hand on her hip in a posture of exacerbation.  

"Dammit, Mulder!  I nearly shot you again."  

**Again**, Stuart mused as he relit the candles. 

"Sorry, Scully.  I wanted to drop these files off, but at the last 
minute I thought I should knock in case.....y'know, in case you 
weren't alone."  

Stuart noted that Mulder's voice had a constrained quality -- 
probably the result of years of suppressing his anger.  It 
alternated between a hoarse tenor and a velvety baritone, 
depending on where he was in the sentence and what he was 
saying.  

"I do have a visitor, but please, come in," she said, with a tinge 
of impatience in her voice.  

Her back was to Stuart as she pushed the door shut and locked 
it.  Stuart watched as Mulder looked around the living room, 
obviously looking for clues as to what he had interrupted.  
Finding nothing unusual there, he peered through the dining room 
passage toward the the kitchen.  

There, illuminated in the golden light coming from the candles, 
Mulder saw the actor himself.  He sat erectly in the ladder back 
chair, his noble profile half in shadow and half in candlelight.  
Mulder had no difficulty in sensing the potent intensity that had 
drawn Scully to Stuart.  It drew him, too.  In a few long strides 
he was in the dining room, offering his hand to Stuart and 
looking into his dark eyes.  

Stuart stood and shook his hand.  Mulder was certainly a taller 
man, but had little of the muscle mass of Stuart.  They were 
equally graceful and composed, however, in spite of the 
potential conflict of the moment.  

Scully joined them, still carrying her gun.  

"Fox Mulder, Stuart Novak.  Stuart, meet my partner.  And 
please don't call him Fox."

"As long as you don't call me Captain," Stuart said with a cool 
smile.  He assessed Mulder's petulant mouth, slightly receding 
chin, dark, moody eyes, and widely set brows.  "Anyone ever 
tell you you'd make a great Stanley Kowalski?"

Mulder shook his head soberly, barely able to look away from 
Stuart's face long enough to shed his coat and sit at the table.  

"Drink, Mulder?" Scully said, pulling glasses down from a 
cabinet.  

"You know what I like," he said, causing Stuart to cock an 
eyebrow.  

Mulder rolled up the sleeves of his starched white shirt and 
rested his forearms on the table.  He studied Stuart carefully, 
almost as if he were about to interrogate him.  He observed the 
smooth, pale pate, the silver hair, the Roman nose, and 
surprisingly soft expression of his eyes.   He hadn't expected the 
beard; picturing what it did to Scully's delicate skin was not a 
good idea at that moment.  

"Sizing up the competition, Mulder?" Stuart murmured in a low 
tone audible only to Mulder.  He was smiling as he said it.

Mulder blushed slightly.  

"Sorry.  I was watching your show just the other night, and -- 
you know -- it's weird to see you here, now, on the surface of the 
earth, in normal clothes, relaxed."

"I'm off duty," Stuart said genially.  "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Shall I leave so that you can consult with Dana?  You 
mentioned some files....."

Mulder smiled crookedly.  "No, no.  I used to do that a lot, tell 
her I had some work for her to look over when what I really 
wanted was a home-cooked meal and good company."

"You admit to that?" Scully said, placing a tall glass of iced tea 
on the table before Mulder.

He shrugged and looked up at her.  "I never fooled you, did I?"

She smiled sadly and shook her head.  

Stuart observed this interchange; he felt an ocean of 
undercurrents between them.  

"Darling, may I have a drink?"

"Of course," she replied, and poured a few ounces of Scotch for 
Stuart.  She placed it on the table and leaned over to put a kiss 
on the crown of his head.  Once she had done this, she felt 
suddenly self-conscious.  After Mulder's soul-bearing that 
afternoon, she was sensitive about exhibiting her feelings for 
Stuart in front of him.  

Mulder had averted his eyes and was sipping his tea.  When 
Scully sat opposite him at the table and began to open the files 
he had brought as an excuse for his visit, he allowed himself to 
look at her.  It was then that he realized one of the buttons on 
her pajama top was in the wrong buttonhole.  And that her neck 
was flushed.  

"So, Scully," he said, his voice a little shaky.  

"So, Mulder?"

"Tomorrow's Thanksgiving," he stated.  "Going to your 
mom's?"

"No, I'm not.  She's spending the week in Norfolk with Charlie.  
You going up to Connecticut?"

"Yeah.  Catching a flight at ten.  Why don't you two drive down 
to Norfolk tomorrow?  It's only -- what -- three, four hours?  
You could surprise your mom."

"Surprise her?  She'd probably go into v-tach when she saw 
Stuart," Scully said, grinning at the prospect of her mother 
swooning over the actor.  

"We could go, darling, if you like," Stuart said, placing a hand 
over hers.

"No way, Stuart.  My mother is a big fan of yours.  I can't quite 
stomach the picture of her sitting speechless through 
Thanksgiving dinner, her eyes glistening as she watches every 
bite you put in your mouth."

Mulder and Stuart laughed at the image.  Then Stuart said, "But 
eventually Dana...."

"I'll give her fair warning when the time comes for you to meet," 
she said, squeezing his hand.

Mulder considered Scully's words.  When the time 
comes.....She's going to marry him, he told himself.  She's going 
to marry him and leave me here to rot with my stupid 
unprovable theories.  I'm been such a fucking idiot......

"So what will you do?" Mulder asked, hoping that speaking 
would silence the internal tirade.  

"For Thanksgiving?" Scully said.  She glanced at Stuart.  
"Probably just take it easy.  Stuart?  I hadn't really given it any 
thought.  Do you mind?"

"I'll welcome a day of rest," Stuart said.  "My schedule is 
packed through December.  You'll have to move into my suite so 
that we can see each other."

"I could do that," she said.

"How do you like Washington?" Mulder asked, trying to ignore 
the pink flush on Scully's face and neck.  

"I like it very much," Stuart said.  "How long have you lived 
here, Mulder?"

"Seems like forever.  Eleven years now, I think.  Scully?"

"Sounds about right," she said, opening a file and spreading the 
papers on the table.  "But when did you --"

"That was '89," Mulder replied.

She peered at him over the rim of her glasses

"I thought it was '92," she said.

"No, you're thinking of --"

"I know what you mean, Mulder, but what about --"

"That was after you came along, Scully," Mulder said with a 
smile.

Watching them banter in their abbreviated code was like 
watching a tennis match.  Stuart shook his head vigorously as if 
to clear it.  

"You two are like an old married couple," Stuart said, 
perplexed.  "How long have you been able to do that?"

"Able to do what?" the partners asked, almost simultaneously.

Stuart laughed at them.  "That.  Able to do **that**."  

"Oh, that," Scully said.  "We've been able to do that since our 
first case together, when I thought I had been -- the victim of -- er 
--"

A light when on in Mulder's head.  She hadn't told him about 
her abduction.  He was still her only true confidant.  A smile 
spread across his face.

"She had mosquito bites on her back.  They resembled the marks 
we found on the bodies."

"On the bodies....." Stuart said, dread creeping into his voice.

"She was frightened," Mulder said.

"Was not," Scully said.

"You were!  Why else would you strip down in front of a total 
stranger!"

"You weren't a total stranger.  Besides --"

"I'm missing something here," Stuart said, his eyebrows peaking 
with curiousity.

Scully was glaring at Mulder.  Stuart wondered what she was 
silently telling him.  He expected it was some sort of scold.

"No, not really, Stuart," Mulder said.  "Just that she asked me 
to look at the marks, and she is -- as you know -- 
extraordinarily beautiful -- so I had to use what little self-
discipline I have to look at her back and then walk away."

Stuart nodded his appreciation for the situation.  "Now I see 
why she trusts you so completely."

Scully got up from the table and went to rummage in the 
cabinets.

Stuart leaned toward Mulder and spoke conspiratorally.  "What 
was she like then?"

Mulder considered the question.  Had he been feeling 
particularly paranoid that evening, he might have imagined that 
Stuart was asking him if he had slept with Scully on that long-
ago night, and what the experience had been like.  Instead, he 
took it as a general sort of question.  

"She was tough as nails, just as she is now.  She could shoot a 
snake between the eyes from a hundred yards, and outsmart 
Einstein himself.  Right Scully?"

"Right, Mulder," she said automatically, like a well-trained wife.  
She placed a plate of cheese, fruit, and baguettes -- as well as 
the bottle of single malt Scotch -- on the table.  "You two should 
eat something with that.  The last thing I need is two drunks to 
put to bed."

She walked out of the kitchen and missed the amused look the 
two men shared.  

"So you never --" Stuart began, tearing off a hunk of bread.

"Of course not," Mulder replied evenly.  "And if I had, I 
wouldn't be the one to tell you, now would I?"

"Good answer," the actor said.  "You're not married, I take it?"

"Me?  Married?"  Mulder snorted.  "Who in their right mind 
would marry me?"

"You seem a decent enough fellow," Stuart said, eyeing the 
younger man.  "Why not?"

"Why not?"  Mulder finished off his tea and poured some 
Scotch over the remaining ice.  "Because, Stuart, I'm obsessed 
with my work.  I'm a loner.  I have enough scars from gunshots 
wounds, knifings, and bites to terrify even the bearded lady in 
the circus.  Why aren't you married?"

"I was, for twenty-two years," Stuart replied.  He poured more 
Scotch into his own glass.  "Then I became a popular success.  
Moved to California.  She didn't want to be married to an 
American television star.  Can't say that I blame her, really.  I 
was no longer the man she married.  My standards changed....."

"And now?"

"Now, thank God, the show's over, and I'm back in my own 
skin, acting Shakepeare.  That's **my** obsession, Mulder."

Mulder cut off a slice of cheese and held it between his thumb 
and forefinger.  He took a delicate bite and chewed for a 
moment.  

"And what about Scully?  Where does she fit into your 
obsession?"

"Ah, there's the rub," Stuart said with a rueful smile.  "I imagine 
you'll be faced with a similar predicament someday.  When does 
one retreat from one obsession for the sake of another?"

"Are you saying that she's an obsession?"

Stuart glimpsed Dana at the opposite end of the apartment, 
where she occasionally passed in front of the open bedroom 
door while changing the sheets on her bed.  

"Perhaps it's wrong of me to speak of her in this way," Stuart 
said, passing a hand over his eyes in a gesture of weariness.  
"Nonetheless......I'm sure I don't have to spell it out for you, 
Mulder.  You're no fool.  She makes me feel like I could live 
forever.  When I'm with her, all I can think about is touching her.  
She's brilliant, and gorgeous, and almost unbearably sexy.  But 
on the other hand, she's rather -- implacable, really.  I have no 
idea what's she thinking half the time.  I envy your bond with 
her."

"It was bred during some agonizing times," Mulder said, almost 
apologetically.  He was feeling a flinch of sadness for Stuart.  It 
had never occurred to him that Scully's heart would be more of a 
mystery to this man than it was to him.  

Stuart was nodding, a little embarrassed for having spoken so 
openly.  Then, as if to clear the air, he raised his glass to Mulder.

"To Dana," Stuart offered.

Mulder touched his glass to Stuart's.  "To the enigmatic Dr. 
Scully."

They drank together.  Then, with a grin, Stuart said, "Tell me 
about the time she shot you."


The Actor, 6: Dumb Presagers
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity)
S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder)

Please see the Prologue for disclaimers.

Summary:  Scully's lover  begins to suspect of the truth about her 
feelings for Mulder.

Author's Note:  The sonnet below is Shakespeare's twenty-third.  
I was inspired by Paula Graves; the concept of employing the 
sonnets is a terrific one, and I give her full credit for coming up 
with it.  


Scully and Stuart slept late on Thanksgiving Day and spent the 
afternoon at the American Film Institute.  They saw two early 
Cary Grant films, 'Suspicion' and 'The Awful Truth'.  

"I like the part where the wind blows up his nightshirt," Scully 
said as they descended the escalator into the Foggy Bottom 
Metro station.  

"I'm strangely reassured to hear that you can find a man who's 
been dead for ten years sexually appealing," Stuart said with a 
grim smirk.  

"Oh, Stuart," she moaned, looking over her shoulder at him.  
"What makes you say a thing like that?"

"My talk with Mulder last night," he answered, following her 
through the turnstile.  

"I heard you laughing together after I went to sleep," she said.  
"Was that the Scotch, or was it heartfelt?"

"He's an odd man," Stuart said.  They were alone on the 
platform.  Stuart instinctively stepped closer to the lights 
embedded in the floor near the tracks. "I can't help but like him.  
There's a certain woundedness about him that's very alluring.  
I'd love to play him in a film."

Scully's eyebrows peaked.  She wondered if she had ever heard 
anything more unexpected about her partner.  

"Stuart --"

"The acoustics down here are amazing," he said, gazing up at 
the arched ceiling above them.  "Better than in the Folger theatre 
-- but don't tell them I said that."

He leapt onto a nearby bench and immediately took it as his 
stage.  

"Let me tell you about Mulder," he said, and proceeded to rattle 
off a sonnet in his elegant Royal Academy style.  

As an unperfect actor upon the stage,
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's right,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
O, let my looks be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ.
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.  

Scully's attention had wandered half way through the sonnet; 
she had been distracted by the marvelous liquid sound of his 
voice reverberating through the tunnel.  When he was silent, she 
smiled up at him expectantly.

"That's Mulder," Stuart said, dropping gracefully from the 
bench to the floor.  "He's in love with you, Dana, but you 
haven't been able to see it.  You've been looking with your mind.  
You won't see it until you look with your heart."

She put her hands in her pockets and stared down at the floor.  
"I know."

"You **know**?" he cried.

"He told me yesterday, in the office."  She looked at Stuart with 
eyes so blue and clear that he winced.

"And he came to your apartment last night with the intention of 
consummating his love?"

"No.  I doubt that."

"You turned him down?" Stuart asked.

"How can you ask me such a thing?" Scully demanded.  "I 
thought we had a -- a -- an understanding."

"An understanding...." He boomed, his eyes flinty with anger.  
"You mean the one that says that I love you, but you haven't yet 
committed to me either way?"

The train glided up to the platform, stirring a slight breeze that 
lifted Scully's copper hair.

They boarded the train and sat opposite each other.  An elderly 
lady sat at the other end of the car, rattling a newspaper from 
time to time.   The aroma of pipe tobacco lingered in the train.

"Mulder is not a good risk.  He's unstable at best, and has led 
me into more danger than you can imagine.  Of course I turned 
him down."

"He's not a good risk?  Is that what determines the flow of your 
emotions, Dana?  Risk-benefit analysis?"

"It's a common standard of medical ethics," she said in a small 
voice.  

"Where's the love in that?" he demanded.

The old lady in the back of the car peered over her newspaper, 
then hid again.  

Scully lurched across the aisle to sit by his side.  She was 
ashamed to admit to herself that she was terrified of his 
disapproval.  "Stuart, the love is here, between us."

The steely chill in his eyes softened, then slipped away entirely 
as he tucked his head down to nuzzle her cheek.  He whispered 
in her ear.  

"You....you're being cruel to him, darling.  Can't you see it?"

"Why are you whispering in my ear about another man?" she 
asked, pulling away from him.

"Because I like him.  He's not the emotional idiot you'd like to 
believe.  His scars run deep, and he refuses to let the wounds be 
for naught.  I admire that.  I think you do, too."

"There's a difference between admiring his tenacity and being in 
love with him," she said.

"I never expected you to love him," Stuart said.  "Just be fair.  
You mustn't discount everything he says to you simply because 
he, Mulder, has said it."

She considered as the train arrived at the station nearest his 
hotel.  "Shall we get off?"

"By all means," he said, taking her hand in his.  

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In his suite, Stuart sat quietly at a delicately carved French 
writing desk, gazing out the window at the early November 
twilight as he waited for Dana to emerge from the bathroom.   
He reminded himself of -- himself -- Captain Renard peering out 
into space, formulating a decision that would determine the fate 
of the Federation.  He smiled at the irony.  After all these years 
of protesting the comparison, here he was doing it himself.  
Maybe there was some wisdom in Renard after all.  

Of course Stuart knew what Renard would do in this situation.  
He never would've allowed himself to fall in love with a younger 
woman, but beyond that, he would do the honorable thing.  He 
would serve the course of true love and send Dana to Mulder.  
But that was the difference between Stuart and Renard -- only a 
fictional character could make such an honorable sacrifice.  

Stuart had observed honor in Mulder last night.  Although 
Mulder's unrequited love for his partner was moderately 
obvious, during their liquored conversation he had expressed 
only his joy at the happiness Scully had found with Stuart.  And 
Stuart could see that he meant it.  Dana had said that Mulder 
had led her into untold dangers, but Stuart had sensed that 
Mulder felt deeply responsible for her suffering, and would do 
anything to reverse it -- even if that meant allowing another man 
to love her.  

Stuart went to the French doors through which he had been 
watching the night sky.  He opened them and stepped outside.  
The air was cold and damp and smelled of moldering autumn 
leaves.  

Stuart sighed.   All afternoon, under the guise of watching the 
movies, he had tried to talk himself out of loving her.  He had 
come up with a dozen fairly rational arguments, and each of 
them had crumbled at the mere shifting of her hand against his 
or the warmth of her breath as she turned her head to whisper 
some comment to him.  

He felt her come up behind him on the balcony.  He turned into 
her arms.

"Dana...."

She hugged him to her heart.  "Stuart.  I'm sorry about Mulder.  
You're right -- I have an unfair prejudice against him.  If he had 
told me that he loved me before I met you, there may have been 
a possibility......I can't give you up out of some well-worn 
professional loyalty to him."

He placed a finger on her lips and whispered, "No more about 
Mulder, darling."

Her lips curved into a smile as he cupped her face in his hands 
and touched his mouth to hers.  His tongue slipped against hers, 
then glided across her palate and along the underside of her 
smooth, even teeth.  He seemed to be beckoning her with his 
tongue, and she was ready to follow.  

Her hands tugged the tails of his purple denim shirt out of his 
black jeans and her precise physician's fingers unfastened the 
buttons efficiently.  His skin was soft and unblemished -- he 
bore no scars from his life on the stage.  She slipped her arms 
under the shirt and wrapped them tightly around his powerful 
torso, burrowing her nose in the nest of silver hair and inhaling 
deeply the faint lavender scent remaining from his morning 
shower.  

Stuart buried his fingers in her hair, his palms against the round 
hardness of her skull, and pulled gently until she tilted her face 
up to him.  He placed kisses on her eyelids, the tip of her nose, 
her finely arched brow and cheek bones, the tiny mole on her 
upper lip, the edge of her chin.  All the while he heard the secret 
sounds of desire that he had come to recognize -- a very quiet 
soughing made by the low rush of her breath against the back of 
her throat.  The sounds became more urgent as the kissing 
continued.  Finally she formed them into a word, his name, and 
then, in response, a sympathetic vibration rippled through his 
body.

Scully took his hands and led him into the room.  She released 
him only long enough to close the balcony doors, pull the 
draperies together, and turn on a small lamp.  Then, in the warm 
half-light, she went to him.  For the first time since Mulder made 
his declaration to her, Scully was able to clearly see the emotion 
in Stuart's face.  

His dark eyes, set in the angular convergence of his handsome 
face, lit up as she approached.  He smiled and chuckled as he 
lifted her, his arms tight around her waist, her legs twined 
around his. 

"What're you laughing about?" she asked.

"Renard. I was wondering what he would do in this situation."

"And?"

He recounted the plot as he carried her to the bed and, gradually 
kneeling on the mattress, lowered her onto it.  

"For a moment I thought he would send you away -- sacrifice 
your love for the good of young Mulder's tortured soul.  Then, on 
second thought, I've realized that he would do no such thing.  
Your beauty and genius would certainly overwhelm him.  He 
would take you to his ancestral home in France and make love 
to you for weeks on end.  Then he'd no doubt send the ship's 
counselor to talk to Mulder.  Mulder would promptly fall in love 
with her, and the episode would end happily."

"But what happens next week?"

"Ah, you've got me there," he said, crawling around her until his 
face was a few inches above hers.  "That's why I'm an actor and 
not a writer."

"In real life there are always consequences," she said somberly. 

"They are not always undesirable, however," he pointed out, 
kissing the tip of her nose.  "For instance.  If I kiss 
you.....here.....then consequentially.....ahhhhh....... you make that 
wonderful noise in the back of your throat.....which makes all 
the blood rush from my brain to --"

"What if I kiss you here?" she proposed, catching the underside 
of his chin just where the beard gave way to smooth skin.  

"The consequences are exhilarating," he murmured, allowing her 
to push him over onto his back.

"What about here?" she asked, nibbling gently on one nipple.  
He groaned his response.  

Scully pulled back and said, "I think that proves my point about 
consequences."

"Not so fast, Dr. Scully."  He clasped her hand and placed it 
over the other nipple.  "This hypothesis requires more definition.  
You don't want to conduct a shoddy investigation, do you?"

She smiled and returned to her work.  Soon Stuart was freed of 
his jeans, shoes, and socks.  His erection was straining against 
the striped silk fabric of his boxers and seemed to incline itself 
toward her hand as she scratched lazily at the fine hair on his 
upper thighs.  At last she grasped him through the silk, gently, 
lightly, as if for the first time.  She watched as his eyelids 
drooped and a slow smile spread across his face.  

 "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun....."

"Love is not true love that alters when it alteration finds," she 
answered, reaching around his waist to tug at the waistband of 
his boxers.

"No, that's not it," he said drunkenly.  "That's 116."

"I know.  I've been studying the sonnets. Trying to get inside 
your head."

He lifted his hips and allowed her to slide the shorts off.  

"There's not much in there, you know," he said, opening one eye.

"False modesty is a sin," she said, launching the shorts across 
the room like a rubber band.  "I rented the BBC version of 
'Coriolanus' -- starring none other than The Great Bald One."

"Ugh," he grunted, his impressive erection dwindling in response 
to this turn in the conversation.  "The Great Bald One?"

"That's what your estrogen brigade calls you," she said with a 
devilish smile.  

He sat up and glared at her.  "My **what**?!"

"The Stuart Novak Estrogen Brigade.  It's a fan site on the 
World Wide Web.  I took a look at it a few days ago.  It's 
dedicated to all the women who lust after you," she purred, 
stroking his belly lightly.  "Some of them even write erotic stories 
about you, and publish them on the Web."  

Stuart looked down at her hand and then at the irrepressible 
smile on her face.

"You like that, don't you?  It's titillating to you, isn't it?" he 
insisted, trying desperately not to laugh.  "The idea that you 
have something that other women **think** they want is an 
incredible turn-on.  Admit it."

"Not until I saw the Web site, Stuart.  Truly," she said, trying 
desperately to sound earnest.  

"Did you actually read any of these stories?"

"No, I was at the office," she said, succumbing to the urge to 
giggle.  "Didn't want to slip up and start moaning in front of 
Mulder."

She stood in front of him and tried to push his shirt away from 
his shoulders.  He looked up at her, his jaw set in the stern 
resolve that he had so often used to illustrate Renard's 
obstinacy.  She froze.  

"Dana.  Tell me what you mean by that."

She blushed lividly.  

"Just that -- as you said, it can be pretty titillating stuff -- and 
as I skimmed over the synopses I was beginning to feel a little -- 
warm -- and -- and --"

He placed his hands on her waist to hold her steady.  

"And?" 

"And -- um -- I had to unbutton my jacket, even though it's 
usually so cold in our office.  I think he saw me do that.  He was 
on the phone with Skinner, but he gave me one of those smiles of 
his......"

"But if Mulder hadn't been there, what you have done?" Stuart 
asked, his hands tightening around her waist.  

She smiled nervously and began to unbutton her blouse.  "I 
would've unbuttoned my blouse, like this, to cool off a bit more.  
And then, I would've slipped my hand inside -- like this."

Stuart kneaded her buttocks through the nubby wool fabric of 
her skirt as he watched her right hand flit under the chocolate-
brown suede of her shirt.  The mischievous smile on her lips 
deepened into an dark, humid grin.  She let her head loll back a 
bit, and reached up with her left hand and pulled her hair free of 
the elastic band that held it in a ponytail.  Her thick copper hair 
fell in a flame to her back.  

Her lover moaned deeply at the sight of her hair.  His hands 
slipped down to her legs, and worked their way under the hem 
of the short, straight skirt.  He felt her brown lycra stockings end 
abruptly in a thick band of elastic, leaving several inches of 
unprotected thigh for him to stroke until he encountered the 
course curls that spread beyond the edge of her panties.  Stuart 
heard her sigh as he pressed his thumbs under the satin fabric, 
through the patch of curls, and out along the strong muscles that 
supported her abdomen.  He stopped with his hands on her 
hips, thumbs resting on her hip bones.  

"Dana....."

"Hmm....."

"Could you....."

"Yes?"

"Could you show me how......"

She peered down at his face.  She was surprised to see that he 
seemed so uncertain of himself.  As she stood above him, she 
felt suddenly tall and powerful.  She nodded.  

"Of course," she said.  "Would you like to help me?"

He nodded wordlessly.  

"Unbutton my shirt," she said.  

He brought his hands our from under her skirt to comply.  He 
began with the bottom button and slowly worked his way up.  
She held her hands out and he unfastened the buttons at her 
wrists.  Then she slid the suede shirt off her shoulders.  It rested 
on her arms, revealing her alabaster shoulders and the snowy 
swell of her breasts overflowing the cups of her burgundy lace 
bra.  

"Now my skirt," she said calmly.

He reached around to her lower back and slowly unzipped the 
skirt.  He took his hands away and let it fall, with a whoosh 
made by its taffeta lining, to the floor.  

Her thighs and belly glistened whitely in contrast to the dark 
stockings and burgundy lace panties.  Stuart pressed his face to 
her belly, rubbing his beard against her soft skin in the way he 
knew she liked.  He felt her hands caress his baldness.  

"They call you the Great Bald One," she whispered.  "They have 
no idea how great."

She felt his smile, then his warm forehead, brushing against her 
ribs.  

"Stuart."

He looked up at her, smiling sheepishly.  

"Sit over there," she said.

"Aye captain," he said.

She watched him retreat into the darkness, his shirttails 
fluttering around his bare thighs as he went.  

Scully gave him a moment to settle himself, and then, with her 
back to him, she eased the panties over her hips, then over the 
thigh-high stockings, and finally kicked them away from her feet.  

She sat on the edge of the bed and began to roll the stocking 
down her left leg.  She extended the leg, and pushed the lycra 
down to her knee.  She lifted her leg a bit, then pushed the 
stocking over her knee.  Then she rested her foot on the bed, her 
knee up under her chin, as she pushed the hosiery down to her 
ankle and off her foot.  She tossed it in Stuart's direction.  

He watched carefully as she repeated the process with the other 
leg.  In spite of the dim lamplight, he had a fine view of her 
slender, strong thighs and, at the apex of her legs, the auburn 
curls that were beginning to glisten with moisture.  The view 
improved immensely when she spread her knees out and 
scooted her seat forward almost to the mattress's edge.  

She began to stroke her thighs with her fingernails, lightly and 
then with more pressure  until red stripes were forming on her 
tender skin.  She sorted through the red curls, parting them here 
and there, pulling a lock taught and then releasing it.  As her 
head inclined, the lush, paler-red hair of her head slipped 
forward and dangled over her delicate collar bones, just 
brushing the dark lace of her bra.  

Scully scratched at her thighs again, thinking not of her skin but 
of the way her legs had soughed together under her desk, her 
nylons whispering her secrets, as she pondered the images of 
Stuart on her computer screen.  She had shifted in her chair 
repeatedly, leaning forward over the keyboard and then looking 
away, focusing on Mulder's "I Want To Believe" poster in an 
attempt to cleanse her mind.  She listened to Mulder's voice 
cracking as he argued with Skinner on the phone, and then her 
eyes wandered back to Stuart's picture.  She matched up the 
face on the Web with the face that had looked on her so 
adoringly that morning and flushed as if she had a fever.  

On the edge of the bed in Stuart's room, her hands enacted the 
desire that she had suppressed in her office.  Her mind 
wandered back to that afternoon, and changed the actuality of 
action and consequence, removing the risk of emotional pain, 
magically suspending the necessity of prudence.  She 
constructed a scene that had never actually  happened, but had 
flared up in her imagination more often than she liked to admit.  

She saw herself rise from her chair and cross the room to stand 
at the end of Mulder's desk.  Although he continued to speak to 
Skinner, his eyes followed her hand as it trailed across the 
battered old oak surface, pushing papers into the center.  She 
perched one hip on the corner of the desk, dangerously close to 
the telephone.  Her foot swung gently, back and forth, back and 
forth, as he watched.  Then she kicked off her navy suede pump 
and smiled as it hit the back of the door with a clatter.  

She touched his calf with her toe, gently stroking his leg through 
the thin wool fabric of his trousers.  He glared at her.  He 
mouthed "stop it," and she laughed.  He had to explain the 
laugh to Skinner, and finally was able to terminate the 
conversation by promising not to lose his cell phone for at least 
a month.  He had to reach around her to hang up the phone, and 
as his hand left the telephone, it grazed her hip.  He looked up 
at her with his dark hang-dog eyes, his forelock trembling, his 
heavy lower lip glistening, his breath coming quickly.  

He placed a shaky hand on her thigh, then repositioned his chair 
so that he could easily lift her foot into his lap.  He placed his 
warm hands on either side of her ankle and skimmed them up 
her leg, over her knee, and under her skirt.  

Scully kicked off her other shoe.  She reached over and grabbed 
his tie and used it to pull him closer.  She put her feet on either 
side of his legs and guided his hands to her upper thighs, smiling 
devilishly all the time.  Mulder's mouth formed words, but they 
were meaningless to Scully at that point in her reverie.  He 
smiled at her and pushed her skirt up, revealing lace garters.  He 
bent over and obediently went to work, nipping at the pale skin 
with his teeth, nuzzling the fragrant patch of hair as it lay 
uncovered before him.   He buried his tongue in her depths.  He 
licked up the fluids that had pooled in her vault, and swallowed 
noisily.  He pressed his teeth hard against the tender reddened 
flesh and twisted his head from side to side, creating the friction 
she demanded.  The afternoon stubble on his face abraded her 
soft skin and the delicate area around her perineum.  Soon she 
was writhing on the desk, clutching at his hair for all she was 
worth, thrusting --

And outside her fantasy, sitting on the edge of Stuart's bed, 
Scully stroked herself wildly with her right hand and supported 
herself with the left.  She had been mumbling under her breath, 
but then clearly uttered Stuart's name, summoning him from his 
chair.  

He sailed across the room, shedding his shirt as he went.  He 
opened his arms and scooped her up, nearly tossing her body 
into the center of the bed and throwing himself after her.  She 
flipped over onto her front and moved as if to crawl away from 
him, one hand still clutching fiercely at her crotch.  

Stuart reached for her and grabbed her hip, then slipped an arm 
under her pelvis.  She was crying out, with pleasure, he 
assumed.  He knelt behind her, and for a moment he wavered.  
He was troubled by the words she had been mumbling just 
moments ago.  Then she gasped out his name again, and he was 
again sure that she wanted him and no other, in spite of his age, 
in spite the differences between them, in spite of --

Then he heard it.  She was whimpering softly, and the name on 
her lips was not his.  Stuart pushed into her -- it was easy; she 
was more than ready for him.  He felt a combination of grief and 
confusion as he went through the process.  He knew that he 
loved her.  He was convinced that she loved him.  He told 
himself that repeatedly, until she was crying out her satisfaction 
and he could allow himself the same release.  

They fell to the mattress, out of breath and nearly overwhelmed 
by the aftershocks.  He moved himself off of her and lay staring 
at the ceiling, his chest heaving.  Tears trickled from the corners 
of his eyes and slid into his ears.  He lifted a corner of the sheet 
and passed it over his face.  Fifty-one years, at least a dozen 
lovers, and this one petite red-haired physician was reducing 
him to tears.  He went over all the losses in his life -- his parents, 
a brother, one child, his wife, some friends -- and it all came 
back here, to the beating of the heart next to his. 


The Actor, 7:  Engage
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity)
S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder)

Please see the Prologue for disclaimers.

Summary:  Mulder has an unexpected encounter in New York, 
and Scully gets a tempting offer.  


Much to his mother's disappointment, Mulder left her home in 
Greenwich on Friday morning and took the train to New York.  
Twenty-four hours was as much family time as he could 
tolerate.  His mother had become increasingly irritable and 
absent-minded since her stroke, and Mulder found it difficult to 
manage the distressing conundrum of emotions this provoked in 
him.  He felt as if he were failing her by leaving, but at the same 
time, if he had stayed, she would have driven him crazy and all 
their memories of Thanksgiving would have been of their petty 
carping.  Or so he told himself.

He wanted to pay a visit to Marita, ostensibly to return to her a 
file regarding academic visas granted during the period of the 
glossectomy murders.  Two weeks ago, when he had returned 
from Madison, he had taken a brief jaunt to New York to ask 
her for the information, and to receive some comfort for his ego, 
bruised by Scully's "you're not my type" speech.  He rarely 
confided in Marita about his personal life and, not trusting her 
with the truth of his feelings for Scully, cloaked his visit to her in 
professional terms.  They had ended up in bed, as they 
sometimes did, after only a few cryptic words about the visas.  
Mulder had returned to Washington feeling only vaguely better.  

And on the morning after Thanksgiving, he wandered aimlessly 
around midtown, his trench coat flapping about his legs in the 
chill wind.  He gazed at the Christmas finery twinkling in the 
windows at Saks, then meandered across the avenue and into 
Rockefeller Plaza.  The enormity of the soaring angels and 
mammoth shimmering Christmas tree intimidated Mulder as no 
little gray man or murderous mutant could.  These symbols of 
the joy of the season only reminded him of what he was losing, 
or what, perhaps, he had never had at all.    

Mulder found a place to stand at the railing around the ice rink 
and watched the picture-perfect scene of skaters, some 
awkward and some graceful, laughing, joyous, occasionally 
crashing into each other.  He glanced at his watch:  11:21.  Soon 
he would go in search of lunch, then head over to the West Side 
to Marita's apartment.  Maybe she wouldn't be home.  That 
would almost be a relief.  He was beginning to enjoy the 
anonymity he found in the city.  

And then he heard his name, spoken in the unmistakable manner 
of Stuart Novak.  "Mul-DAH!"

Mulder turned and saw him approach through the throng.  In 
this crowded city, how could he -- of all men -- find Mulder?  
The actor wore a flowing wool coat, the same inky blue as his 
eyes, over a perfect charcoal suit, and his bald head was hidden 
under a black fedora. He smiled broadly at Mulder, and the 
younger man caught a glimpse of what Scully found so attractive 
in him.  His smile brought a warmth and kindness through the 
cool planes of his rugged face.   

Mulder took his extended hand and shook it.  "Stuart.  This is a 
surprise.  Is Scully with you?"

"Have to let the woman rest occasionally, you know," he said, 
smiling.  "I'm doing Letterman tonight, and came up early to do 
a bit of shopping.  Christmas is coming, you know."

"That's what I hear," Mulder said, glancing over his shoulder at 
the giant Christmas tree.

Two young women pressed between them, fawning over Stuart 
and asking him to autograph their shopping bags.

"I was just going for a bit of lunch," Stuart said as he scribbled 
his name.  "Care to join me?"

"Sure," Mulder said, and fell into step beside him.  "Is Scully at 
work?"

"I think she said something about nipping down to Norfolk to 
surprise her mother and that brother -- what's his name?" he 
said, dodging a group of gawkers who were obviously trying to 
put a name with his famous face.  

"Charlie," Mulder said, trotting after him as they crossed the 
street.  Although Mulder was at least a couple of inches taller 
than Stuart, Stuart walked at a pace that even Mulder's long 
legs couldn't make up for.  It never occurred to Mulder that 
Stuart moved fast to decrease the likelihood that he would be 
recognized on the street.  

"Charlie.  Right.  I gather that the brothers generally disapprove 
of Dana's lifestyle," Stuart said.

"They're pretty traditional, from what I hear.  I've never actually 
met them."

"But you know her mother?"

"Yes, I know her well," Mulder said, smiling as he pictured 
Maggie's mild face.  

"Do you think we'd get on?"  Stuart asked.

"You and Maggie?"  Mulder remembered the hours he had spent 
with Maggie and Melissa at Scully's bedside all those years ago.  
He pictured Stuart taking his place, and felt a little sick.  "Ah -- 
sure.  Maggie is very easy-going.  Why?"

"I'm thinking of asking Dana to marry me," Stuart said, 
stopping in his tracks in the middle of the sidewalk.  

Mulder took another two steps before he realized what Stuart 
had said, and that he was suddenly walking alone.  He stopped 
and turned back to look at the older man.  Mulder opened his 
mouth to speak, and then realized that he had no idea what he 
wanted to say.  So he kept quiet.

Stuart was well aware of Mulder's reaction.  The decision to tell 
him had come quickly, as they walked.  Meeting Mulder had 
been so fortuitous that he felt compelled to take advantage of 
the situation to test the plans that had been brewing in his head 
for some time.  

"Mulder....I know how you feel about her.  It's easy to see.  But 
I'm in position to marry her, to give her a relatively stable life, 
children, a home -- several homes, actually."

Mulder nodded his comprehension.  Then he asked, "Do you 
think she'll say yes?"

Stuart shrugged.  "I really don't know.  I can only hope....My 
fellowship will be over at the end of the month, you see, and 
then I'm off to North Africa to start filming.  I'd like to have 
some sort of plan worked out before I go."

"Where are we headed?" Mulder asked, his voice cracking.  

"Here, actually.  It's called -- oddly enough -- Ego."  

They descended three stone steps and went through a curtained 
glass door into a tiny cafe.  The floor was bleached pine, and the 
walls were covered in some sort of white-on-white patterned 
paper over which hung hundreds of framed antique mirrors.  
Filtered golden light shone down from the ceiling.  As they sat, 
Mulder had the distinct feeling of being on stage.  Then he 
realized that everyone else in the room was watching Stuart, and 
wondering who in the world Mulder was.  

Mulder felt a little self-conscious in his jeans and sweater.  He 
half-expected the maitre d' to bring him a jacket.  Instead, he 
brought a bottle of wine as a gift to Stuart from the management.  

Stuart thanked the captain and said to Mulder, "Never let it be 
said that there are no benefits to fame.  There are many.  Have 
some?"

Mulder nodded, and his glass was filled.  A menu was placed in 
his hand and a large white cotton napkin draped across his lap.  
He stiffened; all this silent service made him uncomfortable.  He 
didn't trust anyone who would willingly put a napkin in 
someone else's lap.  But then, he didn't trust anyone, period.  
Except Scully, of course.  

Neither man spoke of the delicate subject at hand until they had 
given their orders and the waiters had retreated backstage.  
Then Stuart said, "No doubt you think I'm either cruel or 
stupid."  

"Why do you say that?" Mulder asked in his best neutral 
psychologist tone, just to see what he would say in response.  

"You're my only rival where Dana is concerned, and I'm 
confiding in you."

Mulder laughed briefly.  "It's not like television, Stuart.  There's 
no diabolical plot to capture her and drag her off to your 
kingdom....is there?"

"Of course not," Stuart replied, chomping down on a chunk of 
crusty bread.  "But in the end I may take her away from you."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Why?  Fair warning, I suppose.  I like you, Mulder.  I don't 
want to make you unhappy."

"Making Scully happy will not make me unhappy," Mulder 
said, the accidental irony of his own words ringing in his ears.  

"That's a very generous sentiment," Stuart said sarcastically.  

"I mean it.  You seem to make her happy.  I would miss her, of 
course, but at least I'd know where she was, and that she was 
content."

"So you think she'll say yes?"

Mulder frowned with confusion.  "I really don't know, Stuart.  
Don't you?"

"Mulder.....when we were making love last night --"

"I don't want to hear this," Mulder said firmly, pressing his 
body as far back in his chair as possible.  

"Your name....."

"What?!"

"She said your name," Stuart whispered, looking down at the 
table.  "More than once."

Mulder put a hand to his forehead, as if checking for a fever.  
"You son of a bitch.  How could you....how could you tell me 
that?"  

"Because you need to know," Stuart said in a steely voice 
worthy of Captain Renard.  He leaned across the table and 
impaled Mulder with his gaze.  "The time has come, Mulder, for 
you to take a stand for what you believe to be the truth.  You 
must ask yourself -- do I love her enough to tell her?"

"But I did tell her....."

"Not like that, man.  Not, 'oh, by the way, now that some other 
bloke's fallen for you, I suppose I'll throw my hat in the ring too.'  
That doesn't cut it, Mulder.  D'you realize what it looks like?  It 
looks as if you waited until it was safe -- until the chances of her 
taking you up on it were quite slim indeed -- before you offered 
yourself up."

"That's utter crap," Mulder said savagely.  

"Is it?  You're the psychologist, Mulder.  Put the pieces together.  
She's been nearly celibate for the entire -- is it five? -- five years 
she's been your partner."

"What d'you  mean, 'nearly'?" Mulder asked indignantly.  

But Stuart would not be distracted from his purpose.  He knew 
exactly what he wanted to say.  

"More clues:  She goes into a desperate depression whenever 
you're injured or missing.  She keeps a change of clothes for you 
in her apartment --"

"She does?  I didn't know that."

"-- She he makes that dreadful stuff you call iced tea when she 
knows you're coming round.  She's risked her life for you more 
times that either of you can count.  She calls out for you in her 
sleep.  She calls out for you in the -- in the throes of passion."

"It's all habit, Stuart," Mulder said with a hollow, indulgent 
smile.  "Partners are like that.  You develop a sort of symbiosis, 
an unspoken language, like --"

"Like lovers," Stuart said conclusively.

A plate of cioppino was placed before Mulder.  The smell of the 
fish and tomatoes wafted up to his nose, piquing his appetite.  
He waited for Stuart's food to be served, and then began to eat.  
He was grateful for a reason to stop the conversation, even if for 
just a few minutes.  

"Mulder," Stuart said, after nearly five minutes of strained 
silence.  "I apologize for assaulting you this way.  When I saw 
you back there, I was inspired to tell you -- from one man to 
another -- that you're about to lose her.  I've already bought to 
ring."

Mulder put down his spoon.  "You have?"

Stuart reached into the breast pocket of his impeccably tailored 
coat and produced a small box, characteristic robin's egg blue of 
Tiffany's.  He held it out for Mulder to take.

Mulder opened the box, then shook out the tiny black suede box 
lodged inside.  Inside this box he found a sparking gold ring 
mounted with three perfect diamonds.  The stones were the size 
of the capers floating in his bowl of soup.    

"Wow," he said numbly.

"Think she'll like it?" Stuart asked, a devilish glint in his eye.  

"Uh....Scully doesn't usually wear much jewelry, but this -- what 
woman wouldn't like this?  Wow," he repeated, still staring at 
the pale gems.  

"So you see, Mulder, I'm wooing her away from you.  Doesn't 
that bother you at all?"

Mulder closed the suede box and returned it to the blue outer 
box.  He pushed the package back across the table to Stuart.  

"Yeah.  It bothers me.  I can't offer her anything like this.  But 
you know as well as I do that Scully can't be bought."

"Of course.  But she can be sorely tempted by the prospect of a 
solid commitment."

Mulder took a sip of wine, hoping to buy himself some time.  He 
considered leaving for the third time in the past hour, but the 
masochist -- and the psychologist -- in him made him stay.  

He smiled painfully at Stuart.  

"She's my only friend, and you want to take her away.  I've lost 
everyone else I've ever loved....I guess I should've expected this.  
I never really thought she'd stay with me forever, but I had 
hoped that eventually...."

"What, Mulder?  Say it."

"I had hoped that Scully and I would eventually answer certain 
-- questions -- together, and then...and then begin working on 
something for the two of us."

Stuart gave him a brilliant smile he usually reserved for Scully, 
and raised his glass.  "Here's to you, Mulder.  You're beginning 
to see the light."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Late that night, Mulder lay in Marita's bed and watched Stuart 
as he told David Letterman about the upcoming Star Trek 
movie.  Stuart was wearing the same suit Mulder had seen him 
in earlier that day, but he had changed to a lavender tie.  He 
made Letterman laugh, skillfully handled all his comedic 
references to Stuart's status as a sex symbol, and even managed 
a credible eggnog spit-take that was promptly replayed in slow 
motion.  As Marita silently shifted into his arms and began 
nibbling on his shoulder, Mulder smiled at the sight of the actor 
spewing forth eggnog.  He had to give the Stuart credit:  at least 
he didn't take himself too seriously. 

Then he turned and forced himself to silence the debate he had 
been waging with himself all afternoon.  In his mind's eye, the 
woman who received him had raging copper hair and imploring 
blue eyes.  

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Stuart presented the ring to her after the preview of the play on 
Saturday night.  She had been completely surprised, and, oddly 
enough, Stuart seemed even more surprised when she had -- 
almost -- accepted his offer.  

Stuart spent only half an hour mingling and posing for 
photographs at the after party before running to the limousine 
that brought him back to his home.  Scully and Stuart had 
decided that she would not to go to the preview party.  The 
opening itself was still a week away.  By then Scully hoped she 
would be ready to face Stuart's public.  

The night was icy cold, so cold, in fact, that Scully wore her 
heavy camelhair coat and polar fleece sweats in the car as she 
drove from her apartment to the hotel.  Once inside,  Scully took 
her small overnight bag into the ladies' lounge on the first floor 
and changed from her casual clothes into something more 
appropriate for a late-night assignation with Stuart.  She put on 
a warm black cotton velour dress cut several inches above the 
knee.  It flared slightly away from her body, so that it flowed 
nicely when she walked, and had a low, square neck that, with 
the help of a well-designed black bra, showed off her cleavage to 
full advantage.  The sleeves were long and tight to the wrist, and 
the trumpeted out slightly over her small, blue-veined hands.  
She wore sheer back garterless stockings and no panties -- really, 
what was the point? -- and a pair of black moire pumps that 
tied with silk ribbons around her dainty ankles.  She repacked 
her bag, brushed her hair, blotted her matte burgundy lipstick, 
and smiled at herself in the mirror. 

Upstairs, Stuart was waiting for her.  He had showered and 
changed after the show, and like Dana, was dressed in black -- 
flannel trousers, a cashmere turtleneck, and soft Italian loafers 
with thin cashmere socks.  He sat on the end of his bed and 
considered what he was about to do.  Two weeks ago, he had 
thought it possible that he might fall in love with her.  Now he 
was about to ask her to marry him.  He felt a reassuring fullness 
in his heart whenever he thought of her.  The love he had found 
in himself increased every time he saw her.  His passion for her 
remained unbounded, and he was determined to make the most 
of it in the time they had left together in their Washington 
reverie; whatever her answer to his proposal, he would have to 
leave this quiet, luxurious room at the end of the year.  No 
matter what happened, he would always carry with him the 
memory of all that had transpired there.  The sound of her voice 
on the telephone earlier that afternoon had brought a hardening 
to his cock.  He had been tempted to go to her apartment and 
fetch her back to the hotel, or perhaps even bend her over her 
own kitchen table once again and take her then and there -- ah, 
hard again, and just in time.  She was tapping on the door. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

They dined on raw oysters, a light risotto of spinach and 
scallops, and champagne.  For dessert there were long-stemmed 
strawberries that had been dipped in dark chocolate, which he 
took great delight in dangling above her mouth and as her tongue 
dart out to lick the dark coating.  He laughingly relented and let 
her eat it.  As she took the whole berry into her mouth and bit 
into it, a look of childlike joy spread over her face.  She closed 
her eyes as she chewed.  

"Is it wonderful?" he asked, knowing full well that it was.

"Umm.  Amazing.  Strawberries in the dead of winter.  What 
more could I ask for...."

She opened her eyes just as he was leaning toward her, as if to 
kiss her, and then she felt the tip of his tongue touch the corner 
of her mouth.  

He pulled away and looked at her as if he had only engaged in 
some routine housekeeping.  "A spot of chocolate.  Couldn't just 
leave it there."

"Of course not."  She blinked at him for a moment.  She was 
feeling a sense of wonder at her good fortune that she had never 
known before.  "Stuart, is there more champagne?"

"Afraid not.  Would you like me to ring for another bottle?"

"Make it so," she replied sweetly.  

She watched his movements as he went to the telephone and 
made the call.  He had the grace born of nearly thirty years on 
the stage.  She wanted to dance with him.  

She pulled herself out of the deep sofa and opened the doors to 
the armoire where the television and refrigerator were hidden.  
And, as she had hoped, a CD player also resided there.  The 
hotel had stocked his room with a good selection; Scully chose 
an archive recording of Frank Sinatra, dating from the fifties.  

He came up behind her and touched her waist, spinning her 
around and into his arms.  He was not greatly taller than she 
was, making his embrace particularly comfortable for her.  Then, 
the music began, and he began to move her across the room as if 
she were mere gossamer.  The song was, appropriately enough, 
"Fly Me to the Moon."  Halfway through the song, however, 
Stuart stopped and kissed her for the first time since she 
arrived.  "...in other words, I love you," sang Mr. Sinatra, and 
Scully was beginning to believe that with Stuart, anything was 
possible.  

The champagne was delivered wordlessly, glasses were placed 
in their hands, and the door closed softly on them.  

"I still feel like I'm dreaming," she said.

He pinched her bottom, and she squeaked.  

"You seem to be wide awake," he said, cocking an eyebrow in 
mock seriousness.  

"Is it true that I'm really this happy?" she asked, her brow knit 
in worry.

He smiled at her tenderly.  

"What do you think?"

"It's never happened before...."

"There's a first for everything, darling.  I'm not sure I've ever felt 
this way myself.  Dana -- I have something to ask you.  You 
shouldn't hesitate to say no, if it makes you uncomfortable."

She wondered what sort of sexual game he could be proposing.

Stuart paced around the room, hands in his pockets.  He paused 
at the CD player and silenced it.  When he returned to her, his 
face was flushed.  When he spoke, he actually stammered a bit.  

"Dana, I....I have....I have something for you."  From his pocket 
he produced the ring he had bought in New York.  He took her 
left hand in his right and placed the ring in her palm.  "You 
know I love you.  I'd like it very much if you'd marry me."

Scully stared at the glimmering ring.  

"You'd like it very much if I'd marry you?" she repeated 
incredulously.  

"Mmm," he murmured, nodding fiercely.  His face was still pink, 
and a sweat had broken out on his forehead.  

Scully looked up at him and saw the fear in his face.  Her 
expression of shock immediately softened.

"Oh, Stuart.  What a sweet man you are....Thank you.  Thank 
you for -- for everything."

She slipped the ring onto her finger, then put her arms around 
his neck.  Stuart clutched her to his chest as if his life depended 
on it.  He lifted her up and spun her around and around until 
she was laughing hysterically.  

"Put me down!" she cried, hearing in her voice an echo of herself 
as a little girl being tossed in a blanket by her brothers.  

He stopped spinning, and they stood unsteadily together as the 
room continued to spin around them.  Finally, all was calm, and 
Scully was able to speak.  

"Stuart.  You've really surprised me.  I think -- I'm pretty sure -- 
but could I have a few days to make absolutely certain?"

"Of course," he said, pushing an errant copper strand away 
from her eyes.  "Of course.  There's no hurry -- we have another 
month."

"It shouldn't take that long."  She looked down at the ring on 
her finger.  It fit perfectly.   "So.  What shall we do in the 
meantime?"

"Oh, I don't know....Why don't you show me what you're 
wearing under that dress?"

She grinned at him.  "Stuart, do you realize that people will say 
you married a younger woman for sex?"

"That would be true, of course," he said, nuzzling her neck.  
"There are other reasons, naturally.  But far be it from me to 
deny the obvious attraction....."

His hands slipped under the hem of her dress and crept up to 
her hips.  He pressed her pelvis against his body and drew a 
yelp of surprise from her as his fingers delved between her 
buttocks.  

"Do you always go about wearing so few underclothes?" he 
asked.

"Only when I know I'll be seeing you," she replied.  

"Could you go through the rest of your life do inadequately 
attired?"

"No," she replied, taking a step back from him.  "No, I couldn't.  
And that brings up an important point, Stuart.  What will I do 
about my work?"

"Wear the full complement of lingerie, of course," he replied.

Scully smiled.  "No, no, you silly man.  Would we spend most of 
our time in London or Los Angeles?"

"London, I should think," he replied.

"Well, then, perhaps I could get myself appointed to the 
forensics staff of Scotland Yard.  Mulder has an acquaintance 
there.  I'm sure she'd be only too glad to get me out of 
Washington...."

"I travel quite a bit, you know," he said, taking her hands in his.  
"Couldn't you come with me?"

"Some of the time.  I can't give up my work entirely, Stuart.  My 
work has made me what I am.  Besides, I'd lose my mind."

"Taking care of me could easily be a full-time job," he said 
gently.  "Especially as I grow older.  It's not an appealing 
prospect, of course...."

"That's where love comes in," Scully said quietly.  She was 
feeling the overwhelming sense of time passing, of the earth 
spinning on its axis, and of her struggle to hang on.  For a 
moment she wondered how she had come to be there:  how, in 
just a few years, she had gone from being a naive medical 
resident to a hardened FBI agent; how she had lost her father 
and her sister along the way, and had become alienated from the 
rest of her family; and how she had found the most intimate and 
trustworthy of friends in Fox Mulder, and then had pushed him 
away in the name of -- was it pride, or was it prejudice?  And 
now here she was, so close to committing herself to this actor, 
with his bald head, booming voice, ropy muscles, and tender 
heart....he who knew nothing of her dark history of abduction, 
encounters with liver-eating serial killers, a ruthless oligarchy of 
well-groomed white males, not to mention lake monsters, 
flukemen, green-blooded angels and assassins....Scully looked 
up at his dark soulful eyes, the long lashes fluttering against his 
cheeks as he struggled to stay awake after his big day, and 
realized that she could never tell him of these things, no matter 
how much he loved her.  She could never burden him with any of 
it.    

She sat wearily on the end of the bed, the same spot where she 
had made such an intoxicating display of herself a few nights 
before.  Stuart sat next to her.  

"It's been a long day for you," she said.  "Sleep?"

He nodded and began to pull off his clothes.  She slipped out of 
her own things and found one of his Star Trek tee shirts to sleep 
in.  When she returned to him, Stuart's head rested on his pillow 
and he was curled on his side.  He was nearly asleep.  

"Dana?" he murmured.

"Hmm?"  She slid under the sheets and pressed her back to his 
chest.  He pulled the blankets around them and folded his arm 
across her body.

"You're the best thing that's happened to me since I lost my 
hair." 

The Actor, 8:  About Apison
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity)
S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder)

Please see the Prologue for disclaimers.

Summary:  Scully makes clear to Mulder how his past-life 
regression experience is still effecting both of them.  


Scully was in the basement office shortly after dawn on Monday 
morning.  Her mind had been boiling over with worry all night.  
She was wearing the ring, but had found no easy way to sort out 
her doubts regarding Stuart's proposal.  

She had managed to sit through the rehearsal on Sunday 
afternoon, despite the incredible anxiety she felt upon seeing him 
on stage.  It had been as difficult as watching Mulder negotiate 
with an armed lunatic.  In the end, she had been overjoyed by 
the brilliance of his performance, and exhausted enough by it to 
go back to Stuart's suite and sleep straight through the evening 
until he returned from the post-rehearsal conference.   He had 
crawled into bed next to her, bearing the unfamiliar scent of the 
soap in his dressing room shower.  

"You were brilliant," Scully had mumbled, only partially awake.  
"How did you do that?"

"I just took off my clothes and slipped under the sheets," he 
replied, slipping a strong arm across her waist and pulling her 
closer.  

"I mean the play.  How did you pull it off?"

"I can't give away all my secrets, darling."

"Don't you trust me?" she asked.  

"Mmm.  Just as you trust me."  

With those words, she was fully awake and deeply disturbed.  
She turned in his arms and tried to see what expression his face 
wore.  In the darkness, all she could make out was the glint of 
his teeth as he smiled.  

"Go to sleep, Dana.  It'll be an early morning for you."

Stuart was right.  By eight o'clock she had completed all the 
paperwork for last week's lab expenditures.  Knowing that the 
techs would be arriving soon, Scully pinned her ID onto the lapel 
of her black blazer and set out for the lab, which was, 
appropriately, only a hundred yards from her office. 

There she found Skinner leaning against the steel table reserved 
for the dead.  

"Good morning, Agent Scully," he said with a rare smile.

Scully smiled back, remembering with gratitude that evening over 
a year ago when Skinner had visited her office and offered his 
counsel.  

"Good morning, sir.  Is there something I can do for you?"

"I hope so, yes.  I'd like an explanation, Scully."  His smile gone, 
he pulled a newspaper from his pocket and spread it open on 
the autopsy table.  It was a grocery-store tabloid, which he 
quickly opened to an inner page.  "Agent Scully, do you know 
this man?"

Scully peered at a photograph of Stuart in his Starfleet uniform.  
She looked at her boss.  His expression was impossible to read.

"Yes," she replied.  

"And do you know the identity of the woman in this picture?"

He pointed to a poorly defined image, taken at night and from a 
distance, of a bald man passionately kissing a petite redhaired 
woman on a balcony of a building that was distinctly similar to 
the Ritz-Carlton on Capitol Hill.  

Scully swallowed and said, "It's difficult to make a positive ID 
from a picture of such poor quality."

"Fair enough.  What about this picture from _Washingtonian_?  
Can you get a make on this woman?"

He threw a copy of the glossy local magazine on top of the 
tabloid.  The issue was turned back to a crisp color photograph 
of Stuart and Scully departing the Library of Congress, hand in 
hand, after the Donne reading.  And, to make matters worse, 
below that was another photo of the two of them kissing after a 
run around the Tidal Basin.  This photo had been taken in broad 
daylight, and Scully's profile and red hair were unmistakable.  

Scully opened her mouth to speak, but Skinner interrupted her.  

"Is there something you want to tell me, Agent Scully?"

"I hardly see how my personal life, particularly in this instance, 
is of any concern to the Bureau."

Skinner leaned against the table and crossed his arms across his 
chest.  

"Scully.  How did you meet this man?"

"Running, sir," she replied meekly.  

"And when was that?"

"Approximately one month ago," she said.  

"Is Agent Mulder aware of your relationship with this --" he spit 
out the word as if it were poison -- "**actor**?"

Scully stiffened at that.  "It is none of his concern."

Skinner eyed the diamonds on her left hand.

"What's that on your hand, Scully?"

"It's a ring, sir.  "

Skinner folded up the publications and put them under his arm.  

"Let me put it to you this way, Scully.  You've effectively 
removed yourself as Agent Mulder's partner in the field. In spite 
of that, the two of you have continued to make  enormous 
progress together.  I'd hate to see all that shot to hell."

"You overestimate my influence on Agent Mulder," she said 
quietly.  "Is there anything else, sir?"

"Live long and prosper, Scully," he said, shaking his head grimly 
as he walked away.  

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder did not appear in the office until midafternoon.  He 
mumbled something about spending the morning doing research 
as he took off his coat.  

"Skinner has job for us," Mulder said, tossing her a sheath of 
newspaper clippings.  

"What?  I saw him early this morning and he said nothing about 
it," Scully protested.  

"Breakfast with the boss, Scully?  What is it with you and older 
men lately?"

She ignored him while she read the headlines.  

"Mascot mutilations?  Are you kidding?"

"Not that one, Scully.  The other article.  Three bodies missing 
the right arm, all processed through the same morgue."

"And?"

"There's a rare phenomenon known as dextrophilia, a proclivity 
for right-sidedness --"

"It's probably a coincidence, Mulder.  Sick as it sounds, these 
things happen in morgues."

"OK."

"What?" She glared at him as if he were insane.

"OK.  I just wanted to hear you say something Scullyesque.  
Thank you."

He took the papers from her and threw them in the trash.  

"Mulder, is this a joke?"

"No.  Well, the case is.  But it's true that I wanted to hear you 
say something normal."

"Is this about that conversation we had last week, Mulder?"

He sat in the chair nearest her and leaned toward her.

"Yes.  It is."  He rested his chin on his fist and gave her a 
lopsided smile.  "I saw your picture in the new _Washingtonian_ 
this morning, Scully.  You were beautiful."

She covered her eyes with her hand and moaned.

"Stuart tried to warn me.  He tried, and I couldn't understand 
what he meant.  I'm 
not cut out for this, Mulder.  Subterfuge is what I know, not 
public scrutiny.  This -- this is crazy."    

Mulder was shaking his head, smiling ruefully.  

"Scully, you want to get drunk?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder waited in the car while Scully ran into the Calvert-
Woodley liquor store.  He watched her through the vast 
windows in the front of the store.  He knew what she would 
buy; she had developed a taste for good champagne since she 
Skinner handed down her big raise last year.  Mulder wasn't 
supposed to know about the raise, but of course he figured it out 
as soon as she bought her new apartment and the new car.  She 
hadn't told him herself.  There had been many things she had 
not told him since last year.  He wondered when she would get 
around to telling him about the engagement ring.

He rested an elbow on the car door and watched for any sign of 
her red head.  Occasionally he spotted her between the displays.  
He didn't much like champagne himself.  It reminded him too 
much of wedding receptions, and he hated weddings.  

She came out of the store with a big brown bag.  The cold had 
chapped her cheeks a deep pink, and her hair blew in a red haze 
around her head.  As she joined him in the car, Mulder caught a 
whiff of her spicy cologne.

"Ahh, Scully," he murmured mournfully.

"I got a bottle of Roderer and two plastic flutes.  All set," she 
said.

He rested his head of the steering wheel as he looked at her.  

"What's the matter, Mulder?"

"I'm sad, Scully.  I'm really bloody fucking sad."

Her eyebrows asked the question for her.  

"Okay.  I'll tell you why," Mulder replied.  "I saw Stuart in New 
York over the weekend -- yeah, just happened to run into him, in 
the biggest city on Earth.  He told me he was going to ask you to 
marry him."

"He **told** you?"  she queried, astounded.  

"He showed me the ring.  Why aren't you wearing it?"

Scully fiddled in her pants pocket and momentarily produced 
the ring.  

"I was wearing it this morning, until Skinner spotted it.  Then I 
decided I had better not wear it until I had really made up my 
mind."

"You haven't decided?  I find that difficult to believe," he said, 
sitting up and starting the engine.  

"Mulder....."

They were silent as Mulder pulled into the quitting-time traffic in 
Connecticut Avenue.  He did not speak until they were stopped 
at an intersection.  

"When I was in New York I told her that our personal 
relationship had to end," he said matter-of-factly.  

"Oh?  Bet she didn't like that," Scully said, before she stop 
herself.

Mulder turned onto Woodley and headed west toward the 
turnoff for Scully's street.  

"She....indicated that she had expected it all along.  That my 
feelings for you would preclude any profound attachment to 
someone else.  And she was right."

Snow was falling again, glancing off the windshield like dust.  

"Are you sure the barrier lies in your feelings for me?"

Mulder didn't answer that.  They had been through this before.  

He turned right onto Scully's street and cruised along slowly, 
looking for a space along the curb.

About a half mile beyond her building, he finally found an 
empty space.  He parked the car and cut the engine.  In the silent 
late afternoon, he wanted to turn to her and say something that 
would change her mind, something that would make her believe 
that he loved her.  He was fresh out of ideas, so he decided to 
take the analytical approach.   

"Scully.  Why won't you believe that I love you?"

A good question, she thought.  

"Do you think I'm incapable of love?" he asked, his dark eyes 
gleaming in the half-light.

She shook her head.

"No, I don't think that.  I just think you're incapable of loving 
**me**," she said, a slight catch in her voice.  "So many 
years.....and now, all of a sudden......Mulder, why?"

He gave a half-grin; that was a question he could answer.  "It 
took me this long to work up my courage, Scully."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

They stumbled up the hill in front of Scully's apartment building, 
their long coats billowing behind them like dark shadows in the 
fading afternoon light.  Scully stumbled and fell face down in the 
snow.  Mulder laughed uproariously and sat heavily beside her.
 
"Hey Scully, you've got a snow mustache.  You look like Santa."

She blew a raspberry at him, thereby dislodging some of the 
snow from her face.

"I'm cold, Mulder.  And now I'm wet, too.  Alcohol and freezing 
conditions can lead to hypothermia, you know."

"Bottle should be chilled by now," Mulder said, pulling a bottle 
of champagne from the deep interior pocket of his coat.  "You 
ready?"

She pulled herself up on her knees and crawled around him.  She 
sat with her legs on either side of his hips, and rested her chin on 
his shoulder.

"I feel like I'm riding the luge," Mulder said, looking over his 
shoulder.  "You steering?"

"We're parked for the duration.  Well?  You gonna open it, or 
am I?"

"God, you're a demanding woman," he said, and began to peel 
the foil off the bottle.

"Not your type, eh?"

"That's the problem, Scully.  There's only one type for me, and 
only one woman of that type.  And she happens to be taken, 
taken in a big way, I might add.  Ready?"

"Let 'er rip!"

He twisted the cork one hard time and brought forth a 
resounding pop, a wisp of gas, a tiny surge of froth.

Scully cheered and produced the plastic flutes from her coat 
pockets.  She held first one, then another in front of him as he 
poured.  Mulder augered the bottle into the snow and took his 
glass from her.  

"Let's drink to Stuart Novak, luckiest man alive," Mulder said.

"Mulder, did you know your voice kinda cracks sometimes 
when you're excited?"

"Oh, Scully, you have no idea," he said, pitching his voice 
considerably lower than usual.  

"I like that.  Do it again."

"I'm not gonna do it again!" he cried in mock irritation.  He took 
a gulp of champagne and looked over his shoulder at her again, 
one of his eyebrows askance.  "I could do it with an accent, like 
him."

"Nononono," she squealed, her face red with embarrassment.

"What I want to know is why the Start Trek people got an 
Englishman to play a Frenchman.  Tell me that."

"Can you imagine a Frenchman saying those lines?" she said.

"It would lack a certain -- forcefulness, yes?"

"What is that, Mulder, Pepe Le Peu?" 

"It's whatever you want it to be, Doc."

"Since when do you call me Doc?"

"Scully, if I called you what I really want to call you, you'd hit 
me," he said emphatically.

She craned her neck around his shoulder to get a look at his face.  
Petulantly he turned his head away.

"What is it, Mulder?"

"No way am I telling you," he mumbled, knocking back half his 
glass of wine.  

"Come on," she pleaded, hiccupping into his ear.  

He snickered at the noise she made.  

"Don't make me beg, Spooky."

He succumber with the use of his nickname, as she knew he 
would.  

"Oh, all right.  Sweetheart.  It's sweetheart.  Old-fashioned, I 
know.  Not particularly sexy.  But it's accurate; your heart **is** 
sweet, to me.  Happy?"

She buried her face in his shoulder and giggled.    

Mulder delighted in the sensation of her laughing face pressed 
against him.  

 "Look, I've confessed my undying love for you, which is, as I 
expected, going to be unrequited for a long, long time, probably 
forever.  So when I dream of you -- and I do dream of you -- I 
need a name besides Scully."

"And you think sweetheart is it?" 

He shrugged.  "It works for me.  What does he call you?"

"He called me Scully at first," she answered.

"I thought I was the only one who called you that."

"That's why I told him to call me Dana," she said, sighing 
contentedly.  "But mostly he calls me 'daahhhling.'"

Mulder snorted at that.

"Does he realize that you're married to your job?"

"More, please," she said, extending her glass again.  

He filled it and repeated his question.

"He knows that my work is very important to me," she said.

"But you didn't tell him about the ins and outs of our 
professional relationship?"

"What relationship is that, Mulder?  You mean the one where 
you say something stupid, I tell you it's stupid, and then you run 
off and risk your life to prove me wrong?"

He turned himself in the snow so that he could look her in the 
eye.

"Is that all you think it is?"  He cocked his head to the side and 
tried looking at her from a different angle.  "Scully, say 
something.  I mean, put aside for a moment this business of love.  
Is that all these five years have meant to you?"

She froze in mid-sip and squinted at him in the twilight.  

"I told you, in Apison.  I answered your question then."

Then it dawned on him, the memory of that day coming back in 
a rush.

"In Apison?  Is that what ......?"  He leaned forward to look 
closely at her.  His face only inches from hers, he saw tears 
pooling in the corners of her eyes, the blue irides glimmering 
turquoise in the light coming up off the snow.  "Dana....nothing 
that came to light in Apison discounted my feelings for you.  
Did you think --"

"You told me quite clearly, Mulder, the role I was to play in your 
life, for all eternity."  She looked away from him and tried to 
focus on the scarf of lavendar light that marked the remains of 
the setting sun.  "Until then I had held out hope for something 
more between us."

"And then you shut me out.  That's the fourteen-month mark 
you referred to, isn't it?"

She drank her wine and, still looking toward the sunset, 
presented her glass for more.  Mulder gaped at her for a moment 
before complying.  

"Scully, I never believed for a second that it was impossible for 
us to be anything more than friends because of our past lives.  
What I believed then, what I believe now, is that we were 
destined to walk together, always, side by side.  As partners, 
relatives, friends, lovers -- whatever the contemporaneous 
circumstances allow."

"What about what your heart allows, Mulder?"

"I showed you my heart, and you threw it back at me!"

Scully stood slowly and began the climb up the hill to the front 
door.  Mulder took the bottle and glasses and followed.

"Scully, wait.  Wait."  He caught up to her with two long 
strides.  They stood in the light that shone through the door's 
beveled glass panel.  "Listen to me, please.  I'm willing to settle 
for whatever you can give me.  You're too important for me to 
screw this up with my jealousy.  That's what it is, you know.  
I'm completely jealous of that man.  He has your trust, he knows 
things about you that I don't, he gets to touch you in ways I can 
only dream about --"

"I see things, Mulder.  When we're making love.  I see Pfaster, 
and Tooms, and Duane Barry.  And then I hear your voice and I 
see your face and then I'm okay, because you're still the only one 
I can trust."  She had stopped with her hand on the doorknob 
and squeezed the words out painfully.   "It's only because of 
you that I can be anywhere close to normal after all I've been 
through.  You're there with me, always.  You're part of me, no 
matter where I am or who I'm with.  It would hurt Stuart to 
know that.  I love him, Mulder.  And I suppose I love you, too."

"But not in the same way," he whispered.

She was weeping full out now, swiping at her face with the back 
of her hand as she opened the door and crossed the lobby.  
Mulder stayed where he was and watched her go.  

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Scully stood under the jet of hot water and cried.  She let the 
water beat down on her face until it stung, and then she pressed 
her forehead against the wall and sobbed into the tiles.   This 
time, she wasn't sure that the crying would pass.  

But it did.  She emerged from the shower cleaner and quieter, 
toweled herself off, and proceeded to slather her body with 
lotion in an attempt to undo the damage done by the assault of 
the hot water.  Then she pulled on a freshly laundered 
nightgown -- white jersey, floor-length, with long sleeves and 
trimmed with a tiny blue satin ribbon -- and proceeded to dry 
her hair.  

When she emerged from the bathroom, she felt better 
emotionally, but the physical exhaustion of the past month was 
beginning to tell.  She went to the kitchen, took two ibuprofen 
tablets with a tall glass of skim milk, and was on her way back 
to the bedroom when she heard a soft knock at the door.

She considered ignoring it -- she was in no mood to talk to 
anyone, especially not Stuart or Mulder.  But then she 
remembered her job, and decided to peek through the peephole.  

"Go away, Mulder.  We're finished.  I've said everything I have 
to say!"

"My car won't start.  And ice is falling."  He put an eye up to 
his side of the peephole, giving Scully a magnified view of his 
hazel iris.  "Come on, Scully.  Open up."

She unlocked the door and walked away from it, curling up in 
the corner of the couch and pulling the soft green throw over her 
knees.

Mulder stepped hesitantly into the room and locked the door 
behind him.  He saw her sitting there, hair still slightly damp, her 
freckles revealed by the open neckline of her nightgown, a glass 
of milk in her hand.  Her gunmetal-framed spectacles glinted at 
him in the lamplight.  

"I don't suppose you'd give me a ride home?" he said softly, 
sitting on the arm of the sofa.

She glanced down at her nightgown and then back at him.  
"No."

Mulder looked around the room.  Her partially unpacked 
overnight bag sagged in the club chair.  Her briefcase stood, 
untouched, on the floor by the desk.  The television silently 
flickered the images of an old movie.  One lamp burned, 
producing a soft yellow glow from under a gold-lined black 
shade, on her desk.  In the quiet, he could hear the soft whoosh 
of the furnace fan.  

He sighed heavily and allowed himself to slip over the arm of 
the sofa and onto the seat cushion.  

"Whatcha watchin'?"

" 'Wuthering Heights'," she replied. 

"Hmm," he grunted indifferently.  

They stared at the muted screen for a moment.  Then Scully 
said, "Did you bring the rest of the champagne?"

"Yeah.  Want some?"

"Is it still cold?  Pour it, then."

They sipped quietly for a while.  She could feel his eyes on her, 
and tried to look anywhere but at him.

"You've been crying," he stated.

"So?" she said petulantly.

"I made you cry, Scully?" His voice cracked as he spoke.

"Wouldn't be the first time, Mulder."

"I'm sorry."  He reached over the blanket to take her hand.  It 
was warm and still a little slick with lotion.  "I haven't been 
easy to live with these past five years, have I?"

She shook her head.  "No.  But I guess it beats living without 
you."

Mulder smiled crookedly and raised his glass.

"To us?"

Scully touched her glass to his.  "To us in what concatenation, 
Mulder?"

He thought a moment, and then added:  "To our souls united."

"I'll drink to that," she said, and did.  


The Actor, 9:  Mulderesque
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity)
S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder)

Please see the Prologue for disclaimers.

Contains one tiny spoiler for "Home"

Summary:  Scully accepts Stuart's offer, and Mulder gets some 
advice from Skinner.  


Scully slept.  She had decided before she went to bed that she 
wasn't going to work, whether or not the roads were clear, and 
she slept the complete, guiltless sleep of one who knows that 
there is no specific reason to get out of bed.  

Her hair fanned out between her face and the pillow, and she 
clutched a small rectangular bolster to her breast as a child 
would clutch a teddy bear.  She had kicked the covers from her 
left side as she slept. Her white nightgown had migrated during 
the night until it was bunched around her waist. One naked hip 
and leg lay over the creamy wool blanket.  Occasionally she 
soughed the bare leg against the scratchy fabric, the rough 
texture finding its place in her dreams.  

Mulder, ever the insomniac, wandered out of the bathroom 
around four o'clock and paused at her door.  He could hear the 
ticking of the moon phase clock that hung on the wall in the 
bathroom.  Again, he heard the whispering of the furnace.  He 
heard the strange sounds of his own body producing saliva.  
Offended by his own humanity, he swallowed.  

He turned the doorknob and gently pushed the door.  It swung 
open just enough for him to see her laying on the bed, half under 
and half atop the covers.  He took in the marvelous sculptural 
lines of her hip and thigh, the milkiness of her skin in the 
moonlight, the rhythmic rustle of her breath.  

Mulder took the three steps across the room to the bed and 
reached out for her foot.  As he suspected, it was ice cold.  
Resisting the urge to trail his fingers up her leg to caress the 
fullness of her hip, he grasped her ankle gently and lifted her leg 
just enough to slip the blankets out from under it.  This done, he 
covered her and added the spare blanket that he found on the 
bench at the end of the bed.  

He checked to see if he had awakened her and saw that she was 
still dead to the world.  In years past he had marveled at her 
ability to sleep through the night.  Then, when borrowing some 
toothpaste one night in a motel in North Dakota, he had 
discovered, quite by accident, the bottle of trazodone in her tiny 
cosmetic bag.  A sleep-inducing, non-addictive antidepressant, 
self-prescribed.  That explained a lot.  Mulder reminded himself 
with a twinge of jealousy that on this particular night, however, 
her deep sleep was more likely attributable to sexual 
overexertion.  

Mulder padded back to the sofa and pulled the down comforter 
around him, making a cocoon to trap his body heat.  He 
wondered when Scully had bought the new sofa.  It was nearly 
eight feet long, with rolled arms and fat little feet, and was 
covered in plush chenille the color of caramel.  She had down-
stuffed pillows in plum and evergreen velvet, and new plum 
fabric on the club chair.  And, he noted, she had bought an 
ottoman to go with the chair.  

He pondered what else he had missed in past fourteen months.  
She was wearing her hair longer, and perhaps it was a little more 
blonde than red now.  She was getting a few fine lines around 
the corners of her mouth, probably due to all the frowning she 
did in his presence.  She rarely wore skirts anymore, and when 
had she started wearing those clunky boots?  At some point she 
had bought a new black Volvo and put a Terrapins decal in the 
back window. His photographic memory called up a million 
small details that he had filed away without actually taking the 
time to examine them.  But that's what he had always done 
where Scully was concerned.  That's why he hadn't seen this 
coming.  

She had been ready for a relationship, and Stuart Novak walked 
on the scene as if on cue.  What had Novak done to her that so 
completely erased Mulder from the realm of romantic 
possibility?  He wasn't sure if picturing the answer to that was 
a good idea, with Scully half naked in the next room.  Mulder 
knew that he had nearly interrupted their lovemaking when he 
appeared on her doorstep on Wednesday night.  He could feel 
their warmth on the air when he walked into the apartment.  
Now, when he closed his eyes the image that came up was 
Stuart's bald cranium, dark eyes, and Starfleet tunic.  Mulder 
saw him reaching out to touch Scully's bare breasts with his 
cold, lined hands.  Mulder's eyes flew open; he tried to focus on 
the dark shape of the chair.  

He knew that Novak was considered a heartthrob by some, but 
Mulder assumed that he appealed to older women -- or at least 
women older than Scully.  He was bald, for God's sake.  And 
not particularly tall.  Again, he asked the question -- what was 
the appeal?  Perhaps he was a brilliant lover, but how had he 
gotten her into bed in the first place?  Cool, methodical, logical 
Scully knew better than to follow the cult of celebrity.  And, he 
hoped, it would take more than a silky British accent to 
convince her shrug off her carefully tailored navy crepe jacket, 
pull the tails of her translucent cream silk blouse out of the 
matching trousers, unfasten each glimmering pearl button, allow 
the blouse to slide to the floor with a soft rustle, and then reach 
for the clasp of her ivory lace bra, the one with the half-cups 
that pushed her breasts --

"Mulder."

He nearly fell off the couch.  

"Yes, Scully?"

"Sorry -- did I wake you?"

"No.  Why are you up?" he said in a slightly raspy voice.

"I was dreaming," she said, climbing into the big purple chair.  
"Will you toss me that little blanket?  Thanks.  I was dreaming 
about all kinds of things.  Duane Barry, you, my dad, and then 
that poor Peacock woman under the bed.  And then I was 
making chocolate mousse.  I was having a big dinner party and 
making chocolate mousse, but then I realized I had forgotten to 
cook anything else, and everybody was hungry and waiting.  I 
mixed up the yolks and the whites and then I woke up."

"The yolks and the whites?"

"Yeah.  You have to separate them to make -- wait, maybe I'm 
thinking of chocolate souffle.  Oh, I don't know.  It was all 
anxiety-related."

He sat up to get a better look at her.  A beam of moonlight shone 
through the window, bisecting the room and illuminating her 
pale face.  

"Tell Dr. Mulder," he said coyly.

"Well, let's see -- Barry represents a great threat to my safety.  
My father is a man who I loved and lost.   Mrs. Peacock 
represents the fate I fear for myself -- dependent on men and 
wrecked because of it.  The mousse probably has some sort of 
sexual connotation, and the thing about the eggs may relate to 
my urge to reproduce.  The whole dinner party thing could be 
some sort of performance anxiety --"

"Sexually speaking?"

"Yeah.  Women get that too, you know."

"No, I didn't know that.  Really?  Why is that?" he inquired.  

"For the same reason that it happens to men, I suppose.  Fear of 
rejection."

"Ah, our old friend, Mr. Rejection.  He's responsible for so much 
-- you'd think he'd take a vacation once in a while, wouldn't 
you."

Scully stretched her legs across the ottoman and leaned over to 
tuck the blanket under her feet.  Mulder crawled to the end of 
the sofa nearest her.

"Rejection's not the worst," she said softly.  "I think humiliation 
is the worst."

"Potato, potahto.  Or as Stuart would say, potahto, potahto.  
You like his accent, don't you?"

"It's more what he says than how he says it," she replied.  

"Oh."  He was having trouble erasing the mental image of the 
ivory lace bra.  He cleared his throat and tried to think of 
trigonometry until he was able to focus on the topic at hand.  
Then he said, "Why him, Scully?  What is it about him 
specifically?"

"Well.....I suppose it was his eyes, at first.  Or maybe his legs 
and then his eyes.  I was afraid he had sprained his ankle, so I 
asked him if I could touch his leg, to examine it.  And he said 
yes, and I touched him, and -- why am I telling you this?"

"Don't stop."

She could not deny that it felt good to talk about Stuart.  
Against her better judgment, she indulged herself a little further.

"He asked me to breakfast as thanks for helping him, and I 
accepted."

"Did you recognize him right away?"

"No.  In fact, I had him confused with a pathologist from 
Georgetown.  He had to tell me who he was."

"He must've loved that.  I bet he gets hounded by fans wherever 
he goes."

"He was amused, I think."

"So you went to breakfast.  And then what happened?"

"We ate.  We both like the same kind of tea, and we've both 
read all of Robertson Davies --"

"Who?"

"And we have the same birthday."

"What!" Mulder exclaimed.  "What are the chances of that?"

"I could probably calculate that for you, if you'll give me a 
minute..."

He barked out a laugh.  "No, Data, that won't be necessary.  
Jesus, Scully.  You blinded him with science?"

"I don't think that was it.  He told me that his father was in the 
Royal Navy -- that's a big common point between us.  We both 
love coffee ice cream, but hate coffee.  We both love --

"You never told me you hate coffee.  Why do you drink so much 
of it if you hate it?"

"Do you know how hard it is to get a decent cup of tea in a 
restaurant?  You order tea, they bring you some sort of brown 
liquid that tastes like the mud pies I made when I had my little 
pretend bakery under the back steps at my grandmother's 
house."

He laughed fullheartedly at the image of a little carrot-top child 
patting mud into --

"Yes, Mulder, I did make mud pies.  And I decorated them with 
violets.  What else do you want to know?"

"Scully....that's very sweet.  Violets........."  Something about the 
addition of a small posy of violets to the picture nearly 
unseated his line of questioning.  He struggled to regain it.  
"Uh...what...so how did he lure you into his room?"

"He didn't lure me.  He asked me.  And I said yes."

"As simple as that?"  She nodded.  He was unconvinced.  "He 
must've conveyed some hint of -- of **something** to make you 
do this."

"He's incredibly sexy, Mulder.  What can I say?  How do you 
quantify something so ephemeral?  It was a chemical interaction.  
His molecular components, my atomic structure, and the tea."

"The tea?"

She smiled sheepishly.  "Well....maybe."

"Scully, I hate to break it to you, but I doubt he was attracted to 
your atomic structure.  I strongly suspect it had more to do with 
your facial planimetry, and, more than likely, the sigmoid curves 
of the distal region of your fine white ass."

"Shut up, Mulder.  Not every man thinks like you do."

"Thank God for that," he murmured, swimming in a sea of regret 
over his choice of words.   "So, he's a great lover, isn't he?"

"The best," she said quietly.

"The best?  How do you know he's the best?  There are two 
billion men on this planet--"

"The best in my realm of experience, all right?"

"And Scully, just how broad is that realm?  Just how many 
knights have kneeled down before you to receive the queen's 
patronage?"

"You're hopelessly rude, Mulder," she said, barely suppressing a 
laugh.  "And just how many queens have spent the night 
kneeling over you?"

"Ow!  Oh, that smarts, Scully.  That really, really, really burns."  
He let out a slow whistle that disintegrated into a fit of giggles.  
"I love that you said that, Scully."  

She laughed with him, delighted by the release.  It was almost as 
if they were friends again.  Almost.  

"I love that you said that," he repeated, more seriously this 
time.  "I love everything about you, Scully.  Even the few things I 
don't like about you, I love.  That's the point of all this, you 
know.  I'm trying to figure out how to get you to love me back.  
I'm trying really hard."

"Stop it," she whispered.

"Why?"

"It's demeaning."

"Watching you walk away with another man, and not trying to 
stop you -- that's demeaning, Scully.  My faith has been 
restored.  I owe him a debt of gratitude."

"Why didn't you say something earlier, Mulder?  Didn't you 
notice that I was distancing myself from you?"

"I noticed, but I guess I was in some sort of denial.  I didn't want 
to be the reason for it."

"You let it go too long," she told him.  "There was a time when it 
would've been so easy for you to have me."

"When was that, Scully?  I never saw my chance."

"The first case," she said.  "In your room."

"You did that with the intention --"

"No, not at all.  But once I was there, and you were touching me, 
I wanted you to....."  Her voice trailed wistfully.  

Mulder felt a combination of sadness and terrible lust.  He 
shifted his position on the sofa.

"When else?"

"Don't do this, Mulder."

"No, tell me.  I want to know."

She wanted to tell him.  She wanted him to regret what was lost, 
as she had for so long.

"So many times, it seems.....When you brought me home from 
the hospital, after.... And when my Dad died..... and in 
Comity.....I could've killed you, but it would've been death by 
ordeal."

He laughed hysterically, like a child in a haunted house.  "You 
would've fucked me to death?"

"In your case, Mulder, it's probably not possible."

"You'd better be careful with Stuart, at his age."

Before even seeing the pain on her face, he once again regretted 
his words.  "I'm such a goddamn jerk.  I'm sorry, Scully.  Really -
-"

She was angry now.  She sat forward in her chair and lanced 
him with her words.  "You wouldn't've known what to do with 
me if you'd had me, Mulder.  Your sexual skills are no doubt 
identical to your social skills -- you get what you want and get 
out.  God, you're so egocentric!  That's why you say these 
hurtful, stupid things.  You really can't help yourself, can you?"

He shook his head miserably.

"I'm just a child when it comes to this, Scully."

"What 'this', Mulder?" she demanded.

"This business of my losing you forever," he said, his voice thick 
with emotion.  "I can't bear it, Scully."

"You mean you can't bear the idea that I would choose a kinder 
man over you, and that I may very well take him up on his offer, 
and quit my job, and that you're going to have to live with my 
being happy while you're alone with your lousy guilt.  That's it.  
That's so completely Mulderesque."

She leaned back in her chair and tried to calm herself.  She knew 
that it would have been more dramatic if she had walked to the 
window and gazed out at the pink dawn as if searching for an 
answer to their dilemma.  But she was cold, and tired, and this 
chair had been her safe place through many long nights such as 
this one.  She tucked her feet up under her body and twisted 
toward him a bit.  

He winced at her words.  "That's harsh, Scully.  I deserve it, I 
know....."

Scully resisted the urge to apologize until she saw that Mulder 
was grinding the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to 
stop his tears.  Once she had seen them, however, she felt 
compelled to crawl of her chair and go to his side.

"Oh, Mulder, I'm so sorry.  Come here.  Please.....I regret saying 
that, Mulder.  It was unfair.  Here, that's it."  She pulled him 
down on top of her on the sofa, the down comforter imploding 
with a sigh beneath their combined weight.  She wrapped her 
arms around him and cried for the third time that day.  "I'm 
sorry.  It's five years of being angry at you coming out now in 
one big mean mess."

He lifted himself up on one elbow and looked down at her.  "It's 
been that bad?"

She nodded slightly.

He shook his head as his own tears started again.  

"Stop it, Mulder.  Listen to me.  I know how you feel about me.  
I think I've always known, and that's why I've been reluctant to 
give up completely."

"But you did give up,"  he said.

"I just chose someone else."

"You gave up on us," he said, his voice hoarse with pain.  

"Yeah, I did.  I did.  I had to save myself, Mulder, don't you 
see?  One day I'll be old and alone because I counted on your 
being there for me one time too many."

"No.  I won't let it be like that.  I'll give it all up if you'll have 
me, Scully.  I'll change, I swear."

She shook her head.  "No.  It's too much, and too late.  Let 
tonight be the end of it, Mulder.  Let it go."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder was able to dig his car out and get a jump start by mid-
morning.  Scully gave him breakfast and sent him home with a 
friendly hug.  She was feeling guilty for wounding him so.  Once 
he had left, she felt his absence like a chill in the apartment.  She 
missed him.  And then she realized that over the course of the 
night spent in Mulder's company, in spite of the emotional 
turmoil, she had not missed Stuart at all.

This did not please her.  She wanted to say yes to Stuart.  She 
was determined not to ruin their relationship with self-sabotage.  
She sat down at her kitchen table and called him.

"Darling!  I've missed you terribly.  It's so quiet here without 
you.  Are you coming down today?"

"My office is closed again, so I don't have to go to work.  Do 
you want some company?"

"Absolutely," he replied.  She could hear the smile in his voice.  
"Dana?"

"Yes, Stuart?"

"What are you wearing?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXX
     
Two hours later, she was lounging in his arms on the striped 
sofa in his suite, watching "The Divorce of Lady X" while 
picking over the remains of a late lunch.  

"Did you ever know Olivier?"

"I did, yes.  I had a small part in his television production of 
Lear, nearly twenty years ago.  He was quite old then, but still 
brilliant.  I learned a lot from him.  Did you ever know J. Edgar 
Hoover?"

"No, but I think we shared the same taste in lingerie," she 
replied.  

"I'd much rather see your knickers than his," he said, laughing 
his deep, booming laugh.  "In fact ...."

"Wait, wait, not yet.  There's something I want to talk to you 
about."

He turned off the television and gave her his full attention.

"Mulder spent the night at my apartment last night."  Stuart's 
eyebrows arched in surprise.  "He slept on the sofa.  We talked -
- at length.  He.....Since you came along, Stuart, my dear, sweet 
man --"  Stuart smiled at this.  She had never used any 
endearments for him before.  "Mulder has had an epiphany.  He 
has realized that he loves me, and that he wants me to love him 
back."

Although this was hardly news to Stuart, he was touched by her 
desire to be completely honest about it.  He touched her cheek 
lightly.  "And do you?"

"Stuart, I did love him.  I think I still do, but I don't want to."

"Why not, darling?"

She reached for him.  He put his arm around her shoulders and 
squeezed.  

"Because I want to love you.  And it's not the same feeling.  I'm 
attracted to him, I admit it.  But he doesn't move me the way 
you do."

"It's because I'm the mysterious stranger, Dana."  He gently 
combed her hair away from her face with his thick fingers.  
"He's as familiar to you as your own face.  As I said before, 
you're like an old married couple.  I am the interloper."

"Are you saying what I feel for you isn't genuine?"

"Certainly not.  I'm saying that you're closing your mind to 
Mulder's offer because it's -- well, it's rather dull."

"Oh."  Scully dropped back against the sofa and sighed.  "Well, 
that's it, I suppose.  You're very insightful, Stuart."

"It's an actor thing," he said, patting her knee.  

"Maybe if Mulder sees how happy we are he'll move on."

"Do you really want him to?"

"I want to put this matter to rest, once and for all."

"Speaking of rest....."  He stood and extended a hand to her.  
"Come to bed.  This lunch has made me sleepy and this talk has 
made me horny."

"Your eloquence kind of comes and goes, doesn't it?" she 
teased, taking his hand and allowing him to lead her to the 
bedroom.

"That's the sleepiness talking," he said, pulling her into his 
arms.  He kissed her deeply and sighed against her lips.  "Oh, 
Dana.  I wish we never had to leave this room, this winter, this 
feeling.  I'm utterly content when we're together."

"Is that because I'm not a fan?"

"That's a lot of it.  I know you love me, and not that prick 
Renard."

"Do you really dislike him that much?"

"He's a blow hard.  Bit of a cold fish."

"Nothing like you at all," she murmured, sliding her hands under 
his black tee shirt, tracing the lattice of muscles across his back 
and shoulders.  "Stuart?"

"Yes, darling?"

He pulled the shirt over his head and threw it across the room.  

"Does this mean we're in love?"

He unbuttoned her trousers and allowed them to drop to the 
floor.  

"That's precisely what it means," he said, lifting her and tossing 
her onto the bed.  He then jumped after her and landed on top 
of her, laughing.  

She looked up into his face as if searching for something.  Stuart 
saw the question in her eyes, and feared that this would be the 
last time they made love.  He wanted to delay the inevitable as 
long as he could.  Mulder would have her for the rest of his life.  
He could at least keep her with him until she realized that 
Mulder was the one.

With this on his mind, Stuart was moving more slowly.  He 
caressed her neck with his lips, taking in the velvety texture of 
her pale skin.  He breathed deeply of the sweet scent that 
gathered in the hollow at the base of her neck.  

"Right there," she said, touching the warm spot between her 
breasts.  She cooed softly as he addressed his kisses there, and 
then moaned as he wandered off to first one nipple and then the 
other.  He nibbled rather determinedly on them until she 
squirmed beneath him.  She felt hungrily in the dark space 
between them until she found what she was looking for -- the 
heavy sack between his legs.  She jostled it gently in her palm 
like a toy, until he was squirming.  He peered at her, his mouth 
open, eyes glistening, and he said something that she couldn't 
distinguish.  

"I do love you, you know," he repeated, kissing her brow and 
temple.  "You are the greatest treasure I've ever known."

She felt tears sting her eyes, hugged him close to her heart.  

"Stuart......"

"I know, darling, I know.  Here -- give me your hand.  Just there.  
That's it.  A little more evenly.......you've got it."

Soon she was crawling out from under him and sliding down the 
bed to kiss his belly, his cock, his thighs.  She licked him almost 
reverently, and then slid as much of him into her small mouth as 
would fit.  He gasped and shifted under her, reaching for her as 
he moved.  

"Shh, shh," she said, rising from his lap and returning to his 
face.  "Stuart, you're amazing.  How do you manage it?"

"It has a mind of its own, really...."

"No, no, you silly man.  You turn me into absolute mush."  She 
found his lips among the coarse hair of his beard and lingered 
there, only millimeters away, as she spoke.  "I've never been so 
vulnerable to anyone.  It's a powerful position you're in."

"So you like this position?"

"It could be better," she said, stretching out next to him.

Stuart rolled her over on her side and grasped her buttocks in his 
large hands.  He slipped one finger, then two into her depth, and 
found her wet and dark, as he had expected.  He growled with 
anticipation as he slid into that warm space.  He kept going 
until he hit home, summoning a cry from her.  

"Is that good?" he asked in a breathy tone, caressing her belly 
lovingly.

"Very good, yes."

"Shall I do it again?"

"If you don't....," she began tensely.

He did it again, slowly, again, slowly, over and over again.  

"Feels --" again "like --" and again "heaven," he gasped.

Scully edged closer to him, and then away, in minute increments.  
What he was doing to her was pleasant enough, but time was 
passing and she was at a static point of arousal.  She felt an 
odd distance between them, originating in her own mind, and 
Stuart's passion alone was not enough to bridge it.  She allowed 
her thoughts to wander, hoping that some reliable fantasy would 
take shape and lead her over the cliff into orgasm.  She closed 
her eyes and saw the snow falling at twilight, a glass of 
champagne in her hand, and Mulder's head and shoulders in 
front of her.  She was stroking his hair with her free hand and 
laughing languidly at his words until he turned and looked at her 
with his sad, dark eyes.  Before she could question him he 
leaned forward and kissed her, pushed her down in the snow, 
and climbed over her.  The snow changed into her fluffy white 
comforter, rustling under her back as she wiggled into position 
under Mulder's weight.  He was smiling and chuckling at her 
eagerness.  He lowered himself to kiss her jaw, her cheek, her 
lips.  And he whispered in her ear, "You'd better be careful with 
Stuart, at his age."

"Dana, I can't --"  Stuart's voice, raspy with passion, jolted her 
back to reality.  "Can't hold out much longer --"

"Stop," she commanded.

He stilled himself with some difficulty, and before he could 
catch his breath she had pushed him over on his back and 
crawled into position over his pelvis.  She took his cock, 
slippery and red, in her hand and rubbed it against herself.  
Stuart was not smiling; he was in pain.  Scully saw it in his 
flushed face and momentarily feared that he might actually die 
beneath her.  

"Stuart?"

"Don't wait, darling," he whispered, reaching out for her hips 
and pulling her down onto his burning erection.  

Now that she could see his face, Scully was content.  She felt the 
thrill she remembered feeling that first morning with Stuart.  He 
smiled up at her, his eyes clear again.  

She nodded and began to move rhythmically, neatly, efficiently.  
She had a goal in mind -- bringing Stuart safely to the end of his 
journey -- and she was determined to achieve it.  She sped up, 
leaned over him, and was able to kiss him lavishly before he 
exploded within her, emitting a bellow that belied his stage-
ready vocal chords.  

Exhausted and sweaty, she collapsed into his arms, laughing 
with relief.

He caressed her back with his dry, cool hands.  As she 
continued to giggle, he slapped her bottom, making her giggle 
even more.

"What is it, darling?  What have I done to amuse you?"

"I was afraid you were having a heart attack," she blurted out. 

He squeezed her tightly to his chest and stroked her hair to quiet 
her.  After a moment he grabbed the sheet with his toes and 
pulled it upward until he could reach it with his hand.  He 
covered them and resumed his firm embrace of her.

"Shh, Dana.  Hush, darling.  You mustn't worry about me.  I 
could run a 10K tomorrow if I want -- you know that.  I have no 
intention of leaving you.  Not now, not ever.  Do you hear me?"

She nodded into his shoulder.  He could feel her tears sliding 
across his neck.  He wished he could summon darkness to fall 
around them.  The cool white light pouring through the windows 
was unsympathetic to their need to cocoon with each other.

Finally she was able to move off of him.  "I'll be right back."

In the bathroom she leaned shakily against the marble vanity.  
She covered her face with her hands and forced herself to 
breathe evenly.  Mulder's taunts had gotten to her.  She was 
angry with herself for allowing him into her mind and into 
Stuart's bed.  

She washed herself and brushed her hair.  When she returned to 
the bedroom, Stuart was curled up under the wool blanket, his 
arm stretched across the bed as if he were saving her place.  

"I'm sorry, Stuart.  I let my fears get in the way.  I rarely do 
that."

"Really?  I thought most people lived by their fears.  You have 
high standards for yourself."

"You don't know the half of it," she said, sliding under the 
sheets.  

"Dana." He pressed the tip of his nose to her cheek, breathing in 
the smell of sweat and sex that lingered even there.  

"Hmm?"

"I'll be all right, if you need to go to him.  I want you to know 
this.  I do love you, but that doesn't mean that you're honor 
bound to stay with me forever."

"What are you talking about?"

He raised himself up on one elbow so that he could look down 
at her face.  Her red hair was spread across her pillow and 
shoulders like melted copper.  Her lips were chapped a deep 
rose.  She licked them, showing the paler pink of her tongue.  
Dark circles had gathered around her eyes.  She was worried.

"You're thinking about the difference between me and Mulder," 
he said.  He fingered her collar bone contemplatively.  "He's 
offered himself to you.  A very generous offer, I have no doubt.  
Perhaps you're thinking of accepting it."

Her brow furrowed and she whimpered a protest.  Stuart placed 
a finger over her lips to quiet her.

"I've told you, and I'll tell you again, over and over, for all 
eternity.  I love you.  I think I could be quite happy with you for 
a very long time.  However --" he paused dramatically, ever the 
actor "-- however, I'm not certain that you could be happy with 
me.  I'm fifty-one, Dana.  My life is more that half over.  I 
already have two grown children.  I work all hours and all over 
the world.  People follow me around and invade my privacy 
without a thought.  If you love Mulder, if you're attracted to him 
--"

"Stuart, after asking me to marry you, how can you suggest that 
--"

"How can I suggest that you choose someone more appropriate 
for you?   Because I really do love you."  His voice had become 
murky with emotion.  He cleared his throat and blinked away 
the moisture in his eyes.  "After my fellowship, I'll go back to 
London for a while, then start a film in North Africa.  For a time 
it will be an extremely long-distance relationship."

She nodded.  Touching his cheek softly, she reached to the back 
of his neck and fingered the short silver hair there.  She knew he 
was right, but that did not necessarily mean that Mulder was 
the winner.

"You're a dear, lovable man, Stuart.  I feel so lucky to be with 
you.  I've made up my mind -- I'd love to marry you."

He sighed and collapsed into his pillow, his face nuzzling her 
bare shoulder.  

"I was hoping you'd say that.  Being noble isn't all it's cracked 
up to be."
     
XXXXXXXXXXXXX

After leaving Scully's apartment, Mulder made his way back 
through the snowy city and across the river to his home in 
Alexandria.  He showered and changed and then headed off to 
Pentagon City Mall, two miles from his apartment.  His credit 
card was burning a hole in his pocket and he was looking for 
relief.

Shopping was one of Mulder's private indulgences.  He was an 
inveterate bargain hunter, with an eye for the best quality and 
enduring style.  He hit Nordstrom every Saturday morning that 
he was in town, scoping for markdowns.  Today he came out 
with three new pairs of silk boxers, a black cashmere polo, and 
a pair of Bruno Magli boots much like the ones that placed OJ at 
the scene of his alleged crime.  He especially liked the boots.  

He sat at a little table outside of Rizzoli's and sipped a 
cappuccino.  He wished he knew Scully well enough to buy her a 
gift.  He desperately wanted to do something to make up for the 
stress he was causing her.  The idea of a gift was probably more 
self-indulgence than a peace offering, however.  He had a strong 
desire to see her wearing something he had selected for her.  He 
began to suspect that he was in danger of adding Scully to his 
list of obsessions.

"Mulder."

He peered up from his brooding and saw none other than Walter 
Skinner.  He too carried a large Nordstrom bag.  Mulder was 
surprised to see Skinner wearing jeans and an anorak.  

"Sir.  Good morning.  Join me?"

"Thanks, I will.  Let me get a coffee.  Keep an eye on this."

Mulder took his bag and resisted the urge to peek in.  He sipped 
his coffee and watched his boss flirting with the woman who 
was behind the coffee bar.  Mulder shook his head in wonder.  

Skinner lowered himself into one of the frail folding chairs at 
Mulder's table.

"So,"  Mulder began.  "Hit the menswear sale?"

"Yep.  You?"

"Had a pretty good run of it.  Job's hell on the wardrobe, you 
know."

"I have a strong suspicion that you ruin more suits that any 
other agent," Skinner said, blowing on his latte.

"Except for Scully," Mulder said.

"She's rarely in the field with you anymore," Skinner stated.  "I 
see her in scrubs mostly now.  How is that working out for 
you?"

"I think she looks great in that particular shade of green..."  
Skinner wasn't falling for Mulder's humor smokescreen.  "All 
right.  Our resolution rate hasn't suffered any.  It's lonely as hell 
for me, though.  All those years beside her.  And she's a crack 
shot.  Amazing eye on that woman."

Skinner grunted his agreement and slurped his hot coffee.  

"She's been with this Novak guy quite a bit, I gather.  I've seen 
them in the press more than a couple of times now.  She looks 
happy in the pictures.  And beautiful," Skinner added.

Mulder nodded morosely.  "I'm hoping it will burn itself out, 
sooner than later."

"He's supposed to be at the Folger only until the end of the 
month," Skinner said, watching Mulder carefully under the guise 
of stirring his coffee.

"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean Scully won't follow him to the 
ends of the earth."

"You sound like a jealous 16-year-old."  Skinner chuckled and 
leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.  "I'm 
not blind, you know, Mulder."

"Is that right, sir?" Mulder eyed him suspiciously.  "Just a little 
nearsighted?"

"Let's indulge in a little supposition for a minute."  He leaned 
his elbows on the table and spoke in a tone just low enough for 
Mulder to hear over the din of the mall.  "Suppose, just 
suppose, that Novak's visa was revoked and he was forced to 
return to Britain prematurely.  You and Scully could be sent on 
assignment for, say, six weeks.  Is it possible that she might 
discover that this distance from Mr. Novak does not make her 
heart grow fonder where he is concerned?"

"Love will out, the poet says," Mulder reflected.  "If it's the real 
thing, it won't make any difference."

"True.  And of course we both want Agent Scully to be happy.  
But do you think she'd be content living the life of an actor's 
wife?"

"He's not just an actor, sir.  He's a star.  It'd be a far more 
comfortable existence than what she's had for the past five 
years."  Mulder moped over his rapidly cooling cappuccino.  
"She's probably holed up with him in the Ritz-Carlton right 
now.  You realize he actually lives there."

"She's a star in her own right, within the Bureau.  Even the taint 
of working with you hasn't held her back."

"Gee, thanks, sir.  Keep the positive reinforcement coming."

Skinner scratched his neck thoughtfully. 

"What I mean, Mulder, is that it's hard for me to imagine her 
settling for someone whose professional life will necessarily 
always eclipse hers.  She's not one to hide her light under a 
bushel."

"Will all due respect, I think she's having the time of her life 
hiding her light under his bushel."

Skinner tried not to laugh, and failed.  Mulder joined in.  Finally, 
the older man spoke again.

"Mulder, seriously -- you're the best team in the Bureau.  It's in 
my best interest to keep the two of you together.  And I believe 
it's in your best interest to continue -- deepen, in fact -- your 
partnership with Scully.  I want to do whatever I can to 
facilitate this."

"Sir, do I understand you correctly?  You want me to break the 
unwritten rules and -- deepen -- my bond with my partner?  
And you'll back me on this?"

"I'll back you as a silent sponsor, provided that you treat with 
the respect she absolutely deserves."

"You haven't taken up smoking Morleys, have you, sir?"

Skinner smiled slightly, grimly.  "No, Agent Mulder, I have not.  I 
know what's good for me.  And I like to think I know what's 
good for my agents."

Mulder appraised his boss.  This overture was entirely 
unexpected, but he had no reason to doubt Skinner.  

"There's just one problem, sir."

"Just one?" Skinner said, bemused.

"I don't want to break her heart."

"Then don't," Skinner said.

Mulder shook his head as if to clear their misunderstanding.

"I've given it a lot of thought, sir, and there's this to consider:  
Stuart Novak is a public figure.  If anything happened to him, 
there'd be a great hue and cry, a thorough investigation, and the 
press would be relentless in exposing those responsible.  For 
these reasons, I believe that Scully's chances of having a long 
and happy -- domestic partnership -- are better with him."  He 
stroked his chin ruminatively.  "On the other hand, with my 
tendency to go where I'm not invited, and the relative anonymity 
of my existence, I could disappear and no one but the you and 
Scully would notice."

"I see your point, Mulder."  Skinner finished off his coffee and 
dabbed at his mouth with a small white paper napkin.  The only 
reassurance I can offer you is what I've been able to give you so 
far.  That and -- I can remind you of Scully's devotion to your 
search.  It has never wavered, and I doubt that it ever will, 
whether you're dead or alive.  Should you enter into a -- 
domestic partnership -- I expect the risks will remain as they are 
now."

Mulder eyed him sullenly.  The only problem with that, he 
mused, is that we don't know what the risks really are, now or 
then.

"Are we talking about my sex life or about the X-files?"

The Assistant Director stood tossed his empty cup into a 
nearby trash can.  

"Is there a difference?"


The Actor, 10:  An Unperfect Actor
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity)
S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder)

See the Prologue for disclaimers.  

Summary:  Mulder accompanies Scully to Stuart's opening night 
and to the premiere party.  

Author's Note:  Whatever I say here about "Coriolanus" is 
based on my own dim memories of a production I saw in 
London with Ian McKellan, about 12 (!) years ago when I an 
exchange student at Oxford.  What I remember most about the 
play are Sir Ian's naked backside in a fight scene where he 
wielded a huge sword in a ring of sand, and the nice nap I took 
after drinking a lager and lime during the interval.   I tried to 
reread the play as part of my preparations for this story, but I 
just couldn't manage it.  There's a reason why this isn't one of 
the most popular of Shakespeare's works!  If I were getting paid 
for this story, I might've read it again.  But I passed the exam on 
the play all those years ago, so please forgive for not having that 
kind of self-discipline now.   

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I thought you were bringing Mulder along today," Stuart called 
down from the stage.  

He swung his sword gracefully to a peaceable position at his 
side and walked downstage.  He stood for a moment, catching 
his breath after the intense rehearsal of the battle scene.  

"He'll be back tomorrow," Dana replied, reaching up to touch 
Stuart's bare toes.  "In time for the opening."  

Scully barely suppressed a mild leer.  The scene was to be 
played on a patch of sand, reminiscent of the coliseum in Rome, 
and Stuart was wearing the very attenuated costume that the 
scene called for:  a battered leather loincloth over a codpiece, a 
shield and sword, and leather greaves over his shins.  

"You don't dress like this for all your lovers, do you, Stuart?"

"Only the ones I want to kill in battle, darling," he replied with a 
grin.  He loped backstage to turn his shield and sword over to 
the propmaster, who was waiting with a towel.  "Dana!  Come 
up here, and walk with me."

"I..."

He peered around the curtain.  

"It's not an airport runway, darling.  Civilians are allowed on 
the stage from time to time."

She climbed the stairs to the right of the stage and met him in the 
center, where he stood mopping his bald brow.  

He watched as she turned to look out at the house.  The 
brightness of the lights blinded her to anything beyond the edge 
of the stage.  She found it unnerving, like shooting in the dark, 
and was as uncomfortable there as Stuart would be on the firing 
range.  

"Are you ready to go?" she asked, trying not to sound too eager.

"Most definitely.  If I work on it anymore I'll ruin it.  And we 
have much to discuss over dinner, haven't we?"

Stuart took her hand and led her off stage right, behind the 
curtain and into the darkness.  It took a moment for her eyes to 
adjust.  She could smell decades of dust, sweat, and -- was it 
greasepaint? -- in the narrow corridors and staircases that made 
up the backstage maze.  

"I've always wanted to take a pretty young girl back to my 
dressing room," he whispered in her ear.  

They reached the top of a set of metal stairs.  He opened a door 
and led her into the room that was his office and home-away-
from-hotel.  It was filled with bouquets sent by well-wishers, 
bottles of wine and baskets of fruit, and even a cake in the 
shape of a Star Trek com badge.  Stuart tossed his towel over 
the cake and began clawing at the costume, eager to be rid of it.  

Scully sat on the scratchy old green-tweed couch and watched 
him.  She had undressed him herself on many occasions, but 
without the pink haze of arousal flowing between them, she 
realized that in a few days hundreds of people in the audience 
would be seeing the beautifully sculpted body that she had come 
to think of as her own private retreat.  

"It doesn't bother you to show your body to all those people?" 
she asked quietly.

Briefly he looked up from his attempts to unfasten the codpiece.  
He thought for a moment as he fiddled with the straps, then 
said, "Dana....actors will do anything to get the audience to 
adore us.  Even in a painful, rather dull sort of political piece 
like this one -- of course I want Will Shakespeare himself to rise 
up from his grave and come to me in a vision and say 'well 
done, old man.'  That would be lovely.  But what I want 
**most** -- in this production or in any other -- is to feel the 
audience's pulse quicken when I speak, to hear that applause, 
and above all, to know that they're reacting to **me**.  To what 
**I** can do with the script.  Some actors will tell you that they 
do it because they wanted to hide themselves in the character.  I 
don't believe that.  We do it because we want to be adored 
**while** we're inhabiting the character.  Coriolanus, Captain 
Renard -- they're a means to an end for me."

"Is that what I am to you, Stuart?" she asked.  "Another source 
of adoration?"

"Ah....got it!" He pulled off the restrictive thong and tossed it 
into a corner for the dresser to find later.  Pulling on a terrycloth 
robe, he sat next to her on the couch and took her hands in his.   
"No, Dana.  There's more to it than that.  You are my 
touchstone, my standard of what is true in the world.  You keep 
me honest.   Really, darling, this job of mine is ultimately an 
exercise in egoism.  I'm not like you.  I'm not developing new 
ways to use DNA testing to solve crimes.  I'm not putting 
criminals behind bars.  I'm not actually helping my fellow 
humans in any truly significant way.  Before you came along, I 
said to myself:  acting is the only thing you know how to do, so 
you'd just as well forget about everything else.  But Dana, you 
**are** everything else to me.  Work has been the only thing that 
mattered to me.  Now I have someone to go home to, someone to 
answer to, someone who will question my motives.  I like myself 
much more now that you're here."  

She placed a kiss on his cheek.  She loved his honesty, the clarity 
with spoke of himself, and the importance of his place in the 
universe.  He had no desire to deceive anyone.  He knew it was 
all playacting.  The serious business of his life went on in his 
relationships with the people he loved.  

"Stuart.  I can't help myself.  I do adore you."

His bearded face broke into a lambent grin, and he bowed his 
head to her as if he were about to be knighted by the queen.  

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder returned from Ann Arbor only two hours before he was 
to meet Scully at the theatre for the opening of Stuart's 
production.  He had gone out to Michigan to follow up some 
leads in the Kaparthy case.  There were no fresh bodies, just a 
few professors to interview regarding Kaparthy's time at the 
University.  

In spite of all the times he had ditched his partner in the past, he 
missed her when he was traveling on business.  Since she had 
taken herself out of the field (for the most part), he had 
discovered the drudgery of traveling alone.  He missed being 
able to talk out the inconsistencies of the case.  He missed eating 
bad food and staying in rundown motels with her.  And he 
especially missed being able to her room in the middle of the 
night and ask for her counsel on the case, or whatever else was 
keeping him awake.  Almost always, she would invite him into 
her room and sit with him until sunrise, listening attentively and 
offering her well-considered insights.  Sometimes they argued 
about the case, but generally, by rehashing the theories and the 
facts, they indirectly comforted each other over what horrors 
they had seen.  

On many of those nights he had wanted more than just her 
advice.  He had never asked for anything more, however, and 
she had never offered.  He could sublimate these feelings during 
the day, while they were actively working.  But at night, his 
defenses crumbled, and he began to see his partner as a 
beautiful, shapely redhead with a mind that could unravel 
astrophysics -- in that order.  Even when he was not troubled by 
the case he found himself on her threshold, just hoping to catch 
sight of her in her sleepwear.  Without her well-tailored armor, 
she was nearly irresistible.  Mulder remembered every pair of 
pajamas and every nightgown he had seen her in on those trips, 
and with each memory came the painful renewal of the desire 
she stirred in him.  

While sleeping on her sofa the week before, he had mulled over 
the revelations that had passed between them.  She had 
admitted that night that she had experienced similar feelings for 
him in the past.  Mulder knew now that if he hadn't given in to 
his obsession in Apison he might be the man making love to 
Scully after the play tonight.  As it was, he had to be content 
with escorting her to the theatre and then to the after party, 
where Stuart would sweep her into his arms and take her away 
to his bed.  

Mulder tugged at his bow tie in the rearview mirror of his car.  
He was actually going to be on time.  

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

At intermission, Mulder bought Scully a drink and tried to calm 
her anxiety over the upcoming battle scene.  He was having 
trouble coming up with reasons why she shouldn't worry.  He 
was desperately preoccupied by the dress she was wearing.  It 
was black, form-fitting, with the shoulders and long, tight 
sleeves made of sheer black illusion.  She wore her new ring and 
a small pair of earrings in the shape of a casually drawn X, with 
each branch of the X paved with small diamonds.  She tugged at 
an earlobe self-consciously when he asked her about them.

"Stuart wanted to buy me something for tonight, so I picked 
these out.  Seemed appropriate, I guess."

"What, Tiffany's doesn't make a diamond-encrusted version of 
the Enterprise?" Mulder scoffed.

She smiled brilliantly at him.  "Mulder.  You're back to your old 
self.  You must've seen something truly gruesome in Ann Arbor."

"A shitload of snow, and not much else," he muttered, sipping 
his drink.  "What've you been doing while I've been gone?  
Besides fucking Coriolanus, I mean."

She frowned severely at him.  "Mulder.  That's really rude, you 
know."

"I know.  Sometimes I just have to give in and be the jerk that I 
am, Scully.  Sometimes a poodle just has to be a dog."

Scully was jostled by two women who were struggling to get to 
the bar.  She easily overheard their comments about Stuart.  

"God, he's in great shape.  Did you see his ass?  And that 
beard......Think how it must feel against your skin."  Copious 
giggles.  "Have you heard about the redhead?  I saw a picture of 
her in _Washingtonian_.  I heard that she's from D.C., someone 
he met here."

"Lucky bitch," the other woman said, drawing more tittering.

Mulder cackled loudly at that, unintentionally drawing their 
attention.  The women turned to eye him, and spotted Scully at 
his side.  Scully slipped her arm through Mulder's and walked 
him into the crowd before, she hoped, either woman recognized 
her.

"Scully, you can't keep doing that," Mulder said, putting his 
hand over hers where it clasped his arm.  "If you're going to 
marry him, you have to get used to this."

"I know.  I'm working around to that.  Why do you think she 
called me a bitch?"

"Because she wants what you have, Scully," he whispered 
intensely.  He gaped at her as if she had lost her mind.  "Why 
do you think?  It's not as if she actually knows you.  She's 
judging you, and Stuart, by what's she seen from her spot in the 
audience.  She doesn't care what he's really like, Scully.  She 
wants what she **thinks** he is -- Renard."

Scully squeezed her partner's arm.  For a moment she wished 
they were miles away, tracking some monster through the dark 
forest, like in the old days.  

Mulder knew exactly where her thoughts were.  "If it doesn't 
work out, Scully --"

"Don't say it," she said, forcing a smile.  "The last thing I need 
is for you to put the Mulder-whammy on my future."

He chuckled, and a hank of his carefully combed hair dislodged 
in the process.  Scully reached up to smooth it back from his 
forehead, and as she did, he caught her hand and pressed it to 
his lips.  

"You shouldn't do that, you know," she said quietly.  

He kissed each pale knuckle, then turned her palm upward so 
kiss the warm underside of her wrist.  Then he held her hand as 
if as if they had just made a deal and were cementing it with a 
handshake.  

"I'm trying to reform, but loving you is one vice that may be too 
hard to give up."

She nodded and squeezed his hand.  

"I know what you mean, Mulder."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The premiere party was at the River Club in Georgetown, an 
enormous room with two vast walls of windows overlooking the 
Potomac and the skyscrapers of Roslyn across the river.  The 
restaurant was simply designed like the deck of a yacht, with 
beautifully polished wood everywhere, clean-lined iron railing to 
separate the bar from the dining room, and shiny brass fixtures 
where hardware was required.  The lighting was soft and 
modern, the tables were covered in crisp white cloths and 
adored with only a few blossoms.  The most extravagant 
decoration consisted of the millions of tiny white lights on the 
trees along the river bank.

A jazz nonet was playing at one end of the room.  As Mulder 
and Scully arrived, the singer was just beginning her version of 
"Sigh No More, Ladies" in honor of the playwright.  Scully 
ducked into the ladies room, leaving Mulder to scope out the 
crowd.  He recognized several Congressmen, a few cabinet 
members, even a few of the actors he had just seen wearing odd 
post-apocalyptic versions of Roman garb.  He reached out to a 
passing waiter and grabbed a glass of champagne.  He was 
hoping to get in a few dances with Scully before Stuart showed 
up.  

"Did I miss anything?" she said, touching his elbow.

Mulder saw that she had refreshed her dark burgundy lipstick 
and combed out her freshly-trimmed bob.  He detected a subtle 
wave of perfume coming from behind her ear, and longed to 
plunge his nose into her hair and nuzzle her neck until he came 
to the source of the sweetness.  

"Oooohhhh, Scully....This is getting to be a problem," he 
mumbled, shaking his head, but smiling nonetheless.  

"Sorry -- what'd you say?"

"Dance?"

"Sure."

Mulder drained his glass and took her onto the dance floor. 
Against his baser instincts, he held her at a respectable distance, 
just as he had learned in the Chilmark-Vineyard Haven sixth-
grade cotillion.  Back then girls had been as scary as any EBE, 
and he had been only too happy to keep his distance.  It was a 
little more of a struggle now, particularly as he peered down at 
the swell of Scully's decolletage through the transparent black 
fabric that covered her shoulders.  

He felt the warmth of her palm through his jacket, and then 
realized that she was fingering his holster.  

"Mulder?  You packing?" she asked coyly.

"Only for you, Scully," he replied with a mild leer.  "Only for 
you."

Scully snorted.  "You're not planning on getting into trouble 
tonight, I hope."

"No such luck," he said under his breath.  "So Scully.  Where's 
**your** weapon?"

He saw the blush begin below the neckline of her dress and 
spread to the roots of her hair.  

"Dammit, Mulder.  You're a rude son of a bitch, you know 
that?"

"Is it -- hmm, let me think -- is it taped to your thigh?"

"Shut up."

He chuckled again as he pulled her closer and gently pushed her 
around in a circle.  He was grinning his dopey grin when she 
finally looked up at him, and as he saw her effort to detest him 
turn to a bashful smile, he lowered his head to brush his cheek 
against her hair.

The song changed to "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?", 
but the partners never paused in their leisurely dance.  

"So.  Did you give Stuart your answer yet?"

"Yeah.  I did."

Mulder felt his stomach drop into his shoes.  He had known this 
moment would come eventually, but he had not expected it to be 
quite so easy for her to answer his question.

"Well?" he prompted after a moment.

"I said yes," Scully said, tightening her grip on his hand.  She 
fixed him with an apologetic gaze that he knew came right up 
from her heart.  "He has to leave in just a few weeks....so I made 
a decision on the fly."

Mulder swallowed hard and uttered the first words that came 
to mind.  " 'I have heard the mermaids singing each to each.  I do 
not think that they will sing to me.' "

A shadow of pain flickered across her face at the sounds of the 
poet's words.  

"Oh, Mulder, I know you're hurting when you start messing with 
Eliot," she murmured.  

He gave her a sad smile, and shrugged.  

"That's a very big decision," he said, noting the flecks of 
aventurine amid the jade and aquamarine of her eyes.  

"So it is," Scully said.  "I haven't told anyone else yet.  You're 
the first to know."

"Thanks.  I think."  He sighed deeply and resisted the urge to 
gather her in his arms and squeeze her to his heart.  "Will you 
move to London?"

"We haven't worked out the details yet.  With tonight out of the 
way, we should be able to sit down and --"

Mulder felt a tap on his shoulder and turned, Scully still in his 
arms, to face the star of the evening.  He felt Scully's pulse 
quicken as she slipped from his embrace and into Stuart's.  For a 
moment he was frozen to the spot, his body shocked by the loss 
of her warmth.  

He watched as Stuart pressed his lips to Scully's, creasing her 
cheek slightly with the pressure of his kiss, discreetly and deftly 
flicking his tongue into her mouth, eliciting a nearly inaudible 
moan from Scully.  Much to his horror, Mulder felt a quickening 
in his own groin.  

Flashes were popping throughout this exchange, and the rain of 
light continued as Stuart pulled away and dabbed at his lips 
with a handkerchief.  With an indulgent smile, Scully took the 
white cloth from him and wiped away the last trace of her 
lipstick.  She returned the handkerchief to him and slipped a 
proprietary arm around his slender waist.  

"Mul-DAH," the actor said, extending his hand to the younger 
man.

Mulder shook his hand with as much enthusiasm as he could 
muster.  

"Stuart.  You were brilliant.  We enjoyed the play immensely."

"You did?" Scully queried.  "I thought it was deadly dull, 
except for Stuart's bare bottom."

Mulder glared at her.

"Thank you, darling,"  Stuart said, cocking an eyebrow.  "I 
think."

"Stuart, do I have to share you with all these people, or can you 
sit with us and have something to eat?"  

"A man's got to eat, eh Mulder?  Let's take that table, in the 
corner.  Maybe they'll let us eat in peace there, darling," he said, 
steering her off the dance floor with a light hand on her back.

Mulder followed obediently.  He noted for the first time that 
evening the deep slit up the back of Scully's long, straight skirt.  
It went at least three inches above her knee, and with each step 
revealed an expanse of shapely leg in sheer black hosiery and 
slim ankles wrapped with the silky ribbon ties of her evening 
pumps.  The illusion panel at the shoulders of the dress plunged 
into a vee between her shoulder blades, revealing a constellation 
of golden brown freckles.  

Once they had reached their destination, a table in the corner 
where the vast walls of windows met, Mulder instinctively 
reached to pull out her chair.  He found his hands and Stuart's 
momentarily holding the chair back together.  Mulder backed 
away and allowed Stuart to seat her.  

Mulder had always feared that Scully thought that he 
completely lacked social graces, which was utterly incorrect.  
Mulder had been deprived of many intangibles in his childhood, 
but his mother had made sure that he had impeccable manners.  
He knew what to do and when to do it.  In the dives he and 
Scully frequented on the road, there was no call for this 
knowledge.  He did open doors for her, help her step over 
corpses, and offer to hold her scalpel for her.  But she never 
seemed to notice those niceties.  With Stuart around, Mulder 
doubted that she would notice if he drank himself silly, belched 
up clouds of foul gas, and scratched every itch as it came up.    

Mulder took his seat on the other side of Scully and as a waiter 
placed a plate of party food -- salmon, grilled vegetables, 
bruschetta, tiny mushroom tarts, bits of sushi -- in front of them.  
Someone else came along with champagne.  Mulder stuck a fork 
in the salmon and tried to conjure up his appetite.  

"Thank you for taking care of Dana this evening," Stuart said to 
him.

Mulder looked at Scully, expecting to see her erupt in a fury over 
the implication that she needed taking care of.  She returned his 
look, and then patted Stuart's hand.  

"Mulder has a lot of experience in protecting me, Stuart," she 
said.  "He's so good at it that I hardly even realize when he's 
doing it.  Right, Mulder?"

"If you say so, Scully," he murmured.  

"You'll have a few more opportunities to put your skills to 
work," Stuart said, sipping his wine.  "I'm flying back to New 
York tonight.  Tomorrow I'm taping about five thousand 
interviews in a room at the Plaza.  I'll be back before the show 
on Tuesday."

"Ah, the Plaza," Mulder said innocuously.  "Can't beat the 
Plaza."

"Mulder spends a lot of time in New York," Scully said, 
fingering the lip of her glass.

Mulder shot her an evil look.

"On business," he said quickly.  

"That right?"  Stuart smiled mischievously.  "What's her name, 
Mulder?"

Mulder glared at Scully, whose face remained blank.  She was 
following the exchange like a tennis match.    

"What's your favorite hotel in New York, Mulder?"

"I usually stay with friends," he said tersely.  He was surprised 
that Scully would bring up the sore subject of his visits to New 
York, particularly since he'd told her that he'd called it off with 
Marita.  

"What will the interviews be about?" Scully asked.

"The new Trek film," Stuart replied.  He popped a grape in his 
mouth and bit into it.

"Will you be meeting with what's-his-name about that movie?" 
Scully said.

"You mean Branaugh?  No, I'm afraid not.  He doesn't want me.  
Luckily I have someone who does," he said, smiling sweetly at 
her.  

"You can't be serious," Scully said.

Stuart shook his head.  "I think he's wary of the taint of Captain 
Renard.  But it really doesn't matter.  To everything there is a 
season, yes?  What do you think, Mulder?"

"I believe in fate, if that's what you mean," Mulder said 
carefully, his eyes wandering to Scully's face.  But her gaze was 
fixed on Stuart.  

"I wonder....Is it fate that brought us all together this evening?"

Mulder casually covered his mouth with his hand, trying to 
make it look like a contemplative gesture rather than a self-
imposed gag.  

Stuart continued.  "Or was it simply biochemistry, as Dana likes 
to suppose?  Mulder, do you believe that a stunning young 
woman like your partner could be so overmastered by her 
hormonal urges that she could be blind to my obvious 
deformities?"

Mulder saw Scully wince.  Publicly displaying her affection for 
him was one thing; discussing it in the round was another.

"I've never known her to be overmastered by anything, least of 
all emotion."

"Not emotion, Mulder," Stuart said, leaning toward him 
conspiratorially.  "Sex."

Mulder's hand went back to his mouth.  For a moment he forced 
himself to stare deeply into the complex arrangement of food 
before him.  

"......something stronger," Scully mumbled.  She gestured to the 
waiter and ordered a very dry Lillet martini, straight up.

Mulder cleared his throat and risked speech.

"That was some fight scene, Stuart.  How did you prepare for 
that?"

"I've been working out at the theatre with the fencing master.  
And Dana gives me a run for my money --"

"Stuart --"  she interrupted.

"Did you try the sushi?" Mulder asked hurriedly.  "It's great.  
I'm starved.  I did three miles in the snow this morning before I 
left Ann Arbor.  That kind of cold really takes it out of me.  
Probably should've stopped at two, but --"

He paused when the waiter delivered Scully's martini.  She 
immediately took a big gulp of it.  Both men scowled as they 
watched her pluck a two-inch square of lemon rind from the 
clear liquid, suck it dry, and eat it.  

"No wonder you always have such fresh breath," Mulder 
muttered. 

"Mulder, answer me this," Stuart began.  He spread his big 
hands on the white cloth and aligned the cutlery with his 
thumbs.  "If Dana's theory of chemical attraction is correct, how 
would you explain your resistance to her unique chemistry?"

Mulder looked to Scully now.  Her face was as impassive as 
ever.  

"Heaven rest us, I'm not asbestos," Mulder quipped, trying to 
throw on one of his lopsided smiles.  

No one was laughing.  

She gave Mulder a subtle but deadly squint that he had seen a 
million times before.

Mulder was rescued by the trilling of his cellular phone.

"Sorry."  He produced the phone from his breast pocket and 
answered it.  

"Mulder.....right.  Where?  Thirty-sixth and P?  I'm right down 
the street.  No problem."

He folded the phone and put it away.  He made to push his 
chair back, but Scully stopped him.

"What is it, Mulder?"

"Someone found a body, just north of M Street, on the sidewalk 
in front of the Exorcist house."

"The Exorcist house?" Stuart queried.

"The book was based on events that occurred in a private 
residence in Georgetown," Mulder explained. 

"Can't be the first body ever found there, Mulder," Scully said.  
"What's our angle?"

"Looks like it might be Kaparthy again.  You coming?" 

 The two agents rose to go.  Scully placed a kiss on Stuart's bald 
head, and then another one on his lips.  Mulder had to look 
away when Stuart stood and embraced her.  He jingled his keys 
and shuffled his feet.  He turned back too soon:  Stuart had 
gathered her in his arms and was again kissing her passionately.

She extricated herself gracefully and picked up her tiny purse.  

"I have to go now.  I'll call you as soon as I can."

The Actor, 11:  Passionate Faith
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
NC-17 (for violence, profanity)
S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder)

See Disclaimer in the Prologue.

Summary:  After Scully is injured, some truths emerge.  

Author's Note:  Again, I'm writing from memories, this time 
regarding Georgetown geography.  I lived in DC for a while, 
about eight years ago, and was taken to the so-called Exorcist 
steps by a friend.  I have no idea if they're still there.  Also, 
sorry the X-file is a bit thin -- not my forte, really. :)




Mulder pulled up at the police barricade across thirty-sixth 
street.  Scully was out of the car before he had cut the engine.  
He knew she was eager for a distraction after that last odd 
exchange with Stuart.  

She flashed her ID to the officer guarding the body and knelt on 
the side walk.  Mulder watched her from a distance.  She took a 
pair of latex gloves from the medical examiner and put them on.  
Then, teetering on her high heels, she pulled back the sheet and 
took a look.

The blood was red, not green -- as always, she felt a wave of 
relief at that.  It was the body of a young woman in her early 
thirties.  She was dressed in jeans and an anorak.  A knapsack 
full of books and notebooks lay in the gutter where she had 
dropped it.  Her lifeless eyes gaped up at Scully.  One eyebrow 
was raised, as if she had been about to ask a question at the 
moment the killer struck.  

"Mulder, look at this."

He squatted down next to her.  

"Hey, that's the look you were giving me back at the 
restaurant!"

"Look at her scalp."  Scully carefully parted the victim's wavy 
brown hair.  At her touch, the scalp fell away from the forehead 
to reveal a gaping hole in the cranium.  

"Mulder, her brain is gone."

"Now there's a cure for migraines," he quipped.  

Scully stood and pulled off her gloves.  

"It's a nasty murder, but I see nothing here to indicate any 
paranormal phenomena at work."

"You never do, Scully," he said, looking her in the eye.

She flinched at that.  

"Well, what do you see, then?"

"White male, forty to fifty.  Academic type, I'd say.  Probably a 
teacher, professor, researcher.  Had a massive superiority 
complex.  Right-handed -- I **know** you know that, Scully.  She 
knew him.   He dumped her body here in a feeble attempt to 
make it look like it was done by a satanic group.  He's lived in 
the DC area for a while, or has recently returned here after an 
absence -- obviously he knows about the history of this place.  
That house was torn down years ago."  Mulder looked over his 
shoulder.  "And I'd say he left on foot, down those steps to the 
river.  He parked his car at the liquor store down there, and left 
over the Key Bridge.  He's probably on the other side of 
Arlington by now."

"Or he took Chain Bridge Road and doubled back to North 
Georgetown," she posed.  

"Kaparthy?" Mulder asked.

"Very possibly.  You want to visit the liquor store with me?"

"Sure.  Just let me tell them what to do with the body."

Mulder stood at the top of a long flight of brick stairs that 
connected thirty-sixth street with M street.  Thirty-sixth was on 
a high bluff overlooking the Potomac, whereas M street was at 
water level.  Across the river were the twinkling towers of 
Roslyn.  Downstream a little to his left was the River Club where 
they had left Stuart.  A breeze came off the river and lifted 
Mulder's hair.  He shivered and looked over his shoulder again. 

"Let's go," Scully said, passing him.

He caught her elbow and stopped her.

"Scully."  She looked up at him, wide-eyed.  "I'm sorry about 
that -- that mess back there.  I couldn't control it.  I thought I 
could, but I was wrong."

"You can't control him, Mulder.  And apparently neither can I.  
Come on."

He followed her down the precipitous steps to a tiny parking lot 
that served a tattoo parlor, an all-night liquor store, a bar with 
blacked-out windows, and a tiny adult bookstore.  

"Georgetown ain't what it used to be," he muttered.

In the liquor store, Scully presented her ID to the clerk behind the 
bullet-proof glass. He was a slim, elegantly-boned Ethiopian 
man with an enormous volume of torts spread on the counter 
before him.

They described the type of suspect they had in mind, and the 
clerk immediately began nodding.  

"There was a man here about forty-five minutes ago, wearing a 
tweed jacket and little spectacles," the clerk told them.  "And a 
little red bow tie.  He reminded me of the guy in 'My Fair 
Lady.'"

"Henry Higgins," Mulder murmured to Scully.

"Did he buy anything?" Scully asked.

"A couple of bottles of sherry," the clerk replied.  "Paid in 
cash."

"Was he carrying anything with him?" Mulder asked,

"A beaten-up leather briefcase.  It was stuffed with books and 
papers.  I think he had a university ID tag on it, but I can't be 
sure."

"Did you see his car?" Scully asked.  

"Volvo station wagon."

In the parking lot, Scully turned to Mulder.  "So he bought a 
couple of bottles of cheap sherry, carried the body up the stairs, 
dumped it, came back down, and took off?"

"He put the bottles in the car, for later.  Then he got the body 
and took it up the stairs."  

"What makes you so sure that he used the stairs at all?  Why 
wouldn't he just park up on thirty-sixth?" she asked.  

"All the spaces were full because of the concert in the church 
across the street.   The Messiah always draws a crowd -- it's 
that time of year, after all.  And it was important to him to use 
the stairs, because of the book."

"I haven't read the book, but in the movie the priest is thrown 
out the window and onto the stairs --"

"Precisely.  I bet he could hear the Hallelujah Chorus while he 
was working."  Mulder flashed a toothy grin, his teeth blindingly 
white in the fluorescence of the street lights.  "Theatrical 
bastard, wouldn't you say?"

Scully looked up the stairs and then back at the parking lot.  

"What about these other establishments?  Think he had any 
business in the bookstore?"

"Nah.  He only goes for the high-brow stuff.  The stuff in that 
place is crap."

She cocked an eyebrow at him.  "Is that right?"

Mulder shrugged.  "I've always been the bookish type, Scully."

She smiled and shook her head.

"Let's get a sweep of the stairs," he said.  "What time is it?  
Midnight?  Why don't we find a sherry party to crash.  Maybe 
Professor Higgins had a date to keep."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the car Scully commandeered Mulder's cell phone.  The city 
police had identified the victim as graduate student in 
communications at Georgetown University.  

"She was single, lived alone, and worked as a TA to a -- you 
guessed it -- Professor Higgins.  His address his up Reservoir 
Road a bit.  Do you want me to talk to him while you sniff out 
the campus?"

"I'm not leaving you on this one, Scully.  That brain thing -- it's 
too much like Madison."

"It's fairly unlikely that one has nothing to do with the other."

"The MO's little different, I'll grant you.  The brain instead of 
the tongue.  I'd be willing to bet he changed organs because her 
accent wasn't bad.  Where was she from originally?"

"Northern Virginia," Scully replied.  "But English was her 
second language.  Her parents came here from India when she 
was sixteen."

"A different sort of accent from to jangle his ears.  He's getting 
shaky, straying from his original purpose.  Look, Scully, I 
happen to know that your brain is your most treasured 
possession.  I'm sticking with you on this one.  You can yell at 
me later."

She looked ahead into the darkness.  She was freezing under her 
black coat.  The abbreviated evening dress was no heavier than 
a --

"What's that?" she said.

"What's what?"

"Turn around," she ordered.  "I saw a car stopped in that 
street.  Possibly a Volvo wagon.  The hood was up."

Mulder made a U turn and headed back to the unlighted 
residential side street that she indicated.  He parked on the 
corner and was about to get out of the car when she stopped 
him.

"I don't have my gun with me," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"The dress!"

He took a second to leer at her, then reached down to his ankle 
and handed her his extra weapon.

Scully smiled her thanks and put the gun in her coat pocket.   

Mulder walked down the sidewalk, his trench coat billowing 
behind his as he reached under it for his weapon.  Scully 
paralleled him in the street.  As they came close to the car, 
Mulder spoke out in a casual tone.

"Having some trouble there, buddy?"

A halogen light shone in his face, blinding him.

"Just a slight maladjustment," said an elegant voice from behind 
the light.

Scully, from her side of the speaker, detected a roly-poly form in 
a jacket of some rough material, possibly tweed.  

"Just you wait, Henry Higgins, just you wait," she murmured to 
herself, gripping the gun in her pocket.

"Can we help?" she said in a clear voice.

The light was turned on her then.  She held up her left hand to 
shield her eyes, but could see nothing.

"You haven't been following me, have you?" the man asked, his 
voice quavery but his enunciation still perfect.  

"We happened to leave the sherry party right after you..."  
Mulder lied.

"And we were headed in the same direction and saw you pull 
over," Scully continued.

He lowered the light and placed it on the engine block, pointing 
away from him.  It illuminated the squarish form of a Volvo 
station wagon.  

Mulder looked at Scully over the suspect's head, but she was 
still too blind to see him.  

"Oh, you're students, then," the man said, sounding relieved.  "I 
was a bit worried.  You can't be too careful these days.  Young 
man, could you take a look at the engine for me?  I'm afraid I 
know nothing about automobiles."

Mulder moved toward the car with a careful step.  He leaned 
over the engine while reaching for his gun in one fluid motion -- 
and then was knocked flat against the engine.  

Scully roared his name as she heard the crack as the professor's 
heavy flash light connected with his skull.    Now she was 
hearing the rustling sound of his coat against the car as he slid, 
unconscious, to the sidewalk.   

She had Mulder's spare gun out of her pocket in a flash, but it 
was one second too late.  The suspect lunged at her like a 
manatee, bulky but quick.  He plunged a scalpel between her 
ribs, on the right side just below the underwire of the new 
leopard-print silk merrywidow that she had bought just that 
afternoon.  He jerked the blade upward, and then again to the 
right, but felt resistance in both directions.  He withdrew the 
blade, wiped it on her coat like a painter wiping his brush, and 
then pushed her over onto the pavement.  

Scully was alert enough to see him get into Mulder's car and 
speed away on Reservoir Road.  She unbuttoned her coat and 
patted her chest until she found the hole, then covered it with 
two fingers.  She cried out as loudly as she could, and then, 
gradually,  succumbed to the encroaching fog.  

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

At two o'clock in the morning Mulder sat in the waiting area of 
the Surgery unit of Georgetown University Medical Center.  He 
was holding an ice compress on the back of his head and trying 
not to look up. Whenever he moved his head, he wrinkled his 
scalp, reopening the gash left by the attacker's flashlight.  Walter 
Skinner sat next to him, shaking his head and sighing 
intermittently.

"Would you mind not doing that, sir?"

"Doing what, Agent Mulder?"

"That sighing thing."

"Oh.   Sorry.  Mulder, did you call Novak?"

"Yeah, I called him.  The bastard.  Scully's actually going to 
marry him.  Can you believe it?  And over dinner, he insinuated 
that -- you know -- "

Skinner gave him a quizzical look.

"I don't have to spell it out for you, sir.  Any man who boasts of 
his sexual stamina is a screaming tower of insecurity.  Psych 
101.  Jesus, my head hurts."

"Mulder."  It came out as Mul-DAH -- it had to have been said 
by Stuart Novak.  

Mulder looked up at Stuart, and instantly regretted moving.  

Skinner stood and offered him his hand.  

"I'm Assistant Director Walter Skinner, and a really big fan."

Mulder moaned audibly and clutched at his forehead with his 
free hand.  

"Where is she?" Stuart asked breathlessly, sweeping the dark 
fedora off his head and unbuttoning his coat.
     
"In surgery," Skinner replied.  "The fascia around her lung was 
pierced, but she managed to protect the lung by stopping up the 
hole with her finger."

Stuart scowled in horror.  "She did what!?"

"A combination of medical knowledge and fine lingerie saved 
her, gentlemen."

The three men turned to face the surgeon, a young Asian woman 
in sweaty scrubs.  She was carrying what appeared to be a 
white plastic grocery bag.

"What did you say?" Mulder asked.  

"I'm Dr. Yang.  Which one of you is her next of kin?"

"I am," Mulder and Stuart said simultaneously.

The surgeon looked from Stuart to Mulder, and then back at 
Stuart.

"Oh, I know you!  You're Captain --"

"I'm her partner," Mulder said hurriedly.  

"I'm her supervisor at the FBI," Skinner interrupted.  "How is 
she?"

Dr. Yang smiled knowingly; she had seen Scully's beautiful dress 
-- or what was left of it -- and could easily imagine the 
mesmerizing effect of her china-doll beauty against the sultry 
backdrop of such a garment.  

"Dr. Scully is in the SICU, but just for tonight, I expect.  She's 
going to be fine, thanks to this."  Barely suppressing a grin, Dr. 
Yang held up the plastic bag she had carried in and from it she 
produced a bloody, shredded garment made of muted taupe silk 
with small black leopard spots.

"Give me that!" 

Mulder snatched it from the surgeon's hand before either of the 
other men could comprehend what they were seeing.  He 
fingered the site of the entry wound.  A collection of severed thin 
plastic bones protruded from the fabric where it had been cut 
first by the suspect and later by the paramedics.  He caressed 
the lace that trimmed the top of the cups and the garter straps.

"What is that?" Skinner asked.

"It's a merrywidow," Mulder murmured.  He had recognized it 
immediately from his vast experience in celluloid sex, although it 
was far more tasteful than anything that constituted a costume 
in one of those videotapes. He was entranced by the picture that 
was forming in his mind, and then horrified at himself for 
conjuring it up while Scully was suffering.

"It's a what?" Skinner said.

Dr. Yang watched with amusement as Stuart grabbed the 
garment from Mulder's hands and proceeded to show Skinner, 
using his own body, how it was worn.  

"It fastens in the back, with hooks," Stuart was saying, 
spreading the ruined silk across his belly.   

Skinner watched him with undisguised horror.  Mulder wore a 
hint of a smile.

"I believe that's evidence, gentlemen," Dr. Yang said gently.  She 
held out the bag and Stuart reluctantly dropped the heroic 
corset into it.  "The boned panels and the underwire prevented 
the blade from doing more damage.  Basically it was a simple in-
and-out puncture wound.  Dr. Scully had the wherewithal to 
plug the perforation and then make enough noise for the 
neighbors to call 911.  She's a very strong woman.  You should 
be proud of her."

"I am," said all three men, in unison.

Mulder lurched forward, gasping with the pain in his head.

"I need to see her," he said.

"I'd like to see her," Skinner said.  

"I have to see her," said Stuart, stepping between Mulder and 
Dr. Yang.

"One at a time," the doctor said.  "She's been extubated, but 
she doesn't need to do any talking just yet."

The three men followed her through the SICU to the bay where 
Scully rested.  

"One at a time," Dr. Yang repeated quietly, and left them.  She 
was careful to take the evidence with her, lest it become an 
object of contention among the three men.  

Mulder and Stuart faced each other in a cool gaze.  Almost 
simultaneously, each said, "You go."

Mulder shook his head.

"No you should go, Stuart.  She was wearing that -- thing -- for 
you.  I suppose we have you to thank, really."

"Mulder, I'm not sure that's quite accurate, but now is not the 
time to discuss it.  I'll be quick."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder watched through the window of Scully's bay in the SICU 
as Stuart approached her bed.  With the pain in his head, he 
thought it was impossible for him to hurt any more deeply.  He 
was wrong.

He saw Stuart kiss her forehead, her eye lids, her nose, her 
cheeks.  He saved her lips for last.  He touched her temple 
lightly with the back of his hand, then drew his finger along the 
graceful line of her jaw.  Mulder could tell that this was a ritual 
to Stuart, probably enacted whenever he watched Scully 
sleeping.  If the evening had gone according to Mulder's 
honorable plan to simply escort Scully until Stuart was free to 
join them, she would be asleep in Stuart's bed.  If it had gone 
according to Mulder's most heartfelt desire to have Scully for 
himself, she would be asleep in her own bed, with his body 
curled around hers.  

Mulder shook his head and forced himself to look away.  He 
realized then that Skinner had been observing him.

"She'll be fine, Mulder," he said gruffly.

"I know."

Skinner peered through the window as Stuart took Scully's hand 
in his and kissed the tips of her fingers.  

"Mulder, you want the opinion of an older and wiser man?"

Mulder shrugged.  Skinner decided to take that as a yes.

"It's mostly physical between them.  Sex can be an incredibly 
powerful bond, but without the underlying structure of certain 
commonalties.....My feeling is that at his age, he has enough 
experience to make her feel things that a younger man just 
doesn't know about yet."

"Please, sir, you're making me sick."

Skinner smiled slightly.  "She makes him feel immortal.  Needed.  
Admired, on a human level, not for his fame but for his 
character.  When Agent Scully admires a person, she has a way 
of making him feel --"

"Like the only dick in the world?" Mulder said.

"Er -- you could put it that way."

"With all due respect, sir, when did you start handing out 
advice to lovelorn agents?"

Skinner blushed slightly and put his hands in his pockets.  
"When I learned the hard way what it costs to lose someone you 
love because of your work."

"Oh,"  Mulder said numbly.  

Stuart emerged from behind the glass divider.  He was pale and 
looked his age.

"I've left my number with the nurses.  I don't know what else to 
do.  Mulder....you were with her.  Thank you."

"Wait a minute, Stuart.  What were you going to tell me back in 
the waiting room?"

Stuart frowned at him for a moment, and then nodded as he 
remembered.  

"You said that you should thank me because she was wearing 
that -- garment -- for my benefit.  I rather doubt that.  She knew 
that I had to catch a plane to New York tonight after our dinner 
and wouldn't be back until Tuesday.  She told me she would ask 
you to drive her home....and therefore I assume she was dressed 
in that manner for your benefit."

Mulder gaped at the actor.  Stuart had to smile at his ridiculous 
expression.  

"Mulder, I know you're the best man for her.  I do love her, very 
much.  But I'll never really have her as long as you're around."  
Stuart palmed his head, exasperated and weary.  "She's got you 
in her blood, like a virus.  Don't you see -- I planned the trip to 
New York with this in mind, so that the two of you would have 
a chance to --"

"Stuart, why would you do that?"

"I was hoping that she'd get you out of her system, so to speak.  
And then I'd spirit her off to London.......Ah, well.  It doesn't 
matter now.  I'm going home.  A man my age can't stay up all 
night, not even for a woman like Dana."

Mulder and Skinner watched him walk away.  

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

As he had done so many times in the past, Mulder sat by 
Scully's bed and watched her sleep.  He held her gold crucifix in 
his fist, but hesitated to put it around his neck.  He did not 
expect to be in possession of it for long.  

He traced the slender fingers of her left hand with his index 
finger, studying the carefully rounded, unvarnished nails, the 
tiny sprinkling of freckles at the knuckles, and the lurid blue vein 
that stood out on the plane of her hand.  For a moment he 
wondered what her hand what look like with a simple gold 
wedding band, the kind that Mulder would have given her -- 
nothing like the engagement ring that Stuart had bestowed.  The 
plain band seemed more her style.   

He hadn't thought leopard print underwear her style either, until 
the past hour.  What if Stuart's theory were true, and she had 
actually worn it for Mulder?  Scully in animal print and black 
stockings was not the Scully he had so often imagined making 
love to.  He usually pictured her in one of her impeccable suits 
and the underwear she had worn that night in Oregon so long 
ago -- feminine, practical lycra and cotton with a bit of satin 
trim.  He had known her as strong, prudent, brilliant, kind 
Scully, wearer of sensible clothing and, presumably, sensible 
underwear.  

He thought of her in the plain white cotton nightgown she had 
worn that night, the previous week, when he had spent a 
revelatory night on her couch.  She had looked like mere girl, 
virginal and grave.  He had been nearly overwhelmed with desire 
for her at that moment.   The simplicity of her garment, her 
scrubbed face and curling damp hair provided no distractions 
from the essential Scully.  That night he had only wanted to 
wrap his arms around her and pull her close, tell her from the 
depths of his heart the truth about his love for her, and take her 
into her warm bed.  He would mold his body to hers and hold 
her close through the night, that night, and every night, forever.  

He knew that Stuart was most likely accustomed to seeing her 
either completely nude or in the process of shedding some 
equally arousing lingerie.  In his mind's eye Mulder could picture 
Stuart unzipping her beautiful black dress -- the remains of 
which were now in an evidence bag on the floor of her room -- 
and pushing it off her shoulders, pulling it over her hips, 
allowing it to puddle on the floor with a quiet whoosh of silk.  
He saw Stuart kneeling before her, his big hands encircling her 
waist clad in the printed silk, fingering the black lace garters, 
delicately kissing her alabaster thighs.  Scully would rest her 
hand on his bald head, caressing the silver fringe, cooing at the 
feel of his beard against her tender skin.....

He was roused from this reverie by the sound of Scully clearing 
her throat.

"Scully?  How do you feel?"

"I feel like shit.  How do you feel?"

He grinned at her.  "My head's a wreck."

"What's new?" she jibed.

He chuckled and gently squeezed her hand.  

"You're going to be fine.  They just sewed you up and pumped 
you full of antibiotics."

"Great.  Another scar to add to my lovely collection," she said, 
her voice cracking.  

"You sound like Bill Clinton after one too many speeches."

She smiled sleepily.  "Where's Stuart?"  

"At his hotel.  Do you want me to call him?"

"Not just yet.  Come closer, Mulder.  I want to talk to you, but 
you're right -- my voice is going."  Mulder pulled his chair as 
close to the bed as possible, and leaned forward until he was 
only a few inches from her face.  She was oddly flushed by the 
fast infusion of antibiotics, fluids, and blood.  "Mulder, I think 
you need to know.....I was planning to tell you tonight, but 
Professor Higgins blew my plan."

"Tell me what, Scully?"

Mulder tensed.  This was it.  This was when she would tell him 
that she had worn that devilish piece of silk for him, because she 
had changed her mind.

"I'm going to London with Stuart."

He coughed once, twice, and winced at the pain it caused in his 
wounded scalp.  

"Just for a couple of weeks, over Christmas, to meet his family," 
she said, slipping her hand into his.  "I have the schedule in my 
purse, if you'll hand it to me....."

Mulder poked around in the cabinet next to the bed and located 
the small black matte satin bag.  She gestured for him to open it.  
Mulder looked inside; each item he found surprised him more 
than the last.  There was a lipstick called "Viva Glam" (Viva 
Glam?), a lace-edged linen handkerchief (so impractical), a vial 
of cologne marked "Eau de Charlotte" (the vanilla-Cognac scent 
she had worn for years), and a folded piece of paper.  At her 
silent urging, Mulder unfolded the page.  It was a standard 
xerographic page, with an image photocopied on one side.  He 
turned the page at a better angle and instantly recognized his 
own left hand.  

'You kept this?"  

She frowned at the back of the page, then realized what he had 
found.  She reached for it, ineffectually.  

"Ummm, that's -- that's not it," she sputtered  "It must be in the 
little interior pocket, a  printout from the travel agent --"

Mulder smiled slightly.  His instincts told him that this was 
going to be a particularly satisfying addition to the bizarre 
events of the evening.    

"Scully, why did you keep this?  And why did you bring it with 
you tonight?"

Scully clutched absently at the small pile of objects on the bed.  
She grasped the handkerchief nervously, flexing her fingers 
around it repeatedly, rapidly turning it into a hopelessly 
wrinkled ball of linen.  

"I kept it to remind me of that day when you told me that you 
loved me.  I wasn't sure you'd ever be able to say it again."

He refolded the page and put it back in her purse, followed by 
all the other small feminine accoutrements.  Then he stood and 
leaned over her to place a gentle kiss on her pale lips.  He felt 
her free hand come up to caress his torso.  Her palm was 
pleasantly warm and reassuring.  

He held her hand over his heart and smiled tenderly.

"Scully, if you give me the chance, I'll say it several times a day, 
for the rest of my life.  Just don't get on that plane with him."

"I have to," she said, the old Scully clarity rising up through her 
pain.  

"Why do you have to?" 

"I gave him a promise, and I have to keep it," she said clearly.  

Mulder took the necklace from his shirt pocket and gingerly 
slipped the chain around her neck.  He fastened it carefully, then 
slid the chain around so that the catch was hidden and the cross 
lay flat on her sternum.   

"Thanks," she said, fingering the familiar gold.  

He resumed his seat in the unyielding plastic hospital chair.  
Slowly he replaced the items he had removed from her purse, 
and then snapped the tiny bag shut with a resounding click.  He 
put it back in the drawer.  

Scully watched his methodical movements with a fear that was 
tempered only by the pain she felt in her body and the dose of 
analgesic that was coursing through her veins.  She told herself 
that she should've lied, should've told him that it was just a 
piece of scratch paper she had grabbed from the recycling barrel.  
But she was a lousy liar, and Mulder of all people was 
particularly keen when it came to seeing through her attempts to 
obscure her feelings.  

Mulder took her hand and lifted it in his.  Their elbows rested on 
the bed; with her IV line and his bandaged head, it looked as if 
they might engage in a little nursing home arm wrestling.  
Instead, he kissed her fingers where they were folded over his.  

"I'd like to try to talk you out of it," he said, his dopey grin 
made mournful by the lateness of the hour and the gravity of 
Scully's confession.  "But that honorable streak of yours has 
fascinated me over the years.  Keep that promise.  Go to 
London, meet his family, and then come back and tell me how 
you feel about it then.  Just promise me this, Scully.  Don't marry 
him unless you really and truly love him, for keeps.  Because I 
know you.  I know you won't leave him, no matter what, once 
you make that vow."

She nodded, her eyelids heavy, her speech trailing off into a 
girlish whisper so light that he had to put his ear to her lips to 
make out her words.  

"You have a passionate faith in me, don't you...."

"I have every reason to believe in you," he whispered, brushing 
his lips against her brow.   "You and no other, Scully."


The Actor, 12:  London Calling
A.I. Irving
vsmith@ischemia.card.unc.edu
NC-17 (for descriptions of sexual activity and profanity)
S, R (Scully/Other, Scully/Mulder)

See Disclaimer in the Prologue.

Summary:  As Christmas approaches, Mulder says goodbye to 
Scully, and then receives an unexpected gift from Stuart.  

Author's note:  The lyrics of Irving Berlin's song "When I Lost 
You" were used without permission, but with no intention to 
infringe upon the copyright.  



"Merry Christmas, Scully," Mulder said, wincing internally at 
the dubious smile on her face as she read the titles on the books 
he had presented to her.

"_The Insider's Guide to London_ and _The Star Trek 
Compendium_?" Scully said, turning the books over in her 
hands and examining them as if they had just fallen to earth.  

"Everything you need to begin your new life," he said with a 
tight smile.

"Thanks, Mulder," she said softly.  At least it's not a 
subscription to a British bride's magazine, she thought.  

Scully summoned up a smile as she presented Mulder's gift to 
him.  "Happy Hanukkah."

He tore off the blue and gold paper to reveal a small white box.  
Inside, cushioned in cotton, was a small St. Christopher medal 
on a gold chain.

"To keep you safe while I'm away," she whispered.  "I would've 
given you my cross, but I still need it."

"Oh, Scully," he moaned, not because of the gift, but because of 
the tears streaking down her pale cheeks.  He put an arm out 
and gathered her to his chest.  "Don't cry, Scully.  I'll be careful.  
It's the wrong time of year for skullduggery.  Besides, I wouldn't 
want to ruin your happiness by getting myself shot.  What kind 
of selfish bastard would do a thing like that?"

The kind like me, he thought, sniffing back a few tears of his 
own while she wasn't looking.

She heard him nonetheless.  Reluctantly she pried herself out of 
his embrace and wiped her face with her hands.

"Mulder.....I want you to know that this trip to London is just a 
-- a fact-finding mission.  I'll meet Stuart's children, check out 
his house, look into some possible jobs.  But it doesn't mean that 
I won't be back.  Two weeks, that's it."

Mulder saw the futility of her attempts to stop the tears.  As 
soon as she stopped speaking, her face was wet again.  He 
wanted to cry himself, and to hold her again.  But he did neither.  

"I understand, Scully.  Believe me, January is the worst time to 
be in London.  You'll hate it.  I'm not worried about your falling 
in love with the city.  And you'll see Phoebe -- she'll make you 
hate it even more.  And before you know it you'll be back here 
buying a hot dog and a Coke before you've even left the airport.  
I'll even have a party for you, to welcome you back to the land 
of optimism and heartburn."

"A party?  But who would you invite?"

"Well....me.  But I have a big personality.  I can turn the world 
on with my smile...."

She laughed in spite of her tears.  Mulder had to laugh too.  It 
was rare that he saw her cry, and she was crying because she 
was leaving him.  He had every reason to be delighted to know 
that he meant so much to her, except, of course, for the fact that 
she was leaving him to marry another man.  

I never stood a chance, Mulder told himself.  

"I'm sorry," she said, gathering her battered suede carryon and 
slipping the books into it.  "I have to go or I'll miss the plane."

"Right.  Well.  Don't catch cold.  Tell Phoebe I said go to hell.  
And Scully?"

She looked up at him expectantly as she pulled on her gloves.  
He surprised her completely by sweeping her into his arms and 
planting a tender kiss on her lips, followed quickly by a second, 
more determined one.  He felt her gloved hand touch his cheek.  
And then she was gone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Scully dosed in her wide, soft seat in First Class.  Whenever she 
closed her eyes, the memory of Mulder's kiss flooded back to 
her.  Finally she had given in and let herself sleep, hoping that a 
good long dream would satisfy her subconscious.  Instead, she 
dreamed of having Stuart's baby and discovering as the child 
grew older that it had a British accent.  

She felt soft lips on her cheek bone, her temple, her hair.  Her 
eyes fluttered open and she saw Stuart's neck and shoulders.  
His hand was holding hers as he kissed her.  

"Stuart...."

"Hello, darling.  You were mumbling in your sleep.  Thought it 
best to wake you."

"I was dreaming that we had a baby with a British accent.  Very 
strange."

"We've never actually discussed children, have we?" He kissed 
her hand and held it against his cheek.  

"I assumed that since you have two already --"

"They aren't children anymore, darling."

"It's hard for me to picture you bouncing a baby, Stuart," she 
said, rummaging in her suede mailbag for a hairbrush.  "I think 
that may be one point you do actually share with Renard."

"I'd do anything to make you happy, Dana," he said sincerely.  
The darkness of his eyes was intensified by the black of his 
beret.  He squeezed her hand warmly.  

"Anything?" she said, smiling.

"Name it."

"Braid my hair," she said, handing him the brush.

He laughed and took it from her.  "I should never have told you 
about my days as a hairdresser.  Right, then.  Turn around."

He took her copper hair and divided it quickly with precise 
fingers.  Soon he had worked it into a loose French braid, which 
he secured with a covered elastic.  

"There.  Happy?"

"Immensely," she said, turning back around in her seat.  "How 
much longer before we land?"

"About half an hour, I think.  It'll be nine o'clock by the time we 
get home.  You can sleep for a few hours, and then we'll have 
some lunch."

"But I don't want to sleep without you," she said.

He smiled indulgently at her.  "I'll buy groceries, and make a few 
calls, and then perhaps stretch out beside you for a bit.  I'll have 
horrible jet lag if I crash right off."

"Who are you going to call?" she asked as she peered at herself 
in the mirror of her powder compact.

"My agent, for one.  And I'll order up something to the Folger 
people to thank them for my fellowship.  Run down the details 
of my trip to Morocco.  There's a lot to be done, actually.  When 
are we meeting Mulder's friend?  What's her name?  Fiona?"

"Phoebe," Scully corrected him.  Fiona.  Wouldn't she just love 
to be called that?  "Lunch tomorrow.  And yes, you must come 
with me.  She'll eat my alive if I go alone."

"An old flame of Mulder's?"

"THE old flame," Scully said, once again rummaging in her bag.  
This time she brought out a book.  "Look at this book Mulder 
gave me.  It says here that you were the third choice to play 
Captain Renard.  The producers weren't sure they wanted a 
bald Brit.  Is that true?"

"It is.  He gave you that?  Why?"

"He said it would help me prepare for my new life," she said, 
fanning the pages with her thumb.

Stuart nodded thoughtfully.  So Mulder had really given her up.  
He was almost disappointed in the younger man.  

"From what you've told me, it seems that the Internet is a better 
source of gossip about me.   What is it they call me?"

"The Great Bald One," she said with a lascivious grin.  She 
closed the book and leaned over to kiss him.  She touched the 
roof of his mouth with her tongue, bringing a low rumble from 
the throat of the Great Bald One himself.  She followed up with 
a more chaste kiss to his lips.  "Stuart.  You're delicious."

He grunted his response.   

"How long does it take to get to your place from the airport?" 
she asked in a husky whisper.

"About an hour," he replied, his eyes now hooded with lust.  
"But you can always hold my hand in the limo on the way in."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Scully awoke in what was truly Stuart's bed.  It was not as 
broad or as firm as the one in his hotel in Washington -- she 
would miss that room -- but it was well worn on one side where 
he had spent many nights sleeping alone for the past eight years.  

The sheets were of fine Irish linen, softer than she would've 
expected linen to be.  There were at least six pillows, arranged 
all around her body as if to prevent her rolling off the bed in her 
sleep.  And Stuart sat cross-legged next to her, reading a script 
through his half-moon spectacles.  Occasionally he wrote notes 
in the margin, his fountain pen making scratching sounds against 
the paper.  

"Stuart?"

"Hmm?" he said without looking up from his script.

"Can I have your autograph?"

He smiled down at the paper, then carefully closed the 
notebook.  He took off his glasses and placed them, with the 
notebook, on the console next to the bed.  He turned to her with 
a devilish grin on his face.  

"Where would you like it, darling?"

Dana lifted the sheet and looked down at her naked body.  

"Wherever you think best, dearest," she said in her best 
imitation of an obedient wife.  

He chuckled and pulled back the sheet.  Raising the fountain pen 
in his right hand, he scanned her body with his left palm, 
searching for the perfect spot.  He passed a cautious hand over 
the neat line of tiny sutures that marked her stab wound.  He 
stretched taut the skin between her navel and the patch of 
auburn curls, and there he scrawled his name with the sharp 
gold nib of the pen.  Once finished, he carefully capped the pen 
and then bent over her belly to blow on the black ink.  Scully 
giggled as it dried.  

"So that's one autograph I can't sell, isn't it?"

"I should hope not," he said, dropping kisses on either side of 
his name.  

"Oh thank you Mr. Novak I'm such a big fan I just love it when 
you say Make It So Numbah One," she rattled in a perfect 
imitation of the woman who had stopped them in the 
Washington airport.  "The line must be drawn --"

"Here!" he cried, laughing hysterically as he imitated himself.  
He rolled onto his back and shook with laughter. 

Scully crawled over him and continued her parody.  

"Captain, there's a worm hole in the time-space continuum.  All 
the plasma neutrino stuff is leaking out and I'm about to break 
the Prime Directive."

"God, that's really, really horrible," he said, still laughing.  
"We'll have to lie and tell the press that you're a big fan.  If the 
fans find out I'm marrying someone who isn't a Trekker, they'll 
crucify me."

"I can keep my mouth shut in public," she said.  "Believe me, 
I've had a lot of practice with Mulder."

"Poor old Mulder," Stuart mused.  He was a bit breathless from 
his prolonged laughter.

"Why do you say that?"

"He loves you so," Stuart said, pushing her hair back from her 
face.  "He didn't realize it until it was too late.  I pity him, 
really."

"Please don't, Stuart," she said, climbing off of him.  "He would 
hate that."

"He isn't the husband type, is he?  It's difficult to picture him 
buying a house and a cat and settling in for old age."

Scully nodded.  "It would depend on the woman, I think."

"What sort of woman?"

"Wait til you meet Phoebe," she said.  "I'm sure she'll tell you all 
about Mulder.  She seems to enjoy recounting all the intimate 
details....."

"Dana?"

She looked at him, fearing by the tone of his voice that he was 
about to ask if she loved Mulder.

"Did you ever make love with Mulder?"

That was easy.  She nearly sighed with relief.

"No, Stuart.  I've told you before.  We were always friends, 
nothing more."

"It's hard to believe....oh, it's not that I don't trust your word, 
darling.  I mean it's hard to believe that the two of you, traveling 
together, in danger, the intensity of it all...."

"Working on a television series for five years is intense, too.  Did 
you ever sleep with that pretty actress -- the doctor?"

"Miranda?  Yes, I did, actually."  

Scully's eyebrows shot up.  She hadn't expected that answer.  

"You did?  Really?"

"Yes, I did.  It was the catalyst for the breakup of my marriage."  
Stuart sat up on the bed.  "It continued for nearly six months, 
until hiatus that season.  Nearly impossible to keep it a secret.  
Obviously I couldn't keep it a secret from Beverly."

"Beverly was your wife?" she asked, realizing, much to her 
surprise, that she had never asked him about his first marriage.  

He nodded.  

"And after the divorce?" Scully asked.

"We had a few erratic encounters," he replied, scratching his 
head.  "She's still a friend.  But the sex alone couldn't sustain 
the relationship on that level.  We're very lucky, you know, 
Dana.  Amazing sex and everything else, too.  That's rare in a 
relationship."

"Is it?"

"In my experience, yes," he replied gravely, trying not to notice 
the darkness that had passed over her face in the last five 
minutes' conversation.  

Then Scully did the only thing that ever helped when she felt 
doubts about her bond with Stuart.  She reached out for him and 
began to undress him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Stuart was singing to her, quietly, so quietly that, had been 
anyone else in the room the singing would surely have gone 
unnoticed.  Scully mused that at least in spirit there was 
someone else in the room, but then tried to shut all thoughts of 
Mulder's dark eyes out of her mind as she felt Stuart's warm 
breath over her ear.  She had been dreaming of a dark-eyed baby 
again, but this time it grew up to have a slight New England 
accent and an errant forelock of straight brown hair.  Now she 
found herself floating, floating, back down to Stuart's bed in 
Hampstead.  Her arms were wrapped around him.  

He stopped his serenade when he realized that she was awake.

"My technique must've lost something in the translation," he 
said with a kind smile.  "You fell asleep."

"I did?  Oh my God.  I'm so sorry, Stuart."  She passed an 
unsteady hand over her face.  "Must be the jet lag."

"Of course.  You haven't been sleeping well lately, anyway, have 
you?"

She shook her head and shifted beneath him.  The feel of his 
hairy, muscular legs against her smooth ones was comforting.  

"How's the wound?" he asked, peering down at her sutures.

"Fine.  It just itches a bit," she replied distractedly.  "Dr. Yang 
said I could take the sutures out myself in a few days."

"Hmm."

"Stuart...."

"Darling...."

"I want....."

"I know.  I've just been lying here with you, savoring this time.  I 
love you so much, Dana." His throat filled with emotion for a 
moment, and then he continued.  "I guess I've known for a while.  
I should've told you before dragging you all the way over here."

She blinked at him, as if to clear away any uncertainty in her 
understanding of his meaning.

"You must go back to Mulder," Stuart said.  "I know it's -- 
easier -- to love me, to love **anyone** but him, but it's Mulder 
you must love, darling.  Call it fate, or proximity, but it's as 
clear as the freckles on your nose."

"It is?"

Stuart nodded.  His eyes were wide and dark with sadness. 
"Besides, no one else will ever have him.  I can't deny the boy 
the one woman who's capable of tolerating his eccentricities."

"You can find someone else more easily than he can.  Is that 
what you mean?"

"Not at all.  I've been alone for a long time, Dana.  At my age, I 
was ready to marry a wonderful woman, to settle down, get 
back to family life.  But it's clear to me -- I love you more than 
you love me.  That's enough for me, and I think if there were no 
Mulder, it would be enough for you too."

Tears pooled in her eyes.  The accuracy of what he had said 
stung her deeply.  She loved him for being the one who was 
strong enough to admit the truth.  

"You're breaking my heart," she whispered, choking back a 
jagged sob.

He pulled her into a sitting position to make it easier for her to 
cry against his bare shoulder.  He stroked her beautiful, pale 
back, watching his fingers trail across the freckles for the last 
time.  His own tears soon fell.

"I love you, Dana.  If it doesn't work out, I want you to come 
back to me," he said clearly.  

She nodded into his shoulder.  

"And Dana."  He pulled away from her just enough to look her 
in the eye.  "If it does work out, please bring Mulder to see all 
my films.  I hate to think of your staying away from the cinema 
because of this."

She laughed tearfully.  "Captain, my captain...."

"The next flight to Washington leaves in two hours.  Shall I call 
him and have him meet you at the gate?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Scully alternately wept and slept on the way home.  Whenever 
she shifted in her seat, she caught the scent of Stuart wafting up 
from her body.  She pulled her cashmere shawl across her 
shoulders and found that it, too, was permeated with his spicy 
scent; she had draped it over him as he slept during their flight 
to Britain.  She closed her eyes and saw him gazing at her 
tenderly, eyes glistening with tears, as she boarded the plane 
without him.  

As she drifted off to sleep, she heard him singing softly to her in 
his bed back in Hampstead, remembering the lyrics that had 
eluded her until then.

I lost the sunshine and roses
I lost the heaven of blue
I lost the beautiful rainbow
I lost the morning dew
I lost angel who gave me
Summer the whole winter through
I lost the gladness 
That turned into sadness
When I lost you.  

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder caught a cab outside the Hoover building.  He calmly 
asked the cabbie to deliver him to National Airport, and then 
settled down for a slow ride through rush-hour traffic.  

His stomach was in knots.  Stuart's call had taken him by 
surprise. When the phone in his office rang, he had only just 
made up his mind to put off planning what to do when Scully 
came back from Britain.  He had asked Stuart to repeat himself 
a couple of times.  The grief in the actor's voice was 
unmistakable, in spite of his trying to put a positive spin on his 
loss.  Mulder's heart went out to him.  Only a day ago he had 
been in the same position.  

And now.....on one hand, Mulder felt as if he had been waiting 
his whole life -- at least since Sam disappeared -- for this 
moment.  He was ready for the aching gap in his heart to heal.  
On the other hand, he was afraid of what would happen if 
Scully's love didn't fill that gap.  Perhaps it was too much to 
expect from another person.  And what if she didn't love him at 
all?  What if Stuart were wrong?  What if he took her from the 
airport back to her apartment, and put his arms around her, and 
she stepped away in distaste?  What if all the chemistry that 
had built up between them turned out to be nothing but familial 
affection?  

Mulder popped a breath mint in his mouth as the cab rolled 
onto the bridge.  He doubted that the chemistry was lacking.  He 
had felt it just yesterday, when he kissed Scully good-bye, and 
she had most definitely kissed him back.  He had felt the 
quickening in his groin when she touched his face.  In fact he 
could recreate the feeling as he sat in the overheated cab, 
thinking of her cool, pale face, her lush coral-rose lips, the lashes 
so long that they brushed her cheeks when she blinked.  

He clinched and unclenched his fists as the cab crept closer and 
closer to the airport.  He wished he had worn a more appealing 
tie.  He loosened the knot at his neck and considered ditching 
the whole thing, but then it occurred to him that he would look 
rumpled if he did.  Since when did he care about looking 
rumpled around Scully?

Since 4:18 that afternoon.  One of the last things Stuart had said 
to him was "don't fuck this up, young man."  Mulder was 
intensely worried that he would do just that.  He was 
unaccustomed to loving someone in the way that knew he 
wanted to love Scully.  He wanted to take make her happy.  He 
wanted to stop hurting her.  He was afraid that there was 
something intrinsic to his personality that made it impossible for 
him to be consistently kind to her.  

The cabbie slammed on his brakes just as they turned onto the 
airport exit ramp. He cursed in a language that Mulder could not 
identify.  

Mulder sat back against the hard vinyl seat and reflected that 
what made it impossible for him to be consistently kind to 
Scully was not some flaw in his personality but a laziness of 
character that he could, with some effort, correct.  If he could 
teach himself to juggle, if he could do advanced calculus, if he 
could remember every single goddamned book he had ever read, 
then he could remember to call her when he was going to be late.  
He made up his mind, there on the Alexandria Parkway, to take 
Stuart's admonition to heart.  He owed it to Scully, and he owed 
it to Stuart.

Mulder looked at his watch.  The cab hadn't moved in five 
minutes.  Scully's place was due to land at 6:59.  It was 6:55.  

He handed some cash to the cabbie and got out of the car.  His 
coat flapping around him, Mulder ran across the Parkway, 
through the sea of honking cars stopped in traffic.  He leapt 
across the median and danced between the speeding cars on the 
other side of the road.  He jumped the guard rail, and at last he 
was on airport property.  

Snow was falling lightly as he jogged across the parking lot.  He 
was panting harshly and sweating under his suit by the time he 
reached the American terminal.  Once inside, he skidded into the 
baggage claim area and nearly bumped into --

-- a small red-haired woman in a long camel coat.

"Sorry," he muttered, scanning the crowd for the familiar hair.

"Mulder?"

He looked over the heads of the gathered passengers, sure that 
he had heard her call his name.  

"Mulder?"  

He felt a small, warm hand in his, and looked down irritably --

"Hey, Scully!  It's -- it's you!"

"Yeah, it's me," she agreed weakly.  "So.  Mulder.  Fancy 
meeting you here."

"Sorry I'm late," he said.  "Friday night traffic.  You know how 
it is."

"Yep.  Well.  I've got my bag, if you want to give me a ride 
home....."

"Only one bag?"

"I took all black," she explained, handing him the small suitcase.  

He nodded his understanding.  She seemed so small in that big 
coat.  Her face was drawn, and the tiny lines around her eyes 
were a little more apparent that usual.  She looked like she had 
just lost someone she loved.  

"Scully.  Are you okay?"

"I'd be lying if I said I was fine," she said with a slight smile.  

Mulder grinned.  "You told me the truth."

"What?"

"I asked you how you are, and you didn't lie and say 'fine' like 
you usually do."

Scully forced herself to focus on him, in spite of her exhaustion.  
She searched his face for all the changes that had taken place 
since she had stopped paying attention to it, before Apison.  
She detected a small collection of thin lines at the corners of his 
mournful hazel eyes, some rather deep furrows across his 
forehead, and a tiny scar showing whitely on his right 
cheekbone.  He seemed paler than in the past, or perhaps that 
was his usual winter color -- she wasn't sure.  His errant bangs 
fell parenthetically across his forehead.  As he smiled down at 
her, his wide-set brows drooped a bit and already generous nose 
broadened.

She managed a tired grin.  "Is that an iced tea in your pocket, or 
are you just happy to see me?"

He started, suddenly speechless.

She linked her arm through his, patting his sleeve and resting her 
head against his upper arm.  

"It's all right, Mulder.  You don't have to say anything incredibly 
romantic right now.  Just take me home, let me get some sleep, 
and maybe tomorrow we can start testing some of the 
declarations you've been making."

Never releasing his link to her, he hoisted up her bag and walked 
with her toward the taxi stand.  As they passed through the 
automatic doors of the terminal, snow was falling once again.  
Mulder looked up at the sky, and then down at her face, pale as 
the moon.  

He put her bag down on the sidewalk and, with the new-found 
confidence of a man who had just escaped a life sentence of 
solitude, he wrapped his arms around his small partner and 
rested his chin on her head.  

"Scully?"

"Yes, Mulder."

"Scully, I love you."

"I know, Mulder."


The end.  :)