TITLE: "I Notice These Things II" (1/1) AUTHOR: Jean Helms(jeanlhelms@yahoo.com) SUMMARY: Accept no substitutes. ARCHIVE: No, thanks. CATEGORY: VRA, MSR, S/Sk (very mild and soon over), and a wee bit o' casefile SPOILERS: "Irresistible," "Triangle," "FTF," and itty-bitty ones for "Pusher" and "Memento Mori." RATED: PG ORIGINAL POST: 3/3/2000 FEEDBACK: Please, sir, may I have some feedback? DISCLAIMER: Characters from "The X Files" are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions or Fox Television. No copyright infringement is intended, and this work is being distributed free. AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic is a sequel to "I Notice These Things" (duh) and it'll make a lot more sense if you read that one first. When I first posted this fic, I immediately wished I hadn't. I was trying hard to get over being annoyed at Sixth Season Mulder, and it wasn't working too well. The end result was that I took this fic down from my website and pretended it didn't exist, then cannibalized it, taking the parts I still liked and using them in another fic. I'm reposting it now, because I've decided I don't hate it as much as I thought I did. Anyway, if you read anything in here and think, "Gosh, I think I read that in one of her other fics," you're probably right. All of which just goes to prove that my fic is worth what you pay for it. :D ~~~~~ "I Notice These Things II" by Jean Helms ~~~~~ Flanagan's Bar and Grill Washington, D.C. What the hell was I doing here? Under ordinary circumstances, the last thing on earth I'd ever want to do is go to a bar with Mulder and a bunch of other agents to celebrate Winston Cruthirds' retirement. Not that I don't like Cruthirds -- I like him quite well, actually. He's been much kinder to me than most of his colleagues in the Violent Crimes Section, and while I've developed a thick skin out of necessity, it's still nice to be treated as a legitimate investigator by someone whose work is a bit more mainstream than mine. And I have nothing against socializing with other agents after work, either; I just don't do it much. And it's not that I don't like spending downtime with Mulder. I do. Were it just he with his vodka and I with my Jamesons Irish whiskey, the evening could have been quite pleasant. But this was a certified disaster in the making, because it wouldn't be just us. It would be us, Tom Colton and several other VCS hotshots and Assistant Director Skinner. That made Mulder the last man on earth I wanted to go to this party with, but somehow it just happened. As we were leaving work, he mentioned that since he was going, and I was going, and we were leaving work at the same time ... If I'd thought Mulder was going, I never would have said anything. It's not like him to go to this kind of gathering. But say something I did, and now we're here together, and I'm so desperately afraid of what may happen tonight. God, why did I ever let this get started? When we first walked into the bar, I thought perhaps my apprehension was groundless. Colton was there, as was Cruthirds, but Skinner was nowhere to be seen. His assistant was there, sitting in a corner, quiet as mouse, as always -- but no Skinner. I began to relax a little. Maybe, with the help of a little false courage, I could do what I came here to do without any adverse consequences. I wish I could remember how all this got started. It must have been while we were in Wyoming, but how could it be? That was only a couple of weeks ago. No, this disaster has been brewing for quite a while. Still, it was in Wyoming that I made my great discovery ... ~~~~~ Holiday Inn Casper, Wyoming Two weeks earlier I'd taken two showers since I got back to my room, and I still couldn't get the smell out of my nostrils. Worse, I couldn't get the sight out of my mind. Two girls, each about about 16 years old. They'd been missing for weeks before they were found, raped and strangled, their bodies lying side by side in a shallow grave near the North Platte River. VICAP had been tracking this case -- with some not-entirely- voluntary help from Mulder -- ever since the first bodies appeared in north Colorado. The killer, known to VICAP as the Longmont Killer and to the media as the Rocky Mountain Strangler, had now jumped a state line. That took it from a VICAP file to a full-fledged federal case. The FBI took jurisdiction. Mulder and I were assigned to the case full-time. It fell to me to perform the autopsies. ~~~~~ Flanagan's "You want a drink?" Mulder asked as we sat at a table near the back. "For once, I think I do," I said. "Jamesons. Neat." Mulder gave a long whistle. "Kick-ass potion, Agent Scully. Think I'll join you." He raised his hand and gave the barmaid our order. The drinks arrived quickly; Mulder paid for them and I tossed mine back in a single gulp. "Is there something you'd like to tell me, Scully?" he asked, watching me cautiously as he took a sip of his own drink. "Not a damn thing, Mulder," I said. "Not until the whiskey has a chance to hit bottom." I set the glass down on the table, "Given how long it's been since I ate, I don't think it'll take long." Mulder looked at me for a long moment. "You want another drink?" he said, finally. "Yep," I said, picking up the glass and giving it to him. "One more, then that's my limit." "I can't argue with that plan," he said, motioning to the waitress again. "Straight up again?" he asked me as she arrived. "No. I don't want to get sloppy drunk, and I will if I do that again," I said, then turned to the waitress. "Jamesons. Water. No ice." "Coming right up," she said, with a curious glance at me. When the drink arrived, Mulder paid for it again. "You might want to nurse this one for a while," he said, more casually than he felt, I think. "Maybe I will," I said, as I took a good slug of it. "Go ahead and finish your drink, Mulder." "Thanks," he said, with an ironic smile, taking another sip, then he put the drink down and tugged at his already loosened tie. ~~~~~ Casper, Wyoming The story that had unfolded as I looked at those girls was too horrible even to contemplate. I could see in the marks on their flesh just exactly what kind of tortures this evil son of a bitch had put them through before they died. I wanted so much to cry it out. But I couldn't even feel that much. I was too horrified, too shocked, and so afraid. As I dictated my report, I found myself wishing I'd never heard of medicine or forensic pathology or the FBI. I knew how to feel good again ... but I'd caused so much damage before. I didn't trust myself to do it right this time. ~~~~~ Flanagan's It was getting late, and Skinner still wasn't there. I was getting more and more nervous by the minute. I shouldn't have been, I suppose. In a way, I felt just as comfortable around Mulder as I always had. All right, so that's not true. I haven't always felt comfortable around him; hence my current dilemma. There was a time, about a year after I became his partner, when just seeing Mulder would send my pulse racing. When he touched me, or when he held me or flirted with me, my blood pressure shot up, too. If I thought about him very much, I had various other autonomic reactions ... some of which I hadn't felt for years. He had to have noticed ... he must have known. Of course, I couldn't let it happen. That would be unprofessional. Sometimes, I thought it might be best if I left the X Files and got another partner, maybe even another woman, so there wouldn't be this constant sexual tension surrounding everything I did at work. The only trouble was that I liked that little spark of desire. I liked the edge it put on everything we said to each other and everything we did together. I liked the flirting and the almost- innocent touching. I wasn't prepared to give that up. I told myself I could keep it under control, and I told myself that -- given time -- that feeling would abate, and we'd just be friends. I didn't really want that to happen, though. Which is probably why I was so surprised when it actually did. ~~~~~ Casper, Wyoming When I stepped out of the shower, I heard the sound of the television from the room next door, flipping from one channel to the next. Mulder was back. I could feel the muscles in my jaw unclench a little just to know he was there and I could finally talk to him. Not about how I felt; I almost never talk about that. But I could tell him what I found. I put on my pajamas, slippers and robe and knocked on the connecting door. I heard the TV go silent, and then the door opened. Mulder was still in his work clothes, but jacketless, his tie knotted loosely around his neck, collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up past the elbow. He looks good that way. But that night, he also looked tired, emotionally drained and vaguely shocked. I knew how he felt. "Hey, Scully, I didn't think you'd be back so soon," he said. "What's up?" "I thought you might like to know what I found," I said, more calmly than I felt. "From the look on your face, I'd say no, I don't ever want to know what you found," he said, stepping aside. "Come on in and tell me anyway." ~~~~~ Flanagan's In spite of my resolve and the very serious matter I had to attend to at that party, I found my attention drawn over and over to Skinner's assistant, Kimberly. Kimberly wasn't joining in with the crowd around the jukebox. She didn't look as though she cared what song was playing. Actually, she looked absolutely miserable. I wondered what was troubling her. She knew just about everyone there, although she doesn't really have what you'd call friends among the agents. There's an invisible wall between the agents and the support staff, and it was surrounding her that night. Even Becky, AD Kersh's obnoxious assistant, seemed a little subdued. It's hell being alone. That's how I got into this situation. God, I think I'll die if anyone finds out. But I have to tell Mulder the truth. Our partnership has never been based on lies, and it's my fault that the lies have crept in lately. So why don't I just shut up this drunken inner monologue and tell him the truth? Isn't it about time I stopped lying, stopped pretending to him and everyone else? Oh, why the hell do I think I have to tell him? He knows the truth as well as I do. That he pretends to know nothing doesn't change a damn thing. ~~~~~ Casper, Wyoming I sat on the edge of one bed, my legs tucked demurely under me. Mulder closed the door and flopped down on the other one, lying propped up on his elbow, his head on his hand. It was so easy for us to be together that night, so comfortable. It hadn't always been that way. There were times -- a little town called Comity comes to mind -- when I wasn't sure our partnership would survive. At times, I wasn't sure I cared, either. But that night, I let myself feel a certain possessive pride in his casual attitude toward me. We belonged together. As long as we kept within our usual boundaries, we were safe even though we were alone in his hotel room and I wasn't even really dressed. Very safe. For some reason, that thought wasn't as pleasing that night as it normally was. "So what did you find?" he said, breaking into my musings. "Evidence of strangulation, sexual assault, broken bones, possibly some bruising, although the state of decomposition made that difficult," I said. "In other words, I'd have to rule it a homicide." "That was what you were expecting to find, wasn't it?" he said, but his voice was soft. He always senses when I'm truly upset, and I blessed him for never having mocked me with it as so many agents would. "That was more or less what we were both expecting to find," I said. "They were tortured, Mulder. For quite some time before death, I'd say. This fits with the MO you described for the Longmont Killer." "Yeah," he said. "It does." He was silent for a moment. "The trail's pretty cold here, Scully. I think we need to send the info along to VICAP and get back to Washington. There's not much more reason for either of us to hang around." "You don't want to stay?" He didn't answer me right away. "Mulder?" I said. He looked at me then, and I noticed for the first time just how much pain there was in his eyes. "Scully," he said, very slowly, "if we don't get out of here pretty damn quick, I may lose what's left of my sanity." ~~~~~ Flanagan's Tell him the truth, I thought. Then I looked at my half-empty glass and giggled. "What?" he said, curiously. "I was just thinking," I said, covering my mouth with my hand. "In wine there is truth." "Yeah?" he said, slowly. "There's a deeper meaning here?" "Oh, yes," I said, picking up the glass. "It means that the truth is in here." I tossed the last of the fine Irish whiskey down my throat. "Three points," I said. "Nothing but net." "I'm impressed," he said, smiling. "You're feeling somewhat less pain than you were, Dr. Scully." "Not much less," I said, shaking my head. "It's just easier to make jokes when you've had a few." "I understand," he said, the smile softening. He always understands. I understand him, too. Right now, for example, I know as well as I know my own name that Mulder wants to ask me to dance. The jukebox is playing some of his favorite songs, even an Elvis tune or two, and he's paying attention to each song that plays. He's watching me closely, too. I did dance with him once, and it was sheer bliss. He put out his hand and I went to him without even thinking. It felt so good to be in his arms and to see him smile, so pleased with himself and with me as he guided me around the dance floor. He's a good dance partner. He's an even better FBI partner. But I just don't think I can dance with him tonight. Skinner will be here very soon, and I don't want him to see me dancing with Mulder when he walks through the door. If I wait much longer, it'll be too late. I won't have to tell Mulder anything: He'll see it for himself. Open your mouth, Dana, and tell him, I ordered myself sternly. Tell him, let him have a chance to be prepared before you leave here to -- quite possibly -- go sleep with the assistant director. ~~~~~ Casper, Wyoming "I'm sorry," Mulder said, shaking his head. "I don't know why I'm moaning about being here when you have even more reason to want to get off this case." "Oh, I don't know," I said. "Is it any worse doing autopsies than doing what you do? What did you do, by the way?" "Listened to the audiotapes," he said, grimly. "All six hours of them." "The tapes he made while ..." "While he was torturing and killing them, yes," Mulder said in the same tone. "He left a tape behind at every scene. Copies, anyway. He seems to have kept the originals." "If he's still got them when he's caught, that should make convictions almost certain," I said, trying to encourage him, although at that point, even my cast-iron stomach was churning. "That's a big if at this point, Scully." He sat up, poured a glass of water, chugged it straight down and set the glass down with a thunk. "God, I think I'll hear those girls screaming in my dreams tonight." "Nightmares, you mean," I said, softly. "Nightmares," he agreed, raising his eyes to mine, his hands dropping to his lap. "Bad nightmares." "You want me to wake you if you do?" "I guess," he said. "I'm not really hoping to sleep anytime soon. I think I'd rather stay awake, anyway." I watched him for a moment, imagining the impact those tapes must have had on his finely tuned imagination. I could almost hear the screams of terror, the soft, mocking voice of the killer describing for posterity each step of the sexual molestation and torture he was inflicting on those mangled bodies I had labored over all afternoon. Only I knew that, whatever I was imagining, it was nothing like what Mulder had actually heard. My part was much easier: When I got them, horrible as it was, they were at least past their pain. Mulder had to do what he did. So did I. We had to find that killer. To do that, we had to live for a while in the world he created. But I was only visiting that world; Mulder was having to take up residence. I wanted out of that world, if only for a little while. And for the first time, I realized that leaving that world behind might mean leaving Mulder behind, too. That thought should have frightened me. But it didn't. ~~~~~ Flanagan's This thing with Skinner started off innocently enough, during a time of tremendous upheaval in my life. Mulder and I were off the X Files -- not that there was much left of the files themselves, but we weren't opening any new ones, either. Mulder and I had grown so close during the summer of the Dallas bombing and the horror of the Antarctic. I thought then that something was bound to happen between us soon, some follow-up to that almost-kiss in the hallway outside his apartment. I was ready for it. I wanted it. I waited. And I waited some more. And nothing happened. Autumn came, the year died, and our partnership seemed to be dying too. We were constantly at odds, and Diana Fowley had moved back into Mulder's life. He seemed to be giving her all the trust and affection I had come to believe were mine by right. We could scarcely talk to each other without one or both of us ending up hurt and angry. The distance, the anger and the sorrow of that time seemed to hang between us like a black brocade curtain, cold and heavy and light-extinguishing. I didn't know how to let the light in again. So Mulder got restless and went running off on a solo expedition to the Bermuda Triangle without telling me where he was going or why. He might have died out there had Skinner not given me the information I needed to find him. When Skinner met me in that elevator and gave me his help, after having rudely ejected me from his office earlier and spurned all my pleas, I was so overcome for once that I flung my arms around his neck and kissed him. And then I left for the Atlantic where I found Mulder, who told me -- under the influence of narcotic analgesia -- that he loved me. I wanted to believe him, but I just couldn't; not when that declaration came in the middle of his recounting of events that couldn't possibly have occurred. Not when our partnership was in such a shambles. No, it was just a drug-induced statement, about as meaningful as a Saturday morning cartoon. We remained at an impasse until last week, when we got back from Wyoming. It was our first day back. Mulder was at Quantico, consulting with the VICAP agents. I was in Skinner's office, making our report, reliving the whole gruesome case and feeling alone, numb and out of touch with the entire world. I must have looked slightly forlorn, or maybe just lonely. I don't know. All I know is that Skinner got up, walked around his desk, and put his arms around me. And kissed me. And then I kissed him. And I felt that little spark. ~~~~~ Casper, Wyoming As I sat on that bed, looking into Mulder's haunted eyes, I knew what he wanted, what he needed: Me. And I didn't let it happen. Coward that I am, I was not willing to risk that much. Other men might want my body or even my love, but Mulder wanted it all, wanted enough of me to obliterate the horrors of his waking life. I was not at all sure that I was capable of that, but Mulder seemed to take it for granted. He seemed to believe that I actually had that kind of nurturing, protective, unselfish love to give. Perhaps he really saw it in me. I didn't see it in myself. And so I took his hand for just a moment, and then I turned and walked back to my room without a word. I left him there alone. I had decided for both of us: Nothing was to change. And he forgave me for it. I still liked the feeling of wanting him, though. I decided I could go on wanting, even fantasizing about him, but that it could never go further than that. But that was then. Now, the world was very different. Years had passed, so much had happened, and the partnership that I had thought indestructible had nearly foundered on the rocks of that autumn. We had put things back together, to some degree, but when I looked at Mulder now, I no longer saw a potential lover. I saw my partner. I saw my friend. I felt comfortable with him. So comfortable ... so deadly comfortable. ~~~~~ Flanagan's All right, there was something weird going on in this bar, and it wasn't just the Irish whiskey coupled with a bad case of nerves that was making me think so, either. Someone had a bet going over by the jukebox. And I swear it had something to do with Mulder and me. Every time someone threw money into the pot, they'd look over at us. "Mulder, don't look right now," I said. "But what the hell is Colton up to?" "Running a pool," he said, without so much as a glance in Colton's direction. "I think they're betting on which song is ours." "Ours?" I said. My head was a little woozy; I thought I might have heard him wrong. "You mean ours as in 'Honey, they're playing our song'?" "That's exactly what I mean," Mulder said, and I saw the beginnings of the mess-with-their-minds gleam in his eye again. "No," I said. "Whatever you're planning, Mulder, just forget it. I am entirely too tired and I've had just one wee drap o' the creature too many to deal with it." "Scully, really," Mulder said. "I have no intention of doing anything that would embarrass you in the slightest." "That would be a first," I said as I watched yet another agent get up and walk over to the jukebox. "Maybe we should leave." "I'm not ready to leave," he said. "So let's just relax and enjoy the evening." "We'll enjoy it right up until the time someone calls you Spooky," I said, more dryly than I meant to. Oh, God. There it was -- that evil gleam in Mulder's eye. That gleam meant there was every chance that a truly devious Muldergame was in the offing. Maybe I did need another drink after all. I glanced nervously around for the waitress, then I saw someone moving toward the jukebox crowd. It was Kimberly. She seemed to be studying the song list. "Here it comes," Mulder said. "Here what comes?" I said, a little irritably. "The song," he said. "The song we're going to dance to." "Mulder, I am not about to get up and dance with you for the amusement of the drunken crowds," I replied, firmly. "I like you, and you're a pretty good dancer, but this is neither the time nor the place." "Ah, but it may be the song, Scully," he said, the gleam back in his eye. "Kimberly's a lot smarter than anyone gives her credit for. She'd be a pretty good agent, actually." "Kimberly?" I said, lifting my eyebrows in surprise. "She's a capable assistant, and a very pleasant person, but I can't see her carrying a badge." "You'd be surprised," he said, watching as Kimberly dropped the coins into the jukebox and punched the buttons. I waited -- literally holding my breath, although I wasn't sure why --to see what song she would choose. As soon as the first notes played, I knew Mulder had been right. It was an old song, one from my mother's high-school years, and if there was a song on earth that could be Mulder's and mine, it was that one: The Flying Purple People-Eater. And when I heard it, I laughed. When I turned to look at Mulder again, he was on his feet, holding out his hand to me just as he'd done before -- only this time, he was looking into my eyes. And I thought my heart might stop. That gleam was still there, but there was more, so much more. These were the eyes that had looked at me so many times before, spoken to me silently over and over: in Minneapolis as he carefully untied the bonds Pfaster had put on my hands, in a hospital hallway as he told me to "come on back," in a SWAT van before he went to face Robert Modell. They were the eyes that had watched a tear run down my face after he'd told me I made him a whole person, that he couldn't go on without me. He was saying it again tonight. I love you, Scully, his eyes said. Please don't do this; don't go away. Stay with me. And as I looked into those eyes, I knew what a fool I'd been. "May I have this dance, Agent Scully?" he was saying, in a voice so soft I could barely hear it over the music. It must have been the Jamesons. Or maybe there was a full moon. All I know is that I looked into those eyes, eyes that were more familiar to me than my own, and I laughed again. Nothing was funny, and I wasn't laughing at him: It was joy, pure joy, bubbling up through me like a river in spring bursting through the melting ice. "Agent Mulder," I said, still laughing, as I gave him my hand and let him help me to my feet, "it would be my pleasure." ~~~~~ After the dance, I excused myself and went to the ladies' room to freshen up. As I stood there, touching up my lipstick, I saw Kimberly. She'd been crying. I started to ask her what was wrong, but I thought better of it almost immediately. Despite the innumerable times I've spoken to her as walked past her desk on the way to Skinner's office, she and I are only acquaintances, not friends. I wouldn't have confided in her had it been the other way around. So I just said hello and smiled, trying to be reassuring, and turned back to the mirror. I soon realized, however, that Kimberly was looking not at her own reflection, but at mine. I couldn't help wondering why. I stepped back, just slightly, and looked. And I saw: what Kimberly saw, what Skinner saw, what Mulder --in all probability -- had seen. It made me feel just a little sick, if you want to know the truth. Poor Kimberly. As quickly as I could, I finished what I was doing and went back out to sit with Mulder. "You look great," he said, smiling as I sat down. I started to say something, but just then Skinner walked in the door. His eyes went straight to me, and he seemed a little wary; wondering, I'm sure, what I was doing sitting so close to Mulder when I knew he was coming here, and why. Skinner stopped to shake Cruthirds' hand, and then he made his way over to our table. "Agents," he said, with a curt nod. "Mind if I join you?" "No, sir, we'd be delighted," Mulder said, scooting his chair a little closer to mine so that there was nowhere for Skinner to sit except in the chair next to Mulder's. I would have smiled if I hadn't been in such turmoil inside. "Quite a crowd," Skinner said, straightening his tie uncomfortably. "There were more a few minutes ago," Mulder said, casually. "A lot of them left after the last song." This was getting to be too much. Skinner was waiting for me to get up and leave with him, Mulder was waiting for me to give some sign that I wasn't going to leave, and I was searching my brain frantically for a way out of this. Finally, I just blurted out what I was thinking. "Kimberly's here," I said. That surprised them both. I could see it. "She's in the ladies' room," I added helpfully. "She looks very pretty tonight." "I'm sure she does," Skinner said, cautiously. "She's really a very attractive young woman," I said, nodding my head over my Jamesons like one of those birds that bobs up and down over a water glass. "You should ask her to dance, sir. She looks a little lonely." And that's when the light went on in Skinner's head. I could see it happening. His face and the top of his head flushed bright scarlet and he wouldn't look at me; he kept his eyes locked onto the table. He knew that I had figured him out. "I don't think I'll be staying long enough to dance, Agent Scully, but thank you for the suggestion," he said, slowly. "I suppose I'll head for home." "I'm sorry you can't stay longer," I said. "It was good of you to come by, sir. I'm sure it'll mean a lot to Agent Cruthirds." "He's a good man," Skinner said as he got up to leave. "It'll be hard to find a substitute for him." "Don't try, sir," I said. "Substitutes are no good -- no matter how close they seem to the original, they're always lacking something. And it's not fair to the person who's being used as a substitute, either -- wouldn't you agree?" Skinner's eyes darkened at that, but he didn't really seem angry -- his expression was more like that of a suuspect who's been trapped into a confession he didn't intend to make. "You're probably right, Agent Scully," he said. "If you'll excuse me, now, I have to leave." And he walked away. I felt sick with guilt for having dumped him that way, yet my guilty feelings were more than a little tempered by the knowledge of what had really been going on. If I were a betting woman, I'd bet a week's pay that he would show up over at Kimberly's place later that night. So sad. So terribly sad for them both. But not for me. Mulder was sitting next to me, quietly, giving me -- I'm sure -- a little space in which to think. But I didn't need it anymore. I'd done all the thinking I needed to do for one night. "Mulder," I said, inching my chair a little closer to his, "let's go. I don't think I want to stay here any longer." "Where do you want to go?" he asked. "Anywhere," I said. "Somewhere quiet." "That sounds like a prelude to 'we really need to talk,'" he said, only half-jokingly. "Am I in some kind of trouble?" "No," I said. "I just want to go somewhere." I hesitated, afraid to say too much, but then I remembered: Mulder already knew. I don't know how he knew, but he knew. "Mulder," I said, moistening my lips, which suddenly seemed dry, "I really want to leave. I don't want to be here when Kimberly comes out of that bathroom." Mulder looked at me carefully, then nodded. "All right," he said. "Any preferences where we go, or what we do?" "Let's figure that out when we're in the car," I said, as I stood up. We didn't talk on the way out to Mulder's car. There were so many things I wanted to say to him, questions I wanted to ask, but I was still feeling a little ashamed of myself. I felt, as strange as this may sound, as though Mulder had caught me in an act of infidelity. Which, in a way, I suppose he had. He unlocked the car door for me, and I slid in, but I didn't buckle the seat belt. When he got in, I ... well, I wouldn't say I attacked him. I just reached for him, and he came to me. Mulder's lips were soft and warm against mine, just as I'd always known they would be, and his hands were gentle on my face. For the longest time we didn't talk, just sat there in that car turning our faces this way and that, trying out new angles, varying the pressure, tongues gently sliding back and forth until I couldn't stand it anymore and I broke the kiss and laid my head on his shoulder, my breath coming in shuddering gasps. "Any clearer idea where you want to go now?" Mulder murmured, stroking my hair carefully. "What makes you think I'm thinking clearly right now?" I said, nestling closer to him. He laughed, softly. "I don't know," he said. "I was hoping this was the result of a conscious decision on your part." "It is," I said, and I raised my face to his and kissed him again. "And I'll go anywhere you want to go." "Anywhere?" he said, one eyebrow raised. "Anywhere," I repeated. "As long as they have 'Purple People Eater' on the jukebox." That got him. He laughed out loud, but as much from joy as because of the joke. "Scully," he said, as he turned the key in the ignition, "I know just the place." ~~~~~ All right, so a CD player isn't a jukebox. That's a mere technicality, hardly worth paying attention to. But who knew Mulder had that song in his collection? All I know is that we danced, and I laughed some more, and I moved my body close to his, loving the feel of him, loving the look in his eyes, loving the way my whole being seemed to be shining brightly in the night like a spark, like a whole shower of sparks struck from the very heart of the universe. ~~~~~ End "I Notice These Things II" (1/1) by Jean Helms Feedback to jeanlhelms@yahoo.com