From: *Rain'22* Date: 21 Jun 2003 10:00:08 -0700 Subject: [all-xf] Spunk Book I (Prologue) [1/?] Source: atxc TITLE: Spunk BOOK I (Dangos fi pa mor dawns) Prologue AUTHOR: Rain Garcia [Agent Rain] RATING: R CATEGORY: S, A, bit of H KEYWORDS: A/U SPOILERS: none SUMMARY: All she ever wanted to do was dance. All he really wanted was a break. What happened after, well, wasn't really in the script. ARCHIVE: For my X- Files Fan Fictions and Poems: http://magic.butterflysleep.com/thegenerator/. If you want to store it someplace else, don't forget to tell me. I'd love to visit. DISCLAIMER: Yeah, right. They're not ours. BETA READING AND RETROSPECT ADVISERS: Joon and Sullen Girl FEEDBACK: agentrain022@edsamail.com.ph or agent_rain_22@yahoo.com --------------------------------- PROLOGUE: Milford Haven, Wales Great Britain January 8,1985 Tuesday If it wasn't enough- really fucking enough- for the bad day she was adjusting to, the weather started brewing a bad flavor. The clouds over her were becoming angrier and angrier with each passing second that she was just sitting there in the middle of a damn dirt road, waiting for a cab to pass by. Chance that she'll get a cab within the next hour is 1 in 5. That's not really alarming, since if she waited at the other road, chance will be 1 in 10. Scully kicked a wayward rock a frustrated eight centimeters from where it was, then shoved her ass down on the dusty road. She has been standing at that exact position for two hours, seventeen minutes, and eight seconds. One more second and she's going to start walking until she reaches the airport. That's roughly more than a hundred miles. Piece of cake. Scully dusted her baseball cap against her chest, pushed herself up, dusted her ass, and anchored the cap on her frizzy red hair. Piece of cake. She'll be there in no time. She was already five steps in progression when she heard her name being called out: "DANA!" Scully bit her lip forcefully, swearing under her breath. Great. Piece of bullshit. "DANA!" The voice was coming closer. Sure. Fine. What the hell? Make Melissa chase her until they reach the airport? The woman was pregnant, for God's sake. She had no frigging choice. Scully faced her heaving, watermelon-stomached sister. Melissa straightened her semi- curly strawberry blond hair over her face, and then smiled for Scully, even if her face was about to burst from flushing. "What?" Scully immediately countered before Melissa could start sprouting explanations. This was going to be a piece of cake, too. "Where are you going, sweetie?" Missy asked, her tone soft. Missy only talks soft when she's worried. Great. Now she has to take care of a pregnant, worried sister. Piece of shit. Remove the damn bull in it. This one's all shit. "America." She answered back, with a snort. Melissa acted as if she wasn't surprised. "Dana, sweetie, what are you going to do in America?" Her sister craned her neck to inspect the backpack Scully had lodged on her one shoulder. A little grimace found her sister's plump lower lip. "And you're only bringing that?" Scully wanted to run away from Melissa. Run far, far away so she doesn't have to stand there and answer all her sister's nosy questions. God damn it. She needs a piece of miracle right now. "Buzz off, Missy. I am going to America, ok? End of conversation. End of questions. And END of all of THIS." She resisted the urge to spit right on the ground. Instead, she headed once again towards that *roughly* one hundred mile hike she's going to take. Missy clamored to keep up with her. "C'mon, chwaer!" The faint suggestion of a British accent was more prominent with Missy when she's frustrated. She also only speaks Welsh when she's in that zone. Scully used to hope that she had Missy's accent--- when Scully speaks, it's all British from the capitals to the dot. Not that it's bad, but it somehow dampens her plans of being an American immigrant. She does want to blend in as much as possible. "Darling," Missy pushed forward again. Scully kept going forward, too. "Please, let's talk about this, okay? How much do you have in your wallet?" "500 US dollars." There was no batting of eyelashes when she said that. Missy reacted with a fading "OhmiGo..." "Hon, your not going to get anywhere with that. Here, let me write you a check..." "I *don't* need a check, Missy. I'm going away, okay? I'm going far from this place." Scully breathed out. She had to check herself to stop the tears from skiing down her face. This wasn't a time for sentimentality. Piece of ass. "Well, then at least tell me what you're going to do in America!" That made Scully stop. Seeing this opportunity, Missy hopped to tower over her little sister. Melissa was all stomach, all pregnant--- all five and seven inches of her. Scully was pure bone, a bit of fat where she wants it, and muscles--- all five and three inches of her. Damn it, Missy could outdo her in these things anytime. Putting her best foot forward, she calmly stated her side in her best Welsh: "Fi m yn cerdded at dawnsia." Translation: "I'm gonna dance." Missy threw her hands up in the air. Exasperated, she took Scully by the shoulders and shook her sister hard. "Wake up, Dana! Your not going to get anywhere with dancing! Of all the things... your so cliche, you know that? So fucking cliche!" Pregnant women were dangerous to anger, but hell, short women were even more dangerous. Scully shoved her sister out of her way and continued walking. "I don't care. I don't care about you or this place, or Bill- or Charles. I'm leaving. Forget that I ever existed." "Perfect." Missy mouthed, making sure that Scully didn't see that. She kept up again with her sister. "Fine. So go there and dance all you want in America. Just promise me that you'll write me so I can send you money." Scully ignored Melissa. She jerked her backpack against her shoulder and rubbed her eyes. She was not going to cry, not now. Damn it. Melissa took her by the arm, and stared at her eye- to- eye. "Swear by Mother's grave that you'll write me every month. Swear by Mother's grave now!" She gritted her teeth as she answered, "Fine." Missy released her arm. At that exact moment, a cab passed by. Scully hailed it with her free hand, running towards it when it stopped a few meters in front of them. She sat in the passenger side. Melissa was still standing there, appearing a wee bit surprised that Scully's really that determined. Scully opened the car's window. She stuck her head out and shouted, "Go home, Missy! Don't want to get you all wet! " The sky groaned in protest, thundering hard. Missy almost jumped at the sound. Scully grinned, then saluted her sister as the cab drove off, leaving the pregnant Melissa all alone there on the dirt road. ----------------------------------- End of Prologue ----------------------------------- ----------------------------------- CHAPTER ONE: Lone Glitter bar, Los Angeles March 6, 1985 Wednesday The loud blaring background music was already ticking on his brain. He hates new wave. He understands that it's popular with the new generation of "yuppies" that were released from their cage just a few years ago, however, he finds the sound destructive. The suggestive tinkering of cymbals during the whole song, the irregular placements of beats, the semi- lonely, semi- lunatic voice supposedly crooning up front--- he hates every damn bit of it. Whoever introduced new wave should be shot square on the head. Maybe he's just getting old. Insecurities like these are very common to someone who has surpassed the "calendar digits". In short, people who were bordering on 32 years and older. He's about as old as 39. Was that old enough? Fox Mulder tapped the tall glass on the kidney-shaped table before him. The bartender, who was striking up a juicy conversation with a resident waitress, waved at him. A few minutes. A few more minutes and that rainbow haired bartender will have the keys to the waitress' apartment. Great. A few more minutes and he'll be throwing an expensive piece of their furniture towards that blaring thing. He had enough of Duran Duran. The bartender, attached "Sonny" [he did look a little like the real Sonny--- on the Motley Crew side], sauntered over to Mulder, and fancily ticked some hard gin on his dry glass. The bartender didn't annoy him about getting his ninth glass for the evening, or even the way he gazed at the sound systems like he was going to butcher it. Anyway, if he wanted some care, he should've gone to the Hilton hotel, not to a rundown dance bar that has the last three letters of it's neon sign hyperventilating. Or maybe that's because it was named "Lone Glitter". Something has to go wrong when you already had three glasses of red wine at home. Mulder downed the drink in one large gulp. At that exact time, the infiltrating background music faltered to the crisscrossing lights. The end of the new wave plague didn't ease much of the ticking in his brain. It only worsened when the lights flickered incessantly, pulling his tired mind further into combustion. "Mulder!" The familiar slurring of the letter L caught his attention. Finally. He thought the asshole wouldn't come. The other beer- swindling maniacs around were probably thinking that he was doing the initiation for their club. He twisted around to face his companion. The owner of the club-- or one of the three owners of the club-- Langley, in all his kung- fu glory, shoved Mulder right into his thin arms, and his arguably large nose right into Madonna's face. The thin, scraggly guy patted his friend appreciatively, before releasing the tall man. Mulder sat there in front of Langley, in all his drinking glory, looking a bit too dazed for comprehension. "My friend! You probably had too much of this, huh?" Langley grabbed his glass and peered into the opaque goblet as if it was a test tube. "Sonny should've alerted me. I told him to ring me once you're here." Mulder's former best friend got shoved to a space on the table where he couldn't reach. Mulder groggily pointed a shaky finger towards the flirting bartender. "I think your Sonny found a new Cher." Langley adjusted his gold- rimmed glasses and squinted his eyes to get a better look of his employee through the silver spotlights. "That's not Cher, Mulder, it's Christina." Mulder groaned. Where was Frohike's sense of humor when you need it? "Why do you want me here, Langley? Where are Athos and Porthos?" He pinched his eyes shut then opened them suddenly. It used to be an effective way of jerking him awake. Now, after countless alcohol intake, it had about 5% effect on his 100% dozed body. Langley was oblivious to his drunkenness. His blond- haired friend sat down with eyes glued on the cat- walk stage. That was were the three musketeers got their new dance stars, and where those new dance stars got to dance. It was where some got their little break, where some got to the end of the road. If reality strikes, the three stooges could actually afford a better and bigger place than this dump. But the last time he tried to coax them to opening one closer to his mansion in Beverly Hills, the guys gave him an affirmative "NO". The reason behind it was also an affirmative mystery. His blond friend motioned a golden finger towards the stage. "Watch, my good friend. You'll see what I mean." Darkness was the only thing present on the stage. Mulder wasn't really in the mood for twenty questions. "Look, I don't have time for this-" Langley placed a straight finger on his thin lips: a stern indication for him to keep his mouth shut. Mulder also wasn't in the mood for an argument, so he did what his friend asked him too. He was free for the rest of the damn evening anyway. Lilting lights of purple, blue, yellow, and green surrounded the stage immediately. They frustrated themselves into the dark corners- until a big flash of white light tore through all the small circles. Then the dancer appeared. The unsettling melodies of Micheal Jackson's "Thriller" tore through the bar's silence- and through the high- pitched chatters of the alcohol lunged groupies. Every single bit of attention that was scattered around the whole bar was now directed on the stage. For Mulder, it was already the night's highlight. If ever he chanced upon the bar for purely enjoyment purposes, this was the only reason he'll be around. The bar's motif of dancing women who wanted *the* break was a copycat of Flash dance. It so happens that the three guys enjoyed the movie so damn much, and decided to forge ahead and create this club. It wasn't classy, but the wannabe dancers found it enough for a little break in their wilting careers. A petite redhead appeared on the center stage, clad only in black fishnet stockings and a sequin- plastered green midriff and brief. Inadequate lighting made it hard for Mulder to look at the woman's face, but he saw her body gyrating to the beat. He saw how every single bit of her muscle was radiating to the music. How she swayed. How she BECAME the music. She had the moves of Micheal Jackson, and the grace of a ballerina--- however weird that may seem, it worked for that dancer. When her final move came, the humble crowd broke into a sweaty standing ovation. Even Mulder, who was a few minutes ago on the point of alcohol saturation, found himself on his feet and clapping his hands like crazy. The dancer bowed, still sheathed in the dark, then jumped off the stage. Mulder stood there for a few bedazzled seconds, and then he suddenly took Langley by the collar. His friend had a smug grin plastered on his lower lip. It took all of Mulder's will power not to punch it right out of that damn long chin. He wasn't born a "Langley" for nothing. "Damn you! Damn you Ringgo! You bastard! You cutthroat! You should've gotten me prepared for that!" He almost had his lungs right on Langley's face when he shouted. The blond rock star, hopeful, still had the grin intact. "You want her?" Mulder tightened his hold on Langley's collar. "Fuck. You." "I'll take that as a yes." The slurring of his L made Mulder grimace. Langley clacked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "She's new, she's young, she's fresh, and she's British." "British? European, eh?" His hold on the blond guy's collar subsided. "They're very liberated." Langley whisked away invisible specks of dust on where Mulder held him. "C'mon. On the liberation scale, we're all on the same digit. " Then he added, remembering their subject: "She's the pill. The real deal pill. Pop 'em and all your headaches would come. She's way headstrong. Just a warning." "Should've warned me before I saw her dance. She was way amazing." "We call her 'Spunk' here." The nickname caught Mulder's curiosity. "'Spunk'?" "She has more spunk than a roaring blaze. No bitches, no assholes, no bullshit. That's her, all right." Langley rolled his eyes. They almost fell right back into his head. "Don't ask me about it! I'm also scared of her! Frohike thinks she's a glam, though." "I didn't see much of her on that stage." Mulder waved towards the now darkened alley of the platform. "I do want to see all of her." His last statement sounded crass, so he rephrased it. "I do want to see her. See how she looks like. See if she fits who I'm looking for." "Here's Spunk's dressing room. She leaves in fifteen." Langley handed Mulder a rusting key. Mulder stared at the object on his palm quizzically. "She tends to lock her dressing room. Spunk doesn't open even if you puke your voice box out." Mulder took that as a probable challenge. He squashed the key in his palm, feeling the cool exterior of the semi- smooth surface. He never backs out on a challenge. -------------------------- "GO FUCKING AWAY!" Those were the first words 'Spunk' gave him when he knocked on the beaten down dressing room. Not exactly a good start, if he wants a healthy working relationship. A healthy, *probable* working relationship, that is. "Umm... 'Spunk'," Hell to Langley for not telling him the woman's real name. Hell to himself for not finding out. "I'm Fox Mulder. I... I want to talk to you about something." "I AM NOT INTERESTED! GO FUCK SOMEBODY ELSE!" Mulder sighed, deeply letting the air invade his still drowsy self. This was going to be a long night. A lot longer than he expected it to be. "Look, Miss... whatever your name is- I'm sorry if I have to barge in on you like this, but I just want to talk. I don't want to f---" He paused. He's not gonna say that. He is NOT going to say that especially when he's still high. "--- Harm you. I saw you dance. I want to--- I think... I find... you were spectacular out there, Spunk." The voice inside simmered down. "Thank you, Sir." It wasn't as inviting as he wanted it to sound, all the same. "Can you... could you please-" His grammar chose not to cooperate at exactly the worst moment. *Goddammit the red girl were there, he need to see her!* "Please open the door? I don't want to barge in there. I want to do this diplomatically." There were few tense seconds involving him, the rotting wooden door, his liquor stanching breath, and the woman at the opposite side. Latches were unlocked. He didn't even have to use the key! Mulder almost threw his hands up in triumph. He had better things to do with them, though. He opened the door. A striking redhead was staring up at him from the dressing room's burgundy couch. The first thing he noticed about her, now that they're in full view- was her blue eyes. They captivated him, a senseless captivation that just overtook him. It was comparable to looking at a book's front and knowing immediately that there are more mysteries in that damn book than you could ever imagine. That was her. A great, vast mystery. Or he was just acting plain weird that moment. "What do you need from me?" The thick British accent was now more audible than when she was biting his head off through the door. Her accent was kind of cute, actually. Not at all annoying like Langley's slurring of all his L's. Hers was British street- smart gritting that wants nothing doing. "I'm Fox Mulder." He does this with much gentlemanly composure, of course. He held a hand out to the young lady. She stared at it as if it was a ten inch knife. "I'm Dana Scully." 'Dana' removed her gaze from his large hands and started tying her rubber shoes. She already has undressed herself from the ridiculous green costume and toasted into something more streetwise--- plain neon yellow cotton shirt, jumpers, and white sneakers. Did anyone tell her not to wear white shoes after Labor Day? Anyway... "Call me Scully." Ah, the unmistakable 'Spunk'. Mulder found himself grinning like an idiot. She doesn't appear as feral as Langley and the door indicated. Maybe this'll work out. The next words he uttered were out of his mouth before he could even think about them... "What about 'Spunk'?" Or maybe not. 'Scully' lifted her face from her feet and glared at him. It could've melted him into a semi- gelatinous membrane within three seconds. Thank God she only held that glare for two. Unfortunately, that look wasn't enough punishment for his jive. "Call me 'Spunk' and I'll tie your balls behind your waist." That almost rendered him speechless. *Almost*. "Fine. So I won't call you 'Spunk'. And to be fair, call me 'Mulder'." He didn't even dare move in his place. He finally was allowed to breathe when 'Scully' went back to tying her shoes. "I saw you dance out there. I want... I think I can offer you something you couldn't resist." She wasn't satisfied with her first knot. She untied it and began the process once again. "Try me." Was her reply. Mulder couldn't help rubbing his palms together. A challenge indeed. "I want you for my next movie. It involves a lot of dancing. You... you have the moves." There was no further reply. Scully twisted her laces into its final knot. "I'll give you what you want. I'll get you... umm, your own apartment. I know a beautiful house in Beverly Hills. If you want a career, I'll get you a career. This is a big movie. A sure fire hit. I want you in it." He tucked his hands inside the pockets of his denim. Skim- legged females and pencil- figured guys danced around his eyes. The perfect movie. "Just tell me yes. I'll give you your break." The redhead sighed as she undid her knot again and tied it back up. Even her sigh was feisty. "I don't want a career, Mr. Mulder. I'm fine as I am." More make- up clad adult children were pirouetting around Mulder's head, passing through his ears, squeezing their graceful bodies in and out of his brain, giggling at their efforts. His eyes relaxed with the view. "But you'll be a star! You don't need to dance in joints like this anymore. You'll be a big, big star." Scully's face was a cross between a woman who was about to get mugged and a woman who was about to shoot the mugger. Mulder didn't stop talking while she tied the final knot of her dirty white shoelaces. "I'll get you everything you want. You'll get money, you'll even get a husband--- you want someone cowboy- y? Or someone who's preppy? Drug pusher? I can do that for yah." "SNAP OUT OF IT MULDER!" His smug smile subsided into a pale shock as the giggling dancers disappeared from his vision. All that was now before him was this small redhead that was arranging her crimped hair in front of the vanity table beside him. She was eyeing him warily before she shook her head. The way she criss- crossed her nods made Mulder shrink. It made him feel like he's the biggest bastar- slash-asshole in the whole fucking world. It took all of his consciousness to stop the flush that was starting to plant themselves on his face. Spunk wouldn't want to see a grown man blush. "Stop jabbering and tell me what you want." The sharp accent punched Mulder dead on the left. He cleared his throat and turned around, scratching his nose to hide the embarrassment. "Here's my deal- I'll make you the lead in my movie, and give you the career you have been dreaming about." "And what do you think is the career I am dreaming about?" Spunk said through four pins that were sticking out of her mouth. She plucked one out of her dry, chapping lips and stuck it at the back of her head, keeping her frizzy hair in a bun. Mulder swirled back, then watched his reflection from the mirror. Scully stuck another one in the middle of the bun. "Someone like you usually wants a great mansion that overlooks the whole of Beverly Hills. Someone like you wants a highly publicized relationship with someone that's also highly publicized. Someone like you wants jewels- and I mean to say more than what Elizabeth Taylor has-" "You keep saying *someone*, Mr. Mulder." She yanked strands of hair from the front of her face. They dropped on her cheeks like heavenly vines. The crimping made it look like tender stems from the Amazon. Everything about Scully reminded him of an Amazon woman. "Mr. Mulder," Scully repeated, louder. "What do you think am *I* dreaming about?" That was a tough one. What kind of career does an Amazon woman want? Money-full? Spanking? A career that does not involve men? Mulder took in the whole of Scully's features. She was really pretty, he realized. Her paleness contrasted the crown of auburn that protected that wild brain of hers. Her lips were naturally crimson- chapped or not. And her eyes--- those eyes again. Mulder was almost scared to look at them, to look into a cliff without a rocky ground. Even the rocky ground was safe enough. Scully's eyes go on and on. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Was that even a question? Jesus Christ. "I'm not an easy woman to decipher, Mr. Mulder. When I say that I don't want a career- I don't need one." Those crimson lips curled up a little at the sides. He didn't know if she was smiling or if she was frowning. At him. Scully didn't allow him to answer any further. She snatched her green costume from another dresser near Mulder, stuffed it into a backpack, and began to head for the door. Five minutes have already passed when Mulder realized that he was like a big dork standing there in the dim dressing room. The woman has officially rendered him speechless. No one in his book has ever done that, no one. And he's bound to keep it that way. Mulder skipped on and about the overturned seats, skidded out of the door, and ran towards Scully. The taxis were rare at that hour, so thankfully, she was still standing there, staring at him with those unnerving blue eyes. Mulder took time to catch his breath before walking over to her front. When he stood in front of her, it was the first time he noticed the large- extremely large- height difference between them. Christ, the woman was small. She barely reached his forehead--- and she was settled there, right below his chin. Her attitude made her a good five inches higher, and not that he wants to forget that, however, what he wants right now is to entice her. So if it means using his height to tower over her, that was what he's gonna damn do. His fingers sprawled on his hips. "Ms. Scully, I have the utmost respect for immigrants. However, it is to the best of my knowledge that people like you don't come to America for no reason at all. If you don't want a career, you must be here to fulfill that *dream*." Scully opened her mouth, then closed it. Mulder observed that she was acting bothered. She wasn't even acting--- she was really bothered. He wondered a while if it was due to his question, until he caught her looking up at the top of his head. Of course! She was hassled by his height. He was still a gentleman, even if he really wanted to make her stop spinning on her top, so he backed a step from her. That did help her almost cringing expression change into something softer. She adjusted the backpack to better fit her thin arm. She wore it only on one shoulder blade, like most people do. "I- I always wanted to dance in Las Vegas." Mulder couldn't help the sound of relief that gurgled from his throat. Spunk was human, after all. "Great! Wonderful! I'll get you Vegas. When do you want to dance in it?" A look of pure convulsion crossed her face. "I don't want anyone's help, ok? I'm dancing in Vegas by myself." "No one gets around town without a little help, Ms. Scully." "If there's anyone who can--- it's me." She answered defiantly, licking her dry lips. Mulder rolled his eyes. Fine. So he'll let it hang for a while. Byers once told him that he never knows how to quit while he's ahead. He'll prove 'em wrong. Mulder stared around them, seeing the damp spots of alleys surrounding the backyard of the club. He thought about where someone as dainty and-- dare he say it-- pretty as Scully would live. She shouldn't even be going home alone in this hour. "Do you want me to drive you home, Ms. Scully? She shook her head, displacing some auburn fluffs of hair. "It's already-" He glanced at his wristwatch. "11:26, Scully. I should drive you home. It's edgy if you take a cab." "I've been taking a cab ever since I arrived here, Mr. Mulder." The feisty crescendo of her voice was suddenly transformed to a tiredness. Mulder doesn't even want to know the reason behind it. "I've been coming home from 11 PM to 2 AM. No one has ever dared to harm me." "They might dare today." She let out a small laugh. A nervous, and still, sarcastic laugh. "I appreciate your concern, Mulder, but if this is your way of luring me to star in your movie, I'm gonna tell you in advance--- it won't work." "You kno-" "Quit while you're ahead, Mr. Mulder." She cut in before he could finish his sentence. That struck him- good. Quit while *he's* ahead? Is that a good or a bad thing? Damn Byers. Damn Byers and his know- all sayings. And damn this redhead for reading him like a grade one school book. He didn't say anything more. They stood beside each other until a cab approached. Mulder called for it. He opened the door for Spunk, and she stepped in the backseat without any more qualms. He was surprised that she didn't mention anything about him opening the door for her. Before Mulder closed the door, he pressed his arms on the window and looked right into those blue eyes. "When you mean that I should quit while I'm ahead, does that mean I'm already ahead?" Scully bit her lip back, giving him the impression that she's stopping herself from completely bursting into a beam. "I'll think about your offer, Mr. Mulder." He closed the door, and the taxi whizzed off. He couldn't help smiling at himself. ------------------------------------ End of Chapter One: To be Continued ------------------------------------ AUTHOR'S NOTES: Chwaer is "sister" in Welsh. ------------------------------------ CHAPTER TWO: #42 Cawey Apartment Complex, Los Angeles March 7, 1987 Thursday Mulder ran his fingers through his coarse hair. He didn't have time to shampoo his brown locks today. Emily hogged the shower from the moment he woke up to the moment he was eating breakfast. He banged on the door, telling her that he needed to get his shampoo, but all he got was a good snubbing from his daughter. It was a wonderful way to start the day. He studied the steel entrance before him, looking nervously at the number "42" that was drilled onto the front. This was where Frohike told him to go, where 'Spunk' supposedly lived. As he had guessed, it was one of those rundown apartment complexes--- this time, near a 7 Eleven shop that had been mugged three times during the last month. No place for a feisty, petite, and dare he say it again, pretty redhead. A scratchy knock on the steel door emitted him a: "GO FUCK SOMEBODY ELSE'S DOOR!" At least he knew he wasn't not knocking on the wrong door. "Scully, it's me. It's Fox Mulder. I--- I don't want to---" He's not going to say it. He's not going to say it when he hasn't even shampooed his fucking hair for a day. Ah shit, he said it! Christ, at least she's not hearing it! "I want to talk to you." This time around, there were no tense moments. The door opened easily, and she was on the other side, with a toothbrush sticking out of her mouth. A few suds of toothpaste dribbled down her chin, and even more on her oversized t- shirt that had the words, "BOY TOY" on them. Madonna. Not a bad choice. Scully removed the toothbrush from her mouth and hid it behind her back. She was startled that he was standing there, all spick and span, and she hasn't even been excursing herself half of her morning rituals. Through her suds- filled mouth, she said, "Find somewhere to sit. I'll go wash up." She quickly bounded over to where the bathroom was, as Mulder entered her apartment. He was surprised that the whole, shabby place was spiffy clean. It was... quite pleasant, actually, contrary to what he had maliciously expected. Scully had the dirty corners of the room writhing with golden lilies. She stacked them on plastic containers of 7Eleven's coke, stringing each flower with yellow carnations. The dark shade of the room's blue wallpaper was brightened up with those small cans of flowers. He also saw that she kept everything in order. There was a bookshelf right in front of him, and to his surprise--- the books were actually arranged alphabetically. Frohike didn't mention anything about Spunk being a control freak. The image of Scully repeatedly retying her rubber shoes crossed his mind. Not only was she a control freak, she was also a perfectionist. Even Spunk detail- obsessed Frohike missed that. He had already made himself comfortable on the loveseat when Scully came out of the bathroom holding a green towel to her face. "Good morning, Mr. Mulder. What did you want to talk about?" He should be surprised that she didn't apologize for her morning greeting, or her appearance, but he wasn't. Really. "Have you had time to think about my offer?" Scully tilted her head back, savoring the feel of the soft towel on her temples. "Yes. I guess I have." Mulder watched her intently as she pelted her neck over and over again with the towel. She was absolutely captivating doing that. Her eyes were half- lidded from complete satisfaction, and her short hair was ruffling from the nondescript air conditioning that was a few meters behind her. He'll have to add a scene that involved her doing THAT with a towel in the movie. "Umm, well?" Scully stopped donning the towel over herself and faced him. "I wouldn't lose anything if I said yes, would I?" His legs reacted immediately, and he jumped off the couch. He couldn't believe it! "That's a yes, right?!?" Spunk smiled without revealing her flashy whites. "Yes, it is." Ah, business was now rolling. Mulder walked over to Scully and held out a hand. "So is it a deal?" She looked at his hand, then at his face. That was weird. "Umm, Scully?" "What is our deal? First." She cleared. Mulder tucked his outstretched hand into his pocket and nodded. That made sense. "I'll take care of you while this movie is in process. I know you don't want a career, but I have to promote you. So next week, I'll be flying you to Vegas. The movie starts shooting within two months, so you'll have enough time to rehearse a good dance number for Vegas. A month tops. After that, you could fly back here in Los Angeles and do the movie." He articulated; each word perfectly memorized. She still didn't seem satisfied. She appeared more satisfied with the towel than with what he proposed to her. "Okay... so I'll take care of your expenses. You can live in an apartment across-" "I don't want another apartment." She countered too quickly. Mulder cocked his head to her direction. "What?" He turned his head to scan the small room. The tabloids will have a field day with this! "You can't live in here while I'm building you up. I know a perfectly beautiful apartment across my house that overlooks the---" "Your house?" She repeated, her eyes twinkling. His gut was bonking him on the head, telling him that he was not supposed to like how those endless blues were twinkling. "Yeah, I have a house. You think I was a mushroom? Just sprouting around town when I see potentials like you?" He sounded defiant when he said the last word. He had to admit that he was nervous about that sparkle in her eyes, and yes, a tiny pinched that this woman considered him a nomad. He never quits while he's ahead. Yeah right. "It's not like that..." Scully said. He'll take that as an apology. She doesn't seem like the kind who apologizes, anyway. "It's just that--- Wait, do you have a gym?" Mulder scratched his head, felt his hair, then pinned his hand back to his pocket. He doesn't want to be constantly reminded that he didn't shampoo today. "The Beverly Hills clubhouse is just a few blocks away-" "How about a basement?" "Basement? Of course I have a basement." Mulder retorted. This was getting weirder and weirder, indeed. "Perfect." Scully headed back into the CR. He waited while pondering on what was so 'perfect' about his having basement. When she came out, she was carrying her trusty backpack on one hand, and her toiletries in the other. "You can wait for me in your car, Mulder." Mulder jerked back, surprised by her announcement. Wait a minute; did they even reach the end of their agreement? Jesus H. Christ! "Whoa, whoa, whoa, Scully!" He held his two hands up before her. Scully stopped in her tracks, not even the least bit perplexed by all his commotion. Mulder cleared his throat. He was more than perplexed. "What's perfect? What are you doing? What about your apartment?" "I'm staying at your house." She said, matter- of- factly. Mulder groaned. Impossible. Scrap that line, scriptwriter- change that to "matter- of- fuck". Oh yeah. He wasn't supposed to *say* or *think* that word when he hasn't shampooed his hair. And when he's still on a high. The list is sure going on and on. "Scully... you can't stay at my house. You wouldn't... it wouldn't be *professional* for me to bring home my clients-" "Are you married?" She piped up. Seriously, when she asked that, he felt attacked. "Divorced." "Kids?" "Yes--- one, Emily. She's 21 years old and she's getting married soon." Mulder replied, feeling helpless. How do the British say that? 'Halpless'? Maybe she'd understand him better if he talked with that accent. "Good. See? No one will notice. I'm staying at your house," she happily finalized, moving over to the next thing she'll be stuffing inside her backpack. Mulder blocked her way again. Scully huffed, annoyed. "You can't stay at my place, Scully. I can find you your own home, if you want--- you can't stay at my house. If I want to build up your career, you need to get a clean image." She was obviously ticked off by the *clean* image talk, because the next thing he knew, she was already right into his face. "I DON'T HAVE a clean image--- and I DON'T NEED one!" Fine. Statement made. Input accessed. Spunk processed. "C'mon, Scully... what do you want from my house? Why do you want to stay at my place?" He chased after her, picking up the small pieces of paper she scattered when she angrily snatched a book from the shelf. She swirled around so suddenly to face him that it almost threw him off-balance. "BECAUSE I'm not used to living alone, okay? I AM NOT inclined to living alone in a DAMN apartment and I GET nightmares, okay? The only reason I'm IN this dump is 'coz I have no FUCKING choice!" She threw the book at him. Mulder caught it with his two hands, dropping the yellowing paper on his feet like confetti. Oh. "Ok, O- kay. I'm sorry if that was brought up." Mulder stumbled over his words. Scully took in a deep breath, shifting her shoulders lightly when she saw the mess that her outrage caused. She proceeded to her packing, though, without blinking an eyelash. Or losing another one. Mulder tapped the book on his hand nervously. Great. Perfect. Piece of cake. "If that's what you want, Scully... we have a spare room. You can stay there." Her face brightened up when she heard that. "And the basement?" "What do you want to do with the basement?" Stab me in the back and bury me there? Wanna do a JF Kennedy-- Beverly Hills style? He purposely left that OUT of the sentence. "I need to practice. I practice my dance everyday from 3 to 8 PM." Shit. This girl was seriously dancing her ass off. "Sure. You can have the basement all to yourself within those hours." He surrendered, handing over the book to her. Instead of accepting it, though, she held her hand out to him. "Deal?" Mulder clicked his teeth together. "You'reonlystayingatmyhouseuntilthemovie'sfinished- Deal." He took her hand and shook it hard before she could even protest. Her eyes widened. "And you have to go by the rules, too." Her wide eyes narrowed at him. He thought she was going to protest more, but she mouthed a "Fine" at him and forcefully jerked the book from his hands. He never backed out of a challenge. Never did, never will. ------------------------------- "Who the hell is she, Dad?" That was the afternoon greeting he got from his daughter. Emily was positioned at the top of the stairs by the banister, staring at him as if he was an alien from Mars that had popped its head inside the Mulder home. Hi, Emily. Mulder casually made sure that Scully was busy unpacking her things in the guest bedroom before he climbed the stairs two steps at a time towards his daughter. Emily waited for him patiently, chewing on her index fingernail [a habit of hers that he has tried to abolish a long, long time ago- and he liked to think he was successful since she's wavering]. He reached her side panting, reaching for the banister to support his body. "She's... she's Dana Scully... the 'Spunk' girl I was talking about..." He wheezed. Emily nodded, peering at Scully over Mulder's shoulder who was hauling a carton of books into the room. His daughter turned back to him, appearing alarmed. "Dad," She whispered, "What is she doing here? This is against the rules!" Mulder finally caught his breath and straightened up a little to meet his daughter eye- to- eye. "Are there any rules involved in this, honey?" Her hazel eyes flickered. She tossed a long brunette curl away from her chest over her bony shoulder. "C'mon, Dad, you know what I mean. The press is gonna have a field day when they try to find out where she lives. How old is she?" Emily uttered without any real pauses. Mulder wrinkled his forehead. His daughter was not going to like his answer. "Umm... she's 20, Emily." "Oh, shit." Emily blurted out, darting another glance at Scully. At that moment, the pint- sized redhead was bringing in her lilies and carnations. Mulder pointed out to her [back in the apartment] that he would get her all the lilies and carnations she wanted TWICE the size of those she already has, but Scully just ignored him. He found it weird for her to bring every single piece of flower into his house. He hoped that she wasn't going to decorate them all over his living room. "Dad, I'm a year older than she is!" Emily's voice quivered as she said that. "That makes me feel... OLD." Mulder nodded, still watching Scully. He resisted the urge to say, "If that makes you feel old, honey, how do you think that makes ME feel?" It was no time for his insecurities to kick in and throw a tantrum. "She's British, honey. She arrived here in the US a month and a half ago, so as you can see, she needs a lot of guidance. Scully's-" "-Scully?" Emily butted in. Mulder tore his scrutiny away from Spunk. "Yes, Scully- she wants to keep it that way. 'Spunk'." He included the now infamous nickname to explain the last name basis. "Oh, Spunk." Emily repeated with understandingly, and then followed her father's gaze on Scully. "She's headstrong, Em, so I suggest that you be patient with her. She promised me that she'll be nicest to you, and nice to me." "That, that doesn't sound promising at all." Emily critically supplied. Mulder nodded again. "I know, Em, but that's the best that I can do." He sighed. This was going to be the hardest arrangement he has ever lived in. Probably, if all things would not end well, it could be worst than his previous arrangement with his ex- wife--- Diana. That was hell, complete with fire bursting torches. He pondered on what this arrangement could be likened to. "Dad... you told me that there are no rules involved with future directors living in the same house with their future stars..." Emily waited for a sign for her to go on. Mulder gave out a careless wave. "But Dad, what if... what are you going to tell the press? This is gonna blow up, sooner or later once you start working on your movie." He clasped his fingers together, leaning against the banister. Right. Of course, Emily always perceived the future. That was her most endearing trait. And why, through all odds and challenges, she was his best friend. She was the only person in the world he could trust. "We'll take care of that later, Emily. What's important is that Scully's already in our hands. We got to her before anyone else did." Emily considered that with a finger to her lip. When she was fairly satisfied with his answer, she mimicked his position on the banister. Their heads were so close, he couldn't resist resting his on her shoulder. He was a tired, tired bastard. Talking, arguing, and yeah, fighting with Scully took most of his energy. A challenge. Sure. "She kicks your butt, huh?" It wasn't exactly the discovery of the decade. "She chisels it into a loser's butt. She's a fantastic dancer--- one of the best, I believe. I guess that makes it worth it. I'm gonna finish this movie even if my butt's all nerve and bone." Emily anchored a hand on his opposite shoulder. She felt sorry for her Dad. "How come she has to stay here? There's a beautiful apartment across our-" "Scully told me that she doesn't like being alone." He spoke it in a hushed tone, making sure that the redhead was inside her room before he answered his daughter. He left out the part about the nightmares. Emily didn't need to hear about that. "Oh." She replied. "If that's the case... I'm going to help you work this out." Mulder smiled. He kissed Emily on the forehead fondly. "She's only staying here until the movie's finished, Em." His daughter gave him a "sugar" grin, a special smile she reserves for her father. "Dad, by that time, I'm long gone." She supplied, and his expression remained blank. He didn't want his own daughter to see how affected he was of her marriage. He didn't want himself walking around with a nametag that said "selfish"--- and anyway, even if he did, no one could blame him. His daughter was his only possession. Ever since his relationship with Diana deteriorated three years ago- or years before that, Emily had been at his side for better or for worse. It wasn't a big surprise when Emily chose his custody over her mother's. They were tighter than two peas in a pod. "Yeah, of course." He almost didn't get half of that sentence out of his mouth. Scully stepped out of her room, holding a folded carton. She stared up at them, and seeing Emily, she grinned. It was the first time Mulder saw her grin. And Christ, it was fantastic. It was all her lilies and carnations in one whole package. She looked young when she smiled--- not too serious, not too angst- filled, not too old. He didn't realize that Emily was already striking up a conversation with the young woman. He felt his daughter's elbow on his rib. "Dad will be with you, Scully-" "-Dana." Scully corrected. Mulder's eyes widened. Emily secretly glanced at her father. "Uhh, yeah, Dana. Jenny made her fabulous secret sauce with the steak. You should taste that." She motioned to Mulder. "You should eat too, Dad. You haven't had lunch, yet." She kissed him on the cheek, and whispered, "Jeff is gonna pick me up. I'll be out of here 4 on the dot, ok?" Mulder didn't have any reactions left in him. He nodded weakly, and proceeded to meet with 'Dana' downstairs for lunch. ------------------------- Scully sliced another big chunk of steak and dabbed it with Jenny's super secret [fabulous, too, don't forget that] sauce. Mulder watched in utter fascination as she consumed it in one large bite. It was already her second serving of those large slabs of steak, and Mulder knew that he was going to be wearing one of those big slobs on his face if he kept staring at her like that. Even with that possible consequence, he still kept staring. It always enthralled him at how skinny women always had the fastest of all metabolisms. Scully was a dancer, so she must be a healthy eater to be able to compensate for all those pounds she burns up every hour she pounds on the ground. He, himself, watched his calorie intake like a crazy hawk to make sure that he's keeping his body fit. He exercised, like her, but unlike her--- he doesn't eat two thick slices of steak in one sitting. Mulder swiftly went back to his food when Scully was distracted from the steak. As an excuse, he picked up his glass of juice. "You were watching me." She noted. Mulder almost choked on his grape juice. Shit, and it had only been a few hours since Spunk moved into his home. Think of living with her everyday for the next whole year. Shit. He recovered after concentrating on drinking the juice, not puking it out. She was still waiting for his answer when he took another shaky sip of his drink. "Yes." Mulder answered. He learned over the two days that he has encountered this woman that the best way to deal with her was to deal with her with outright honesty. Scully emitted something out of her throat that sounded like a, "hmm", before offering him some of Jenny's super secret sauce. It was strategically positioned right in front of her. She figured he wanted some of it. He didn't figure that out. He shook his head. "If you don't want more sauce, then why are you watching me?" Mulder forced his lips to form a smile and then took some of that fabulous super secret Jenny sauce. Scully handed it to him eagerly. Whatever question was needed to be started; both of them didn't want it started. ------------------------ "Yes, yes, Walter. I understand what you're telling me. She's here." Mulder propped his feet up on the coffee table. He stretched his arms out on the lazy boy, accidentally pulling the phone onto his head. He forgot that one of his fingers was entwined with the cord. Mulder pushed himself up and put the phone back to his ear. His producer, at the other end, was calling his name out over and over again. "Yeah- Yeah, I'm here!" Mulder perked up. "We have casting agents for jobs like these, Mulder. Directors don't do the casting," Walter Skinner reminded him. As if he needed reminding. He has been working side- by- side with a director for as long as he could remember. He knows that the Director takes it lightly until the real shooting process starts. But this is his first damn movie. He wants to be as involved as possible to make it happen--- to keep it real. "Yeah. Walter, still she's perfect. I'm telling you. Come here tomorrow; bring the rest of the gang. They'll fall in love with her. I'll let her dance in front of you people." Sometimes, his sentence structure doesn't fall into place with one another. Maybe that's the reason he never became a scriptwriter. That was his first real goal way back in High School, until he landed a producing job for a TV series. The rest was history. "One by one, Mulder," Walter cleared. "I'll take the gang *there*? Explain to me the nature of your relationship with this woman." "She's-" Mulder grimaced as the realization of Walter's words struck him. Shooting hasn't even started and someone's already speculating. "I met her only yesterday, Walter! Yes, she's living here in our house--- but that's purely for professional reasons." "There's an enchanting apartment across your hous---" "Fuck, I know that already! This wasn't my liking, this was what she wanted, and I only aim to *please*!," Mulder burst out. He had enough of that apartment across his house crap. "I'm going to make her the lead of the movie, whether you people like it or not. I'm telling you, she's perfect! She has the body, the looks, the hei--- well, not really the height, but she's perfect! And she has the attitude, I tell you." "What kind of attitude?" "They don't call her 'Spunk' back in Lone for nothing." He said that as if he was divulging the whereabouts of a secret tomb of an Egyptian king. "British, huh?" Walter filled in for him. Mulder raised an eyebrow. "Perfect. Do I have to spell that out for you, Walt? P- E- R- F- E- C- T." "Understood the word the first time you said it." "Of course you did." But of course, Walter didn't. His producer always kept pushing and pushing until he couldn't push anymore. That was one thing they had in common--- they both can't quit. Mulder can't quit while he's ahead. Walter simply can't quit. Maybe that was why they worked so well with each other. "Why is she staying there again?" Walter asked. Mulder rested his head on his own shoulder. Walter's selective amnesia. "Because she wants to. It's part of our deal. I offered her that 'fantastic apartment' across my house, but she declined. She told me that she isn't used to living alone, and since I officially discovered her, I said ok. I should take care of her, if she's going to be in the business after this. Scully's only staying here until the movie's finished." "You had a deal?" Apparently, the sentences that followed the word 'deal' didn't matter to his producer. "Yes. It wasn't written, if you are interested. Its just a deal--- we shook hands and had the deal." "Do you want to write it down? I could type something for you." "No need Walter. Just ready the studio's contract. Specifically for only one movie." Mulder reclined back on the lazy boy, making sure that he didn't have the phone's chord stuck to his fingers. He cradled the receiver in between his head and shoulder, and then stretched his arms over his head. It had been a long day. He heard some hurried scattering of papers at the other end of the line. "You talk like you own Warner Brothers, Mulder." His producer jived, then some paper shredding. "I worked long enough with Warner Brothers. I partly own that studio." Mulder returned Walter's joke. A yawn escaped him, and he didn't bother keeping it from the other end. "I need to rest. Been a long day." "Sure. I'll call you tomorrow morning. The contract will be ready by then." Mulder gave his thanks to Walter, then placed the phone back into its cradle. He was about to climb the stairs when he heard his name from the living room. "Yeah?" He descended a step. It was Scully. She was clad only in a sweat- soaked blue jersey bikini and leg warmers. A thick film of moisture covered her face, and she was doing that towel- thing again. Her frizzy auburn hair was tied behind her in a neat bun this time--- but that neat bun didn't stop some loose strands to crumple all over her forehead. And contrary to the paleness that she always wore, this time, a faint pink was glowing all over her skin. Mulder kept a mental note to himself: He'll make her dance for three hours straight, before he'll shoot a scene. She needed that natural flush. She looked incredible with it. Scully inhaled before talking. "Are you going to rest?" Mulder nodded, "Is there any problem?" He noticed the grandfather clock that was resting in the middle of the room. It read only 7:45 PM. She wasn't even supposed to be out of the basement at this time. "You finished earlier than you told me." "Yeah." Scully hung the towel over her shoulders. "Where do you sleep?" There was something about Spunk that would always surprise/scare him. Her inquisitiveness, no matter how large of her it is, will forever be one of them. She asked questions out of the blue, not really minding what the other person's reaction were, not really caring if the other person will mind. It was a great thing he asked Scully to be nicest to Emily. If he's right about this woman, she's contrary to his own daughter--- Emily's all sugar- specifically, the ones coating those swirling lollipops that glisten with too much caramel. A little spice, and that's what his daughter is made of. She curses, but hey, everyone does. She's not perfect--- but that doesn't matter. She's perfect enough to her father. Scully, well, Scully's different. She's the hard candy underneath; all spice and no sugar. "I'm..." Mulder pointed towards the left hallway. "Right here. Two doors after the first one. Across mine is Emily's." She flipped her hand out from under her fluffy towel. Creases started appearing on the sweaty entrails of her forehead. She was acting peculiar. Worried. "Oh," she coughed out. Before Mulder could even think about her sudden change in mood, she spoke again. "Is Emily coming home anytime soon?" Mulder closed his eyes, leaned his neck back against his hand; twisted it around to some irregular angles, before answering her question. "Yes. She's with her fiance Jeffrey. She's in good hands, Scully." He opened his eyes, finding her blinking at him as if he just hit a truck going 100 mph. He had been officially an alien and a drunk driver in one day. He had enough. "I need to rest some, okay? You can get something to munch on in the fridge. Jenny will clean it up." He turned his back to her before she could ask anymore questions. Maybe he heard her, or maybe it was a figment of his tired imagination, but he did hear an affirmative, "Okay. Sorry if I bothered you." From the lady. Yeah, right. As if the "Spunk" will even dare to apologize to him. -------------------------- To be continued -------------------------- CHAPTER THREE: March 10, 1985 Dear: Melissa, This is my first letter to you. I promised that I'd write to you every month, but the first month after I arrived here in America was difficult. At first, I was sleeping on the streets, not really understanding the chemistry of this new country. That was a whole five days on the hard concrete... but I have to admit, I love the freedom. The next week was better. After some random dancing, I found a bar here in Los Angeles, and the three owners were impressed with my dancing. They liked me, Missy. They appreciated my dancing and even swooned for me. I kind of liked them. They described me as "bad to the bone". I rented an apartment near the dance club owned by those three people. I kind of liked them until they called for this particular airhead who just burst into my dressing room one evening. He was high on liquor, I could tell, by the way his eyes couldn't focus on my face, and not to mention, his breath was overwhelming. He told me that he wanted me to star in his movie. I hated him, Melissa. I hated him at once because he stared at me like I was a bimbette. But what's alluring about him is that he didn't quit at once. He kept pushing and pushing until I was personally tired from his push- through. It was night already, and I wanted to go home, wrap myself up in my pajamas and sleep. But he was there and he kept annoying me. He's not a chocoholic; I know you're thinking about that. Fox Mulder is a producer from Warner Brothers who wants to hit it big as a director. He thought I was perfect for the lead female part of his debut movie I accepted his offer, Missy. Out of the two offers I had, I sealed my fate with his and his studio's. I live in his house in Beverly Hills today. I probably will until the movie's finished. We don't get along most of the time, but it has improved since our first meeting. He's so difficult. He tires me out sometimes; I just don't show it to him. I wouldn't dream of showing it to him. And anyway, he takes good care of me. I have included some necessary papers for you to be assured that I am in good hands. I will be fine here, Melissa. Give my care to your future child, Bill, and Charles. Anrhega 'm cara at Mama's bedd. Signed, Dana ------------------------------ End of Chapter Three ------------------------------ CHAPTER FOUR: Mulder Manor Beverly Hills, Los Angeles March 11, 1985 Monday He was almost done deciding whether to bring his blue- green pajamas or his green- red boxers [a Christmas gift from Byers, obviously] for their Vegas trip when a knock was made on his door. Absentmindedly, he yelled for the person to enter. Mulder laid the boxers across his bed, beside the pajamas. He stood back, and studied it like an artist about to paint the mural of the century. "Mulder," The thick British accent could always cut through his diverted attention like a knife through hot butter. His neck snapped a few bones when he strained to look at her, surprised that she actually knocked on his door--- she usually just barges in. Don't ask him--- she had caught him on the bed sleeping with drool on his pillow, from the bathroom with only a towel around his endowment, and last but certainly not the least--- standing *naked* searching for his briefs. During those three spectacular encounters, Scully never did bat an eyelash. She only looked at him straight in the eye and barked at him for whatever it was she needed. She also exited as if she'd seen grown naked men every damn day of her life. Scully must've AT LEAST been spooked by the last encounter if she took some time to knock today. "Yes, what is it, Scully?" Mulder pressed his fingers lightly on the places where he felt his bones strain. Scully reached for her back, and scratched an invisible itch. "What time is our flight?" He tried to hide the sigh that was halfway up his throat. Rule #1: Never ever show this woman that she annoys you. Rule #2: Keep her in your good graces and she'll keep you in hers. "Within the next five hours, Scully. Have you packed yet?" Rule #3: Be good- natured towards her. She shuffled her dirty- white rubber shoes with those perfect little ribbons nonchalantly on the red carpet. "No. Not yet." Go figure these women. The first minute they're all too hot to handle, the next minute they're acting like frightened little lambs that want to chant the "Our Father". "Is there something you want me to know, Scully?" He articulated each word as if referring to a mentally- retarded child. Seeing that it registered fairly well on her question radar, Mulder went back to deciding between his pajamas and boxers. He suited a finger over his chin- his favorite position when he is thinking. "Yes." The crispy salutation of her normal voice suddenly returned, jerking Mulder from his decisions and back to her face. Her pale face and angry blue eyes. "I want you to know that I don't have enough clothes to go Vegas. And I'm not moving here until I have the kind of clothes I want to wear in Vegas." Shit. Butt ugly shit. They were booked for the high- five. Why was she telling him this just today?!? "Scully," He found his head in his hands. Difficult women were difficult to diffuse. "Please tell me why you're just telling me this RIGHT NOW." He can't help but shout out the last words. He was getting frustrated with her "I-need-something-RIGHT-now-Boo!-happy- Halloween-hope-you're-traumatized-enough" tricks. "Because you didn't tell me that we were really set for Vegas until today!" She reasoned out, jabbing a finger in his direction. Mulder wearily dragged his head from his hands and stared at her finger. It was in the middle of his overly sized nose, so close to his eyes that he could barely focus on them. So it was his fault. So he surprised her. So he has his own "Boo!-happy-Halloween" tricks. Why? Was that illegal? "I'll buy you a whole fucking wardrobe in Vegas, Scully, PLEASE pack what you have there right now," he pleaded with a precision that would make his father- God rest his soul- proud. Scully's blue eyes brightened at the thought of shopping. *Shopping*? He never, ever went shopping with a woman--- not even Emily, for that matter. He's not starting now. And DEFINITELY, not for her. "Thank you, Mulder." She skipped out of his room, ballerina- like in grace. Before she completely vanished, she peeked back in, saying: "Take the boxers. They're cute." He had no choice but to accompany her... she's signed to Warner Brothers, and officially, since his bosses forced him to, he's her keeper. He'll take care of her, until the movie's over. He'll make sure that she gets the best kind of publicity. He'll make sure that she's satisfied with all that Warner Brothers has to offer. Fuck. He shouldn't have let them see her dance. Too late. By the time he was getting another hand shake from his supreme bosses, they already had individual Spunks dancing in their eyes. The contract didn't SAY that he had to accompany a 20 year old WOMAN to every damn living mall in Vegas. A light bulb lit in Mulder's head. Of course! He grabbed the phone extension before he could talk himself out of it. And then dropped it. What the fuck did Scully tell him?!? ------------------------- The Doggetts were the weirdest couple he had ever seen. And the tightest too, add that in. There was nothing wrong with their physical pairing--- actually, they looked perfect for each other. John Doggett had the strut of a professional gentleman, shoulders always upright, smile always tight. He held his wife's hand wherever and whenever they went, and yeah, the green- eyed monster also attacks him--- he never let her out of his view. Monica Reyes- Doggett, for Mulder, is another story. She's as complicated as Scully, probably a little lower on the difficulty level, but difficult as well. She jabbered too much, joked around too much, and cried too much. Normally though, for a succeeding bystander, Monica was pretty [insert green- eyed Doggett right here]. Her brunette locks frames her tan face like a perfect triangle [she doesn't tease her hair like most women around; she prefers it straight and prim, thank you]--- and that face of hers was always be calm, almost giddy. John's not bad too- put them together and presto! Couple perfection! There was only one problem... Mulder just thought that ever since John married Monica, he suddenly became reserved- not even reserved, more like obsessed. He kept his wife's picture in his wallet [John never, ever kept a woman's picture in his wallet- not even his mom's], and when they worked late on one particular shooting, the guy always called home every damn hour. During those days, Mulder was still with Diana. He *never* called home every hour. Diana waited for him like the obedient wife she should be. He also used to party hard, as if he never had the transition from college frat boy to studio executive. But when he asked John if he wanted some Bacardi for the ride, John shook his head and muttered a small "thank you, Monica needs me at home" crap that killed Mulder. Monica must've voodooed his best party animal man. Never really understanding the chemistry between the couple, and why his best party animal man had become best husband- man, Mulder felt a lot guilty when he realized that the reason why Monica "jabbered a lot, joked a lot, and cried a lot" [not *too much*, he's exaggerating] was because she's 3 weeks pregnant. When Mulder swallowed enough pride for him to ask John why he's so devoted to his wife, John smiled at him like a real- time weirdo and answered, "Because were married." Duh. He never quit while he's ahead, all right. So he inquired again. John's eyes narrowed, before telling him: "Someday, you're gonna find someone you'll be devoted to, Mulder. Someone who'll kick your drinking crap out of your butt." He made that Doggett- scowl. "Diana's not the one, I bet yah." That was exactly three months before his divorce. The bet caused him $1000. Devoted. Yeah right. That's straight right out of his fucking pocket. Rich as he is, he didn't pay for that $1000 in one sitting. He was pricking his wounded pride each time he handed John a dollar. He made Scully busy herself with some chocolate- whipped donuts while he was craning his neck all around the Las Vegas airport, searching for John and Monica. Mulder made sure that Scully had her legs on top of their suitcases as he walked around the whole lot. What's weirder about the couple is that they usually didn't see you--- you'd have to see them first. It was embedded- like a really sticky flytrap -in everyone's mind that the two sometimes got lost within their own realm that they forget that there's still a world churning hard bricks around them. All around him, backpackers were stalking every single corner of the airport, waiting for their flights to be called. A sandy Australian vacationer made a good pillow out his thick black bag, turning his head towards the transparent glass of the airport to avoid embarrassing himself from those passing by. As if he'll not get enough embarrassment from the ones boarding the planes. Mulder chuckled. Humans interest him that way. He didn't study psychology in Oxford for goddamn nothing. He caught a reflection of spiky buzz- cut brown hair, and an iron- flat brunette through a lady's compact kit--- It's easy to spot someone who has flat hair when the world's women are wearing their hair curly, big, and teased. He hurried towards them at once. A flat- out, face- consuming grin found his face as he sighted the Doggetts, hand- in- hand across the arrival area. John was comfortable with his usual slacks and knitted sweater that was three times larger than his normal size, while Monica was glowing in a ruffled maternity dress. She was also three times larger than the last time he saw her. "Hey John!" Mulder shouted; making about twenty unknown faces turn towards him. He forgot- this country was full of 'Johns'. Accelerating towards his friends to make sure that no one approached him out of curiosity, he shook John's hand firmly before taking him into a brief hug. He did the same with Monica, planting a small kiss on her red cheek. "Monica!" He gestured towards her large belly. Monica placed her two hands on it proudly. "John's becoming a miracle- maker these days, huh?" She grinned. "Yes. He's been feeding me too much protein. He said it's good for our baby, Mi amigo." Monica Doggett was born and raised in New Mexico, so she sometimes broke through her language- barrier consciousness and spoke Spanish accidentally- truth be told, she spoke in it most of the time. She did seem a lot nicer when she spoke the language, making her all soft and womanly. He once decided that it's the reason why John was so into his wife... Sí, senor. He might be juvenile when it came to figuring this out, but Mulder has this vast belief that Spanish women are hot. Yeah, literally hot. Not Monica, of course. Christ and Jesus. He'll hang himself upside down before he would consider this woman before him to be *hot*. "When's the due date?" Mulder turned to John, who was beaming proudly at his wife. "This May, probably. That's if the little critter's finally gets rid of his shyness." John reached over to pat his wife's shoulder. Monica nodded. "So, where's this girl you were talking about?" She inserted. Mulder directed them towards where Scully was. He did some quick explaining as to where he found this woman, and why he hired her. John is part of the movie's main project, actually, he's Mulder's Assistant Director. But he had been out of the whole picture while his wife was pregnant--- probably will be out until everything's settled down. John promised his assistance once the movie starts, but by that time, Mulder still must hire another AD for the opening processes. "She must be good if the studio execs drooled over her like that," John noted, assisting his wife against the tide of people coming in for the departure area. "Yeah, she is," Mulder agreed, pushing through an overweight teenager gobbling up a jumbo cheese dog. "She's a bit heavy on the attitude, I might add." "You said that the tres mosqueteros have christened her as 'Spunk'." Monica mentioned, her tongue softening during the last statement. She should soften up. She's the appointed member of the board who'll accompany his 'Spunk' around Vegas to shop for new clothes. In lieu of this, he has made another hand-shaking deal with the feisty redhead: Be nicest to the couple---and nice to him. He's expecting her to introduce herself as 'Dana' again. When they reached the exact station where he left Scully, she was still there, her eyes scanning the whole airport, reminding Mulder of two blue headlights that have been left on overnight by a car owner. When she spotted the three approaching people, she cordially rose to her feet, easing out the wrinkles on her denim jumper [as if there could ever be wrinkles on denim]. She also straightened her light blue headband. Mulder was happier on his decision to call Monica about the wardrobe problem--- she did look like a crumpled up teenager with her clothes. Mulder stood amongst the three. "Scully, this is John Doggett and his wife, Monica." Scully politely shook John's hand first, and then Monica's. The woman was staring at the redhead with fondness. "Usted es hermoso, mi dama roja," she whispered to Scully. Spunk looked at Mulder quizzically. Mulder didn't also understand what Monica said, so he turned to John. "She said that you are beautiful, my red lady." The man's arm went around his wife's shoulders. Scully laughed, trying to hide the crimson tide that threatened to overtake her face. Mulder had the distinct impression that this lady wasn't told she was beautiful very often. She should be: because no matter how many times harder than the rock her head was, it was not something arguable--- she was beautiful. Monica smiled. "I wish my baby would resemble you." She placed a hand atop her round stomach. "Where are you from, mi dama roja?" It was now official: mi dama roja is now Monica's personal calling for Scully. His was "mi amigo". John's was "mi amor". Her bratty little brother was given the pensive title of "mi mierda"--- that's "my shit" in English. Scully side tracked a glance at Mulder. What is she looking at him for? All of his brain cells were devoid of Scully info. "From Wales." "Ah, Welsh!" Monica gleefully repeated. Mulder's brow furrowed. Really? Welsh? He never knew that. His span of Scully- consisted of the fact that she could dance and she's giving him hell in his own home. "Ble chan Cymru , 'm 'n frowngoch Spunk?" Monica produced from her tongue with a 2% 'struggle' rate. What the fuck? Monica spoke Welsh? Since when?!? Mulder sharply criticized Doggett with his eyes. The man offered him a shrug as an explanation, and some words that barely registered in his brain: "Monica spent a whole year studying languages in Yale." Wonderful, Mulder's brain screamed. Let's all dance and do the Chippendale. It's legal; they're in Vegas. Scully was more than happy right now. She had found someone who could understand her own language, someone who she could talk to without any barriers. With an octave of a full- pledged British, she said: "Milford Haven. Daleithiau chan daleithiau." For all Mulder knew, they were talking about how to stuff his body into the closet tonight. It's no secret from him that Monica had a limited range of liking for him. Let's say that they didn't really hit it off. He liked the woman, and he knew that she liked him too, but it wasn't a glorious liking. It's more civil, because John was his friend and she was his wife. Behind him, Monica called "John ha jodido arriba amigo"- that's "John's fucked up friend". How does he know? He has heard her mutter that under her breath a few times before. How was he sure that she was referring to him? He was the only one there. How did he found out what it meant in English? He asked John during lunch that day. He choked on his food. Mulder cleared his throat, snapping the two women from their same language- bliss. "Good. Now you two can get along well." Monica was glowing, obviously happy to help Scully, and doubly happy that she could show off her "whole year of studying languages" skill to them. Personally, he has heard three languages in a whole day. He's getting dizzy. What he needs right now is some chilled scotch, and light beer as his chaser. Yeah. He could already feel the tingle of the alcohol down his throat. "I'll take care of this beautiful lady now, Mulder," Monica assured him. He didn't need any more assuring. He wanted that glass of chilling, sweaty scotch in his hands. Suddenly, John patted him on the back, almost making him fall onto the floor. "We're all going to be fine, Monica. Mulder owes me some slots," John perked up. Mulder nodded in agreement. Payback time. Before they went their separate ways, Monica leaned into John's ear, and whispered some harsh words in Spanish: "Yo no lo quiero venida buscadora bebida, John. Usted es amigo es una influencia mala. Tenga cuidado conlo." When they were aleady out of sight, Mulder hauled Spunk's backpack onto his shoulders. John carried the other two bags with his thick hands, and they and they walked side- by- side quietly. Mulder couldn't help it. He had to ask. "What did... what did Monica tell you?" John closed his eyes tight; as if he was in extreme pain. His friend could never, ever lie to him. Not in a million years. That's why he found out about what Monica secretly called him--- over choked pasta and spurted- out coke. "She said... that she doesn't want me coming home drunk." Mulder grimaced. He should forget about sharing that scotch. "And?" "And that I should be careful of you. You are a bad influence." Shit. Mierda. "Am I?" Mulder wanted to know. John shrugged, with that unique way he does--- he lifts his shoulders until they meet his ear, then move them once forward and once backward an inch at a time- until it is completely descended. Yes. Of course he's a bad influence. His friend never, ever lied to him. That shrug of his could've been Morse code for "you're a fucked up bad influence, Mulder". ------------------- "You want her to dance in the Folies Bergere?!?" John shouted above the growing noise of the casino, scratching an inch of his buzz- cut head. Mulder sipped on his chilled scotch. He eyed the glistening light beer tentatively, before deciding that he'd be saving that for later. "Yeah! She's awesome, John! Whoever- whoever is managing the Folies Bergere this year would --- not... attempt to say yes- I mean, no!" He goofily grinned at his friend. John skeptically whistled low at his statements. "I heard that the man in charge of co- producing the show this year is a Jerry Jayson." His friend mentioned, going back to his slot machine. He inserted a chip inside the humongous machinery, pulled on the trigger, and waited with his fingers merging together in anxiety. Mulder also stayed calm--- until the results came out: banana, banana, and a coke. Miss. Again. For the night, John already spent $400 out of the $500 that Mulder owed him. He's going pretty fast. John thumped on the machine, marking it out with sharp curses in Spanish. He sure has learned a lot from Monica. Mulder wondered where she taught him that side of the Spanish dialect... He quickly shook the dirty thought out of his head. He was getting dozed. Dirty thoughts in a clean mind meant getting dozed. "You know Jerry Jayson?" Mulder raised his bottle of scotch in the air, watching it twinkle from the small fluorescent lights of the Four Queens. Beautiful, beautiful liquid euphoria. Doggett drew out another golden chip from his pocket. He was contemplating on using it or not when he answered, "Yeah. He called me once, suggested some dancers for our upcoming project in Warner Brothers." "And," Mulder continued, "You didn't tell me..." "When he called, you already had Spunk." Doggett smirked at him, and pocketed the glistening chip. He stretched his legs before him, and since they were facing each other, the tip of his sandals touched the legs of Mulder's chair. "We should go up to the hotel, Mulder. You have had enough," he warned, grabbing the scotch from his hands. It only made the man groan. "Fuck you, John! Let me have that!" He flailed his arms above him, fingers clenching and unclenching. John still had the perfect 20/20 vision and consciousness, so he easily dodged the yielding hands of Fox Mulder. Mulder swallowed hard, angered by his friend's interference with his 9th glass of scotch. With one last gallop, he lunged from his chair and onto Doggett's, narrowly missing the hard surface of the slot machine. They landed on the floor hard, on top of each other. The drunk man began to laugh. This was all ridiculous. Wrestling a fucking glass of scotch from his best party animal's hand wherein he still had his chaser right there on the table, waiting for him. Fuck him. He took Doggett by the collar and laughed. But all that was in his friend's eyes were fear. That was the last thing that Mulder took note, before he heard a large crash behind him, women screaming, and an indescribable pain digging his skull. And black out. ------------------------ Mulder knocked gently on the steel door, his sweaty knuckles shushing against the scrappy rough texture of the metal. He swallowed hard when a nurse opened, clad in green scrubs. "Can I see my baby?" He half- whispered. The man before him tilted his head to one side, indicating that he didn't hear Mulder's statement. "I said," The young man made his voice more audible, rougher to the ears. "Can I see my baby?" The nurse raised a finger to his face, a silent saying that he needed to check first. Mulder was growing impatient. He had his scrubs on during the first hour of Diana's labor, his mask on during the third hour, and the full gear when the first crying sounds were heard from the ER. He was more than ready to barge in the damn room and grab his baby before anyone else did. He wanted to see his daughter/son soon. If they won't let him see his own baby anytime *soon*, he had a full- barrel of gun in his car's trunk. He'll pay for the extra medical services it'll cost afterwards. When the nurse's face returned, light wrinkles were marred on the sides of his brown eyes. He was smiling. It was a yes! He could go and see his daughter/son! Mulder tucked his mask, covering his mouth and nose completely. At least it hid the constant licking of his lips. He was fucking nervous. The same nurse guided him through the room. He was maneuvered him directly to a separate room, and he stole a forlorn glance at his wife- who was still being treated by the doctors. They surrounded him like green angels, some wiping her sweat, some soaking the blood- smeared utensils into sterilized water. Mulder felt faint at the sight. They assured him few hours ago that Diana was fine, but they had to do a C-section because the baby's head was too large to exit through the vagina. She'll be out cold for a few more hours. The baby's already out and kicking. Another nurse, a woman this time, was cooing a crying infant in her arms, wrapped in pink soft blankets. Mulder's heart leap to his throat. His baby's a girl. He got a girl. He has a girl. Damn. There went his verb tenses. The chubby nurse removed the dangling mask from her face, revealing her rosy flamboyant cheeks. "Here's your girl, Mr. Mulder." Guy nurse patted him squarely on the back. "Congratulations. She's beautiful." Mulder held his arms out, hoping that they won't give when he holds his daughter. All of his body felt like jell- o. Maybe holding the baby wasn't such a good idea right now. Chubby nurse seemed to read his mind. She smiled at him, reminding him of his Mother's comfort grins- he gets them when he does a screw up at home. "It's okay. You won't drop her." She outstretched her arms towards him, and he could see the moving arms of the infant. He won't drop her. Mulder opened his own arms, and the nurse placed the baby into it. A surge of pride tore through the edges of Mulder's body as he felt the warm soft living thing with his own flesh. This baby was from him. He is part of this baby. Christ, he'll forever be making babies with Diana. This was what he wanted. Babies. Children. He pushed away the pink fabric from the face of the newborn; excited to see who she resembled the most. Mulder crossed imaginary fingers in his mind. He hoped it was him. "Wake up!" Those words came from somewhere. Mulder snapped his head up, eyes wide, searching for who said that. The chubby woman nurse was gazing at the child fondly. The guy nurse was urging him to go on and look at the baby. Mulder ignored what he heard and plunged on. He removed the soft linen from the baby's face. "Wake up, Mulder!" *THAT* came from the baby. The baby stared back at him with piercing blue eyes, full red lips, and white satin face. Tendrils of crimped red hair also peered from him through the cloth. Mulder felt faint. He tried to return the baby back to the nurse, but everyone around him was gone. He fearfully returned his eyes to the child. This was crazy. This has to be a nightmare. It has to be. "I said, WAKE UP, Mulder!" The baby clearly said, right before his eyes. This wasn't his daughter--- it was... "Scully?!?" He choked. The baby nodded. "Of course it's me!" Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The chubby woman nurse chose that exact moment to make her reappearance, saying with syrupy- sweet voice: "Is that what you want to name your baby?" Mulder shook his head disdainfully. "NO!" The nurse chuckled. "Okay. *Scully* it is." His mouth gaped open. "NO-oooooooooooo!" "Stop that!" Scully's curt voice snapped. That was the time when Mulder's eyes finally complied with the reflex signals his brain was sending him. He stared, partially unfocused, at the blur of auburn leaves and wooden white bark before him. "If you had told me that you didn't want to wake up, then I wouldn't have told you to do so." She whispered soothingly. Mulder reached up to touch her- to bring her face close to him so that he can focus, but she stopped him with a slap on his bicep. "Just because I'm officially taking care of you, it doesn't mean that you could go and touch me anytime." Scully brought a hand to his forehead. That gesture made him relax. "You were wailing like a mental patient, for God's sake. The next time you get a nightmare, wake up before you start alarming all the tourists around us." Mulder tried to move his hand again, and was successful in bringing it up to cup Scully's cheek. However, she pressed it back down on the sheets with her free arm. "Stop that, I tell you!" She scolded, sharply. "If you don't stop touching me, I promise you Mulder that I'll cut your head open for the second time!" He widened his eyes, another effort to focus on his surroundings. "What? What cut my head open?" Scully disappeared form his view, and then returned with a wet rag. She positioned the lukewarm towel over his forehead. The feeling was heavenly against his pounding head--- something he noticed just the exact moment Scully pressed the rag on him. He couldn't decipher where the pain came from--- from his scotch- related headache, or from the "cut my head open" thing that Scully was talking about. She ignored his answer while she fixed the wet towel over his forehead. "How does that feel?" "Great... Excuse me, but what happened to me?" Spunk wasn't satisfied with the arrangement of the fabric over his forehead, so she rearranged it again. "Apparently, when Monica and I went out for our own Vegas excursión," she articulated the Spanish word with careful grace, as if she was afraid that her British accent might ruin the feel of the language. Mulder found the end product... of a British woman speaking a Spanish word- fascinating, through his dazed self. Cute, even. "... You were already filling yourself to the brink with chilled scotch-" "And light beer," he supplied, trying to help hurry the narration. Scully smiled a bit, as she tried once again to rearrange the cloth on his forehead. A trickle of water traced on his eyebrow, and he gingerly removed her hand away from his face, silently trying to tell her to stop perfecting the folds of the rag. She did, resting her hands on her lap, still gazing at his forehead. "Yes. When we arrived here in Four Queens, Mr. Mulder, you were already being treated by the local doctor for a slight concussion." "Concussion?" Mulder repeated. Really? Was that the extreme pain he felt before he blocked out? From what? As if reading his mind, Scully continued: "From the glass of chilled scotch, Mr. Airhead, that Mr. Doggett lost grip on of when you attacked him." Mulder tried to stand up, but her strong hand was on his bare chest, pushing him back down on his bed. "Wait- -- what about John? Is he okay?" She bobbed her head up and down eagerly. "Yes. Save for trauma from *accidentally* hitting his best friend with scotch, he's okay. They're right across us, waiting for your recovery. I should call them." With that, Scully bounced of the bed, forgetting about his condition. The waves of the mattress caused his head to scrape against the headboard. Another howl rose from his throat. Scully ran at once towards his side. "Oh Fuck, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!" She repeated over and over again, trying to drift Mulder's sore head back onto the pillows. Mulder chuckled, despite the fact that something was jack hammering his head into bits and pieces. "That must be the first time you told me you're sorry," he remarked hoarsely, pushing some witticism into it. It was worth mentioning, even if all he got was an icy glare from the lady. "It may be the last time, so revel in it." She patted him his cheek to punctuate her words, but all it brought Mulder was more sarcastic happiness. Through the denseness of his view, he could see that he was already tiring this woman. And the ridiculous idea gave him a ridiculous sense of pride. Even if her energy was partly zapped out from tending to him the whole day. He'll take all the credit, thank you. Mulder can't help the smirk in his voice, "How long has it been?" Scully sighed deeply. "1 Am, Mulder. Exactly 4 hours since the doctor sewed your head up." "What?!?" Mulder galloped. "He *what* my head up?" A wicked grin found her red lips. "Not really *sewed*, more like *stitched*." She has to be lying. She must be lying. He cannot be *stitched* up and be lying in a hotel room. If that's the real case--- he should be in a hospital bed! A strange laughter pierced his ears. It sounded like a broken record that only featured "Ha"--- that sound was Scully's laugh. Her whole laughter was a string of "Ha's" that came out of her voice box without stop, in pure excellent succession. It was a weird laughter, so direct, almost too mature for someone her age. It was comparable to hearing someone laugh at her whole life because it was ditzy. However strange, it was beautiful, to hear someone as uptight and curt as Scully amused. He should be insulted, really, because she was laughing at his frightened expression. But he wasn't. "I'm kidding, Mulder. The glass only broke through your skin. It's not serious, as I've mentioned. The pain you are feeling right now probably comes from the hangover you are experiencing. You are penwan, Mulder, crazy," she said through guffaws. Mulder rolled his eyes. "Fine. So you think that's funny. I'm not complaining." He crossed his arms, then uncrossed it when he realized that he was half- naked. Eyeing Scully suspiciously, he peered under the velvet sheets of the bed. To his dismay, he found out that he was wearing the green- red boxers. He pulled the sheets up to his abdomen at once. Scully has stopped laughing by that time. She was staring at him like a fox would at a rabbit. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around? "If you're thinking, Mulder, that I undressed you," She nuzzled her own hand, briefly closing her eyes before she continued, "you are not that lucky. John tossed those boxers in. I suggested it, though." If he stabbed this woman right here, right now, would anyone find out? He'd pass it off as suicide. He'll throw her out of the window after cutting her wrists, and say that it was a case of sad suicide. Fantastic. But his throbbing headache left him with only one choice: stay in bed and face Scully. Her bad girl expression shifted slightly to concerned girl. She signaled towards the bed side table. "There are cheese dogs for both of us. I bought some while shopping. Do you want to grab a bite? You haven't eaten lunch or dinner." Mulder agreed. Her reminder of food made his stomach beat against his flesh like a whacko. She handed him a plastic bag, and he opened it appreciatively, breathing in the aroma of cold hot dogs. It would do him enough for tonight. Maybe part of the reason for his headache is hunger. He took a big bite of the damn thing before he could even think. Scully also had her own cheese dog, and she opened the plastic carefully, scrutinizing the damn thing before taking a small bite. She acts prim and proper when she's not ravenous, Mulder noted to himself. That was when he noticed the dramatic change of her wardrobe ensemble. Her hair was pinned back from her face with a stony barrette that had some rhinestones dangling from them. The blue stone of the pin matched the small sky blue trimmings of her lacy cropped top, and the slight blueness of the bra she wore inside it. Underneath all the lace, as far as his view could capture, were perfectly toned muscles. Scully wasn't incredibly skinny, as most dancers were, but she had enough flesh where there should be. She had breasts, she had an acceptable butt, and small but nicely carved legs. Hell, she could post for Playboy if she really wanted some fame. And those legs were peeking at him from the super- short mini denim skirt she was sporting. She didn't appear like a crumpled up teenager anymore. She looked more like a lady. Monica did a great job. He should drop the pregnant woman a "muchas gracias" tomorrow. "You look awesome," Mulder complemented, and Scully hid the growing flush on her face behind her hotdog's tangled plastic. "Thank you. Monica did a great job." She bit into the snack once again, staring at it consciously while chewing. Mulder did the same with his hotdog, but directed his attention at her. He didn't expect her to say anything more, however, she continued with their conversation. "She reminds me of my sister," Scully said through her full mouth. Mulder raised his eyebrow. "You have a sister?" "I have a sister, and two older brothers. I am the youngest of them all." "What about Monica?" Mulder wanted to clear. Monica was far from Scully's appearance, so he didn't understand what was so reminiscing of that woman. Scully stopped chewing for a moment, "My sister was also pregnant when I left Wales. She also speaks a mean Welsh." She chewed once more, swallowing the food at once. "You must understand, that most Welsh are not fluent in our own language. We speak English as our casual language on the streets. Our family is one of the few who was fortunate enough to learn this language." Mulder felt his throat run dry. He asked Scully for a drink, and she handed him a coke-in-can from the dresser. When he had his fill, he urged her to go on. Scully also had a sip from her diet Sprite before she resumed. "My great grandparents were really from America. They moved to Wales because they were enchanted by its quaint beauty." When she said that, there was a visible fondness in her eyes. "It is beautiful. I bet you'll fall in love with it when you go there." "Me?" Mulder grinned. "Nah. I'm a big city man." Scully snickered. "My great grandma and grandpa were too, until they saw Wales. They felt a unique love for the country, and even if they themselves were immigrants to Wales, they urged their children to study the Welsh language. They said that the language was music to their own ears." Mulder swallowed his last piece of hotdog, tossing the plastic towards the bedside table. "You seem to love your own country," he can't help pointing out. She was staring at a spot in the wall behind him as if she was seeing Wales right through the hard concrete. She snapped back to reality, another stream of flush coating her cheeks. "Yes. I do love Wales." "Then why come to America? You could've been famous there." He never quit while he's ahead. He's practically hauling a red banner that bore those words when he pointed that thought out. He *just* had to. Scully didn't look as if his statement insulted her; or at least she didn't make herself look insulted. She shrugged nonchalantly. "The Cymraeg- the Welsh will always be first in my heart. But America is the land of opportunity. You must understand that- you have lived here all of you life." Mulder nodded. "Scully, if you came here to America without you're wonderful dancing talents, opportunity wouldn't have come to you." She dismissed that fact with a hand to her stomach. It gave him the impression that she didn't want to go any further. Unlike him, she knew when to quit when she's ahead. "It's 2 AM, Mulder, you should get your rest. " Before he could complain, she stood up from the bedside, throwing all of what remained from they're midnight snack into the trash can. Mulder watched as she strutted across the room, picking up pieces of papers, straightening out objects, until FINALLY she returned to his bedside. She removed the towel from his forehead, sunk it back to the basin near her, and returned it. This time, her perfectionist didn't kick in, and she was done with the whole place in no time. Dimming the bedside light, she asked him if he wanted it on or off. He told her to leave it on, in case of emergency. That's a subtle translation of "leave it open, I might get another concussion from struggling to get to the comfort room before I wet *your* favorite boxers". Scully appraised his wish without qualms, then paused at his bedside. She positioned a hand lightly on his chest. "If I didn't come here to America, then you wouldn't get your break, Mr. Mulder." Break?!? He never, ever mentioned that he wanted a *break* to her! He never mentioned that to ANYONE, period. Scully had on a smug grin that reminded him of Langley's own when he first saw her dance back in Lone Glitter. How can she do that to him? Read him like a 1st grade school book. Was he that transparent ? Was he all pictures with big, bold capital letters? "Good night, Mulder." She leaned in so damn close to his ear. He could feel the invisible hairs of his ear move as her breath tickled the insides. For a tense moment, when she leaned in to whisper, he thought she was going to kiss him. It was an overwrought and bewildering moment. His heart was pounding bongo drums in his ears, until she pulled and walked away from him, towards the adjoining room. She left the door open, in case he needed anything. Mulder sunk back to his pillows, monitoring his own head so that it won't get scraped again. All he could remember, as he was bordering sleep and consciousness, was a notion that tip- toed across his mind: This woman will never, ever stop surprising him. Ever. -------------------------- To be continued -------------------------- CHAPTER FIVE: #318 Four Queens Hotel Las Vegas March 12, 1985 Tuesday Mulder's whole bitching hotel room was in fucking chaos. He wasn't supposed to get up from bed, so everyone present strapped him onto the mattress and threatened to bonk him another round on the head if he moves. Naturally, he complied, although quite reluctantly. He knew from the very start that it was a trick. At his right side, Scully was forcing him to down some green tablets to subside the mini pain that was scratching on his skull. Unfortunately, he found out a while ago that it contains a sedative that would put him to sleep. He *can't* really sleep through business right now. He came here to Vegas with one goal in mind: make Scully dance. His decision was already made: he'll make her dance in the Folies Bergere, the oldest and most prestigious show in Las Vegas today. One month was his only time allotment for this agenda. If he wanted to make that deadline, he's not going to take green sleepy midget pills. On his left side was a ragged John, who felt quite guilty about what happened [even if Mulder assured him over and over and over again that it did no harm] so he decided to wait hand and foot on his friend. At that moment John was offering him everything on the hotel's room service menu. If Monica chose that exact moment to wake up from her slumber, Mulder will definitely go crazy. Scully shook a midget orange-sized fist in front of his face. "If you don't take these fucking pills, Mulder, I'll personally make sure that you do drink 'em!" "What's so important about me drinking those pills?!?" He wanted to continue with, "Is that poisonous? I know how much you want to cut my throat. Is that your lame way out?" But the threat in Scully's raging blue eyes kept his itchy mouth shut. Keeping his mouth shut has more than that advantage: At least he wouldn't have to down those pills. Scully answered, unlocking the fist and glaring at John, who was reading the description for 'Oyster soaked Cabbages with fried beef'. "BECAUSE THE DOCTOR ASKED ME TO TAKE CARE OF YOU! I'M NOT GOING TO LET A LAZY CHOCOHOLIC MAN GET IN MY WAY! WHEN I SAY I'M GONNA DO SOMETHING, I'M GONNA BLOODY DO IT!!!" she shouted those words out with enough loudness to silence a whole gymnasium of noisy High School students. John trapped his tongue shut, eyes wide at them both. Mulder's eyes also grew out of proportion as he studied the heaving woman before him. Scully huffed the breath she was holding out of her system, and offered him the pills once again on her paper- white palms. "Now, will you please kindly take these pills?" Every word was punctuated with false sweetness. Mulder glimpsed at John, then back at Scully and the pills. "*Chocoholic*?" he squeaked, making Scully sigh in frustration, and John returned to his bullshit menu. "*Chocoholic*, MISTER Mulder, or *alcoholic*, such as you." She donned the pills in front of his face again as she said that. "Kindly please drink your medicine." John licked his lips, patting absentmindedly on his washboard flat stomach. "The cherry coated banana split with side delicacies of--- your choice--- Oreos, Chocolate Chips, Candy Sprinkles... wow, I think Monica would love this. Regalado, ah, delicioso." He licked his chops once again as the image of the dessert floated in his mind like a wandering cloud. Mulder raised his eyebrows, half- closing his eyes in the process. His headache was getting more and more severe, and he wanted to temporarily block the frizzy auburn lady from his view. If only he had candle wax nearby, he'll stop up his ears too. With cool calmness, Mulder turned to John. "Buddy, I'd really love to eat whatever your reading there... but NOT right now. I think I'd like to be alone. Why don't you order a whole buffet and charge it on me?" He stopped himself from bashing his eyelashes. John was surprised by his wish. "Why... no... I can't take any more money from you, Mulder. But I'll go. Monica's probably awake by now. I'll come back later." He dragged his ass from his chair and patted him on the shoulder, while Scully on the back. That was the end of John Doggett and his dishes. Mulder afforded to smile at his success. There was only one more person left. "Scully," She rolled her eyes so viciously it almost lodged right into her brain. "*Darling*, please go to your room and watch TV... or something. There are replays of Moonlighting this afternoon, or some soap opera that I'm sure you would-" "I don't watch soap operas. Moonlighting replays are not until tomorrow, that's because Moonlighting doesn't show until tonight, 9 PM." Sure. Fine. He should've known, right from the very start, that she's a big Moonlighting fan. He should've known from the first time he saw that Bruce Willis picture in her wallet. Geez. Mulder regained his footing on their conversation. "- LOVE to see. Please, Scully, I need to be alone." She snorted, anchoring the asymmetrical shoulder of her t- shirt securely before it goes on showing more skin. "Why?" She asked that as if the answer didn't matter. "I want to be alone, Scully. Is that hard to understand?" he wearily professed, cradling his head on his hand. His redhead nurse gazed at him blankly. "Not until you drink these." It was those pills again. Bitch. If he wanted to get her out of his face, then he would lose the chance to surprise her. Bitch. He'll take the second option. She specifically asked for it. "I want to be alone, *Darling*," he inhaled, feeling some bones of his rib crack. "due to my need to make a phone call for Jerry Jayson." There. He has said it. Mulder stared at the redhead defiantly, as if he was holding out a sword and was challenging her into a duel. Scully blew thin air through her cherry lips. "And who is Jerry Jayson?" Mulder smothered a strand of chocolate brown hair over his pillow. "The assistant director of the Folies Bergere." When he mentioned those two familiar words, Scully's eyebrows rose up to an unimaginable height. He allowed himself to chuckle at her expression. "So you see, I need the privacy-" Before he could finish his statement, Scully jumped onto the bed and straddled him in between her toned legs. She hurled her body to his own, almost knocking his head down to the wall behind them. He groaned as her arms tightened around his neck, squeezing him deathly. Scully hugged him tighter and tighter, until he was afraid that she'll just go on and on hugging him to his demise. When she relaxed, though, Mulder was allowed to place his two hands on her back. That was when he recognized the heaving and gasping overtaking the dancer's body. She was actually crying. "Hey, hey..." He didn't know what to do, honestly. He didn't know what was wrong too- was she happy that she was dancing in the Folies Bergere? Or was she sad about it? How could he even amend that?!? Mulder began to gently stroke the convulsing muscles under his palm. He could feel wetness on his neck. That was where Scully's head was buried. "I'm... I'm ... so..." That was what he could make out of her gasping. "Hey, Scully, are you ok? I hope you like the Folies Bergere- if you don't, I could always find another show as good as it." "NO!" She lifted her head from his neck and shook her head hard, forcing some wayward strands of hair to stick to her eyes. The dark rims of her eye bugs were wet with tears, some streaming down to her cheeks. The wetness didn't seem part of her--- it was floating on her porcelain skin. Mulder touched one battered cheek, and swiped away the drops with his thumb. Scully finished the job he started herself. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to burst like that... you must understand; I have forever admired the Folies Bergere. When I read about them in a news article back home, I promised myself that I'll one day get a contract with the show and dance until I cannot anymore." She laughed at that with her infamous strings of "Ha's". Mulder joined in when he discovered that she was already laughing. "It's... it's a dream come true, Mulder. You just don't know how much thankful I am..." As she said that, her face was buried once again into his neck. Mulder stroked her hair carefully, still partially unaware of what was really happening. Maybe the gash on his head made him a slow learner overnight. "Scully," He removed her face from his skin with his two hands, brushing his thumbs over her sideburns gingerly. He held onto her face to be able to see her eye- to- eye. "I'm still not sure if you are going to be taken by the Folies Bergere. I'll talk to Jayson about it, I'll make you audition for him, and pull a few strings that are needed to be pulled for you. If we are lucky, we might even get a contract." A disheartening sadness coated her face, and for a flash, Mulder wanted to lean in and kiss it away- Maybe it's not the gash on his frigging skull; maybe it's the pills. Mulder's fairly sure that he had a couple of those green meanies before he regained consciousness this morning. Maybe that's what's making him think all weird. "I'm sure you will get this part, Scully. You are a fantastic dancer. I cannot, however, promise you a nightly performance, ok?" Scully nodded, making his thumbs push down to her cheeks. "I understand. I've wanted this for so long that I think even just an opening act could satisfy me for eternity." She grinned, a 100% genuine grin that Mulder immediately adored. He stored the way she looked when she smiles inside of him--- somewhere so lost that he doesn't even know where it is. "What's important right now is that we get you dancing here in Vegas. We have a full month dedicated to bringing your dream to the real world. I promise you that I will do everything in my power to get you what you want," he assured her, and she widened that sunshine- filled smile. When he looked into her blue eyes, curious to find the difference between Scully- serious and Scully- happy, he found out that when she smiles like that, her blue eyes were clear. It didn't darken; it didn't seem endless, just clear. Beautifully clear. Scully nodded once again, reminding him of the time she knocked on his door back in Los Angeles, before she started retorting to him her need for a new wardrobe. "Since this is already settled," He willed himself to remove his hands from her face. He silently told himself that whoever fell or will fall in love with this woman would either be a very lucky or unlucky guy. Lucky because she's so precious- making you want to take care of her for the rest of your life and spend that whole time striving to make her smile everyday. Unlucky because she's a bitch mechanism. There's no questioning both of that. "I'd like it very much if you get off of me. If you intend to stay, you might as well remove your jeans," he joked, and her smile became mysteriously cute. She bit her lip, placed a hand on his chest [over his beating heart--- he secretly wished that she didn't feel the rush of it], and pushed herself off of him. When her heat was only just a fluttering memory dancing in his brain, he missed it already. There was something about Scully that enticed him--- not the way that lovers are enticed--- but she was *plain* enticing. Scully glanced at the pills on the bedside table, where she left them before. "I guess your pill could wait 'til you finish your phone call." "Of course. Be totally selfish." He grinned victoriously. Scully ignored him, turning around to head towards her bedroom. Mulder moved himself near the bed stand to grab the phone. "Mulder," He already had his index finger on the first digit of the phone number Doggett left him when she called him out. He raised his eyebrows, asking for whatever she needed. Scully leaned her body against the door frame. Crossing her arms under her breasts, she trailed her eyes around the room, as if trying to see if anyone would hear her. When she was more or less secured, she persisted. "Since you gave me the greatest compliment in my dancing, I will give you a similar compliment. Not necessarily about your talent, but a compliment nonetheless." Mulder returned the phone back to its cradle. "What's that?" She downcast her eyes, and he didn't know whether she was shy or just plain embarrassed. "For someone who's 39 years old... I have to say that you are very well- preserved." Well preserved? "Should I consider that as a compliment?" Scully tapped on her lips thoughtfully. "Your are well- preserved in physique and spirit. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you are younger than me." It was DEFINITELY a compliment. Mulder mouthed a thank you, and returned to his phone call. Scully didn't say anything else. She submitted to the other room without a fight, forgetting about his damn pills. ------------------------------- The phone call was a success. Mulder can't help grinning like a madman the whole day, while Scully was constantly asking him how it went. He kept his mouth zipped, and as his punishment, she *remembered* the pills and practically shoved them into his mouth. He accepted without any problems, and slept like a baby. It was the first time he had slept peacefully. Usually, he sleeps too fast to remember the great dreams, and too slow that he remembered the nightmares. When he woke up, it was already late afternoon. Scully was propped up on the vanity table, reading the newspaper, and a fantastic spread [apparently from his good- no, best friend John] from the room service menu was set up near his bed. "Wow," he groggily said, pulling himself up from the covers. Scully disposed of her newspaper once she heard him stir. "Wow... John must've been guilty." "Apparently, he was." She shrugged, jumping from her chair and towards him. "Finally you're awake. *Finally* I could eat." Scully sat on the foot of Mulder's bed, adjusting herself to a comfortable angle, then grabbed a plate. He surveyed the food in front of him, from the sizzling plates of pasta, burgers, fries, and the impressive array of desserts. Scully, with her back to him, began to pile a plate with everything that's on the table. "Are you allergic to any of the dishes here?" Mulder licked his lips. He was way hungry. Way. "No. I don't think so." "Good," she remarked before he could even finish his statement. When she was done fishing through the delicacies, she handed him a full plate of food. He breathed in the aroma of luxury, loving the heat that filled his nostrils. "This is good, I have to agree," Mulder commented, tucking a piece of fry into his mouth, not really caring if his words were not connected with her previous comment. His stomach grumbled in anger, asking him to put more of the spread into it. Scully chose her own food carefully, avoiding the burgers and fries, settling for the pasta and a piece of garlic bread. She told him not to move too much, and she rested the plate close to his feet. Afterwards, she dragged a chair close to the edge of his bed, using the mattress as her table. She twirled a long strand of white noodle with her fork. "Are you going to tell me what happened over the phone? Or are you going to get another round of forty winks?" Mulder pretended to grimace. "How bad is that another round of forty winks?" The noodle on her fork begged others to join it. Soon she was twirling a whole pack of them. Just twirling, not really concentrating on it. He bet she was more interested in what he was going to tell her than eating. "Like, 6 bad rounds of forty winks." He bit into his burger, thoughtfully chewing on the remnants in his mouth. "Doesn't sound THAT bad." He knew that'll do her over. Scully groaned. "You are going to see this," She balanced her plate on one hand carefully, moving it upward and downward. "On your face if you don't tell me any sooner!" Never doubt that Scully will never mean what came flying out of her mouth. That was Rule #4. But Mulder was too pleased with himself to worry about that. He's not going to keep her guessing for long, anyway. He hardly could keep himself from singing Elvis Presley songs with the knowledge. So get those stakes up higher... "I'm dead serious. Dead hell serious, Mulder." She tilted the plate. If she threw that right into his face, she'll have a great shot. A hole in one. Mulder drummed his fingers on the bedcovers, snickering at her acid expression. She's a bad tease. There's a thousand pretty women waitin' out there... "I'm not telling," he breathed out, finishing off his hamburger. Scully bit her lip, screwing one finger on the plate so as not to flat it out on the cushion. And they're all livin' devil may care... "Son of a bitch. You're a beautiful son of a bitch." Mulder laughed at that. "Thanks for calling me beautiful--- I'm not gay, though." "Oooh," Scully managed to get out of her system, before sulking heavily back to her pasta. She decided that good food was not worth wasting on a bastard- or son of a bitch- like him. He didn't mind. He'll be telling her later, keep the suspense up. After Moonlighting- when she'll be getting her Bruce Willis fix. And I'm just the devil with love to spare... There were no more words as they ate in silence. Mulder hummed happily the remaining bars of the song, while Scully heaved and huffed, turning her head away from his slap- happy face. She did make a comment while at it: "Elvis died 7 years ago." He disregarded her statement, ending his tunes with the last line: "Viva Las Vegas!" Viva Las Vegas... Viva Las Vegas indeed. ------------------------------ At 9 PM sharp, Scully was out of his bedroom, out of his back, and out of his neck. For a second, he thought she was breathing fire right to his central nervous system. She was irritated the rest of the day, making occasional comments at him, taking time from reading the daily paper to just glare at him, and he sat there on the bed, still grinning like he won the million dollar jackpot in The Price Is Right. When the clock ticked 8:32 PM, she closed the conjoining door with an earth- shattering bang, to illustrate her whole point. Mulder found opportunity behind the closed door. He sat up straight on his bed, stretching his arms up above him, getting reacquainted with the feel of his muscles stretching out of proportion. A few bones cracked, as did his rib a while ago. It was due to the whole day he spent in bed. His active body wasn't used to loafing around. He moved a lot. The awakening of his unused flesh was heavenly. Mulder stretched a few more rounds before shoving away the thick covers with his feet. Without any more hesitation, he stood up, touching his feet to the soft carpet. He sighed- a sound that quickly turned to a gulp. He grabbed onto the closest thing he can catch. A sudden drop of nausea threatened to overwhelm him, probably due to the healing wound on his head and from staying too much in bed. He needed to move around. Desperately. If he felt like jumping at that moment, that was what he should've done. Unfortunately, it forgoes with that crazed plan: Scully will hear him. As the hour sank, Mulder pieced his freedom. He changed into pajamas, grimacing at the Scully's favorite boxers. He even checked on the wound, assuring himself through the mirror that it didn't look as bad as it appeared. At least the Doctor didn't have to shave his head to *stitch* it up. It wasn't even stitched up. More like *iced* out. He was all spick and span when the hour ended, and he was pretty sure that Scully was done drooling over the Moonlighting guy. Mulder opened the door, peering into the small crack to make sure that everything was good. He sighted Scully at the vanity table, brushing her chin- length hair slowly. The way she stroked up and down her frizzy locks mesmerized Mulder. She constantly kept blinking, suppressing some unshed tears at her reflection. The yellow light from the bedside table illuminated her face, showing him more than he should even see. She seemed too tired for a 20 year old. Scully dropped the comb down on the dresser, and to his shock, she began sobbing. Mulder didn't know what to do. He was there, standing in the conjoining door, prying at her privacy. Did she do this every night? What will she think of him if he entered and tried to offer some assistance? There were so many things he doesn't know about this woman, but his heart told him to help her, so that's what he did. His head wasn't really in the position to argue. He entered her hotel room and quickly found himself at her heels, kneeling. He smoothed away hair from her face, while trying to grab a hand that was covering her eyes. "Scully? Are you okay?" Scully pulled back from him, almost toppling herself down from the chair. The astonishment on her face made him rise up to his heels. He thought she was going to start punching him square on the stomach when she lifted her arms, and he shielded himself in reflex, but she only used them to wipe her tears. He waited until she gathered herself together, before asking once again if she was okay. She scratched a spot below her red- rimmed eyes. "I'm fine, Mulder." Mulder shook his head. Was that even an answer? "Scully, you're not supposed to be crying your eyes out and then tell me that you're fine. Something's obviously wrong," Mulder pushed. When she didn't answer that, Mulder resumed to his former position: down on his knees, both of his hands on her lap. Scully tried removing his hands, but he didn't budge. "I'm sorry, but I think you forgot a certain characteristic that I own: I never quit while I'm ahead. I'm ahead... 10- 12 steps ahead from my bed, so you better tell me what's wrong." Scully opened her mouth in a gasp. "You should be in bed, Mulder-" "Too late. I'm not in bed anymore. You're not going to make me waste those 10- 12 steps I took in SUCH pain and just push me away, will you?" She closed her eyes in defeat. "I won't." Just before he was able to do his "triumphant" snicker, Scully revealed her inverted British flag from inside of her. "And I also won't divulge my whole book for you, Mulder. We both don't deserve that." Whatever she meant by her last statement was stolen from Mulder. She once again tried to remove his hands off of her lap. She only accomplished halfway, because Mulder covered her smaller delicate fingers with his larger ones before she could even move. That made her laugh. "Christ, you are persuasive." "Of course I am." Scully sighed, and he squeezed her hands. There were a few fleeting seconds before she started talking. "I miss my... I'm home... sick." Mulder nodded slowly. Scully inhaled, and rather than exhaling, she smiled through her tears. He caressed the skin over her thumb, encouraging her to go on with her sentiments, but rather than doing what he was expecting her to do, she straightened up on her chair. Breaking off their skin contact, Scully sauntered over to the conjoining door. "C'mon, hop over here and I'll put you back in your bed. You need your rest, Mulder." Mulder, still kneeling before the vanity table, rose up, steadying himself. "No. I don't want to go back to bed, Scully. I'm sick and tired of lying all fucking day." He began to literally drag himself over to her where she was standing, and through the dim lighting of the room, he saw that her cheeks were still glistening. She was still crying, counting on the dark to hide her anguish from him. He should probably just do what she wanted, but that wouldn't resolve his bed irritation anyway. He'll be staring at the ceiling all evening wondering why his star was crying. Homesickness wasn't the real answer--- he saw it plain as day in her eyes, no matter how flooded they were. Racking up his brain for a suitable excuse, he found one just in the nick of time: Scully was halfway towards him, with sheer determination jutting out of her eyes. "Let me return what you've done for me, Scully. Umm..." He patted the queen- sized bed near his knee to express his point. "I'm tucking you in. Your in no condition to take care of a nosy son of a bitch tonight." That made her smile, even if she still looked like unresolved shit. Mulder tugged at the covers, flapping the velvet blankets open for her. "It's okay. I'm not going to pressure you if you don't want to tell me about your problem. At least give me some resolution. You're gonna kill me all night if you let me sleep without letting me do something for you." Scully rolled her eyes. Through bit lips, she agreed with his plan. Mulder grinned. He kind of expected that she would. When Scully's emotions are wasted beyond her realms, she's more compliable. She loses that "Spunk". While he held the quilt for her, she slid right onto the bed, tucking her chin over a stray pillow, and spreading her red hair on the opposite white pillow. The contrasting white and redness reminded Mulder of an angry sunset, her slightly flushed face being the pseudo- sun. He paused, while she was trying to make herself comfortable, to admire her. The smallness of her body only captured less than half of the whole bed. Her frailty frightened him, because it was there when he didn't want it to be there. She's frail when she's inwardly vulnerable. When she loses that "Spunk", she loses Scully. She loses the person Mulder met the first day they met. He didn't want that. Scrapping his advantage, he didn't want that. Covering her exposed flesh with the quilt that was in his hand, he indulged his fingertips with her hair, and closed one bedside lamp, leaving the other one open. He was about to leave her room when he felt a tugging on the tail of his pajamas. "Huh?" he stupidly conveyed, slitting his eyes through the shades. "Don't---" Scully started, her lower lips trembling. "Don't leave. I... I'm going to get nightmares." Mulder chuckled good- naturedly, unhooking her fingers from his shirt. "I'm only a few steps away, Scully... You won't get nightmares. I promise you that." He was on her last finger, when her hand doubled- over and held his wrist with a death-grip. "Please. I'm begging you. Don't leave," her voice quivered, making something inside Mulder also shudder. She was so afraid. Through her cold fingers, her blinking blue eyes, trembling body, dry lips. She was so afraid. He couldn't leave her like this. Scully told Mulder [as a way of an explanation] that from the first time they settled an arrangement for her quarters that she had been getting vivid nightmares. Personally, from the upstairs room of his Beverly Hills manor, he hasn't heard her screaming or crying out loud. She was even graced with one of his personal murky dreams, but it was never vice versa. Not that he doubted her statement- since during their car ride towards his house that same day, she had further explained the dreams. Scully told him that she cried a lot, she could get noisy, and she fretted in her dreams. During one occasion, she recalled with an unreadable façade, she even almost fell out of a window. He didn't ask her to elaborate, since, as usual, he never saw her as the "elaborating " kind. Mulder silently did what she wanted. He walked over to the opposite side of the bed, and sat cautiously on the end- doing a Goldilocks impression, testing the hardness or softness of the cushion. Scully's hand once again found his wrist, and she pulled him towards her. He sat beside her, with his head gently resting on the wall behind him [on a spot a few inches above the wound]; legs sprawled before him, a hand supporting his stature, and another inside Spunk's arms. She curled against his bicep like a lost puppy. He could feel her breath tickle the hair of his skin. He shouldn't tell Frohike about this. The poor guy will flip. He felt reasonably uncomfortable with this position, even if his companion seemed quite content with his body heat. Mulder swallowed nervously. He should speak. They should talk. Get into a normal conversation-- one that doesn't require biting each other's head off-- within the next cruising minute. They should. He'll disintegrate into pure weird distress if they don't. "Is this... r- really necessary, Scully?" He can't help the stuttering. He hasn't been really this *intimate* with a woman for the last ten- well, not really TEN- years. In one bed, so close he could feel her heartbeat on his knuckles. Call him pathetic, but the last time he and Diana had been sleeping in the same bed was ten years ago. It took them officially 7 years before they grasped that if they want to stay married, they should at least sleep in one bed- that was the final heroism for their crumbling marriage. Emily doesn't even count. He kissed and hugged his own daughter, of course, but that was normal. This is a different woman, a Spunk, a Scully- not a Mulder. Something's definitely askew. She sighed, the sound heavenly. "Yes. I need to be assured that I have someone beside me so that I could sleep without a nightmare onwards." "Is that what your psychiatrist told you?" "No. It's what I discovered myself. I don't need any psychiatrist." He should've figured that out. He forgot that she was still holding the "Spunk" title, even at the current state she's in. "Is this... how you want me to be? Should I just stay here until you fall asleep?" Mulder motioned with his other hand, more to help himself than to make her understand. Scully paused from nuzzling his skin, and then proceeded. "Talk. Tell me about yourself." Damn... "I don't want to make like a slumbook." Strike one for the Spunk. Positive about herself, she pitched him a ball, going 100 kph right into his face. "How about Emily? Your daughter? Tell me all about her." Home run. He figured that the ball would smack him on the face, but he hit it right out of the park. "Sure." With his answer, Scully went back to his arm. He wondered what she found so fascinating about it. "Emily was born when I was 18- I was barely in college. It was a year of freedom chaos, you understand, the 60's and everything "rad" about it. I met Diana during a pot-smoking session in John's van. John was still my party animal, and I was his personal John Travolta. We did crack, smoked, drunk ourselves silly. Diana was a shoo- in, one of those college ladies who decided that they want to do unprotected sex that day for no reason at all. I wasn't really into the hippie- thing, and I'm glad that she also wasn't. She shaved, you know." He suppressed a laugh, while Scully let hers out. "So the inevitable happened, we did and did and did, without really having a real relationship. Until boom. She came to me and told me she was pregnant." Mulder clenched his teeth, pushing the image of his ex- wife away from his head. "I didn't know what to do, really. I was young, high on crack, doping myself good, happy that way." "Then why did you marry her?" "Her father's a strict disciplinarian church- goer who does not take NO for an answer. Get the picture?" "Oh. Oh. Uh- huh. I do." "It wasn't really bad. We get along okay, we sleep fine, and we act normal. Not happy, just normal. I thought that was happy then. I forgot... that equation when Emily was born. She almost didn't make it; they had to do a C- section to get my Emily out of Diana. When I held Emily in my arms, my slap- happy days were over. "Emily--- came from the French word 'emotionnel', because my emotions were overlapping that day. Happy was over- happy. Normal was perfect. Emily sealed our marriage, and I didn't care if Diana's guts were going from bad to worse... Emily was my life. She pulled me through college, pulled me through everything. I'm lucky, very lucky to say that my very own daughter is one of my best friends. "Divorce with Diana was not a big issue. It was bound to come; even Emily wasn't disappointed when it happened. I believe that we both waited as adults until our own child was old enough to understand our decision. My daughter was given the choice between both of us, and she chose my custody--- not that she really would be staying that long. She was already in college. She's a smart girl, was accelerated during her Junior High... damn proud of that. Em graduated last year with high honors. She's... getting married in a few months. I shouldn't really be here in Vegas, while at home, Emily's probably planning her wedding. I should be there, helping out... however, call me selfish and all those son of a bitch titles you want to crown me... I don't want to walk Emily to the altar YET. I don't want to lose my daughter YET. She's the only one I have, Scully. I still need her. She doesn't know that, I don't think I'll ever let her know... how much I need her..." The small listless breathings beside him told Mulder enough. Grinning to himself, he gently detached his arm from Scully's embrace, and wiped away some drying tears on her paleness. The image of his college English professor flashed in Mulder's mind. That particular man told him to stop dreaming about scriptwriting... his sentence structure could put anyone out to sleep. Now that he's here with a living proof of that claim, it wasn't as insulting as he used to think it was. Scully was so peaceful as she slept, her lips tugging into the corners into a lazy smile. Mulder caressed her soft auburn frock, then leaned into her ear: "Bonne nuit, Amadou," he whispered, loving the way his lips scraped against the flesh under her ear. Good night, Spunk. --------------------------------- To be continued. -------------------------------- CHAPTER SIX: #318 Four Queens Hotel Las Vegas March 15, 1985 Friday The last thing he ever considered, when he had set his mind off to Vegas, was to witness a one- woman fashion show. Maybe Mulder should've done something to prepare himself for this. Scully walked in his hotel room for the nth time [he didn't want to count- if he did, he might've been shipped to the mental in no time], this time altering her wardrobe to a polka- dotted sleeveless t- shirt that framed her petite form graciously. The knee- cut matching black and white polka pants gave the illusion that she was at least 2 inches higher, and if she paired that outfit with the black clunky heels she wore together with the blue Alpine- era skirt, those two inches will be a reality. Mulder smiled appreciatively, as he had been doing for the past hour. Scully grimaced at his expression. Before he could wonder why, she stroked the subject first. "You don't like this one." Mulder raised his eyebrows perceptively, resting his chin on his knees. He was curled up like a little ball on the foot of the bed, still in his pajamas, while Scully had been in and out of her whole extensive new wardrobe. He suggested that maybe the fashion show should involve another woman, like Monica (however the Doggetts were gone early this morning-- Mulder had no idea where to-- so here he was). Maybe the mental hospital wasn't such a bad idea. "No... I didn't say that I didn't like it!" "Then why are you smiling like, like that? Do I look bad in dots?" "Scully," Mulder bit his lip in frustration. He hoped she'll stop assuming things before he could even make a statement. "You look great in anything. I'm smiling because I like that one." "So you like it," she said, running her palms over the smooth fabric crease over her outer thighs. "What's wrong with it?" He tapped on his big toe, guarding his answer. "It's too... happy?" He should've rephrased his question with "Is my answer right?" That's what he sounded to himself. Scully scrunched her face up, pulling her lower lip toward her nose. She was now officially a frustrated teenager--- that's what her face reminded him. "Fuck," she cursed, not meaning a single alphabet of that word. He knew as much as she knew it: she loved dressing up, creating a fashion show spectacular, hassling him about this. He deserved it, anyhow, since he kept the audition surprise for a whole day from her since he made the phone call. He told her two days ago. On the right time track, the audition is this afternoon, and if all things go well, Scully would be rehearsing for her opening part tomorrow. What he got other than this modeling punishment? After divulging the big "surprise", she screamed right into his face that "NOW I DON'T HAVE ENOUGH BLOODY TIME TO PRACTICE! YOU BASTARD!" You're welcome, Spunk. When she calmed down, he received her-- get this-- second apology. It knocked the fucking stuffing out of him when she approached him and cradled his hand into hers, telling him that she appreciates his help and everything he has been doing for her. Mulder was too dazed about her apology and all the works to even reply. He thought it was over. Scully squeezed her temples, placing a light hand on her hip. "Should I go back to the blue skirt? I think I should wear denim, because I'll be changing into my dancing clothes, which isn't really much in the fashion statement-" Mulder helplessly crossed his heels together. "Why don't you wear that... that navy blue split- shoulder shirt with your Levis? It'll look great. Add your black leather boots in? At least you'll have some height and some age." Scully considered it, conjuring up a clear image in her brain. A grin grew slowly out her lips when the image proved to be okay by her standards. "You're right... you're pretty good, Mulder. We should do this more often!" She was already skipping happily back to her side when Mulder's mouth opened to protest about "doing it more often". He'll hang himself upside down first if they'll do *this* more often. It was obvious that she considered him not as a director or a caretaker but as a *girlfriend*--in all the same aspects. Mulder groaned. Look what he has reduced himself into: A 20 year old woman's *girlfriend*. The phone chose that very revealing moment to ring itself off the hook. Mulder checked over the conjoining door, making sure that Scully wasn't going to bound out of it wearing what he suggested, and picked the phone up. "Hello?" "Dad! Hey, it's Em!" His daughter's peppery- sugar voice made Mulder's mood lighten up. "Hey honey... how are you?" "Fine. How's Vegas? Hit the slots lately? How's your head?" Mulder laughed. "I'm okay, Emily. Been fine and had it on screwed right since yesterday. It's only Scully who's been pestering me to stay in bed... I've been so good that the day after I was actually-" "I was not pestering you, Mulder!" Scully shouted from the other side. He rolled his eyes at Spunk's proclamation. As if. "Was that her, Dad?" Emily's voice was tending, unsure. A flash from all the speculations of a relationship tore through him. "Yes, Honey. Umm, she's staying in a conjoining room. Right now, I'm being forced to a fashion show of her new wardrobe. It's dreadful, I'm telling you." "Why Daddy," his daughter exclaimed, amused. "You never even allowed me to give you a fashion show! Is this Spunk woman that precious to you?" "Precious?!?" he choked that one out. "C'mon, honey, you're kidding me. She forced me. If she had a gun, she'll be holding it against my temple right now." "Right," Emily teased. He wanted to dispute over that one, but he remembered other important matters. "Why did you call, Emily? Is there any problem?" "Not really, Daddy... I have a question for you, though. Did you deposit $5000 in your bank account?" Mulder tossed and turned his brain over. Not that he could remember. "No. Why, is there something wrong?" There were vast sounds of new wave music filtering the background. Emily had been a big fan of every new wave band that tended into the music biz, and it was mostly the reason for their disagreements. He hates new wave; really, there was no doubt about that. His daughter had a penchant for blasting it in her stereo [a birthday gift from him; fate holds him by the neck that way] every single day. She has calmed down the past few days... more because she's always outside with her fiance than to give him some mercy. If he even got some mercy, he sure didn't feel it because of their manor's newest addition. Aside from the music, a crushing of papers was also present in her background. "There had been an... anonymous deposit of money in your name. I've asked the bank to look it up, but they came out with nothing- that's nothing they could tell me, outside confidentiality. They did say that this deposit was a restricted matter- state the damn palpable--- that the person who submitted the money could be inside the bank himself. That's the only information they had for me." Mulder shrugged, "I'll take care of it once I go home." "Be home next week, Dad," Emily reminded him gently. Mulder scratched his head, settling himself down on the bed. "Why?" He was sure full of questions today. "Oh, quit shoveling around. We're supposed to plan the wedding with Jeffrey's parents and Mom." *Mom*. Mulder can't help shutting his eyes painfully at the word and the memories it brings. Life was already too complicated for him- with his challenges as a first- time director, with this Spunk issue, with his daughter's wedding- and he has to meet with Diana next week. For him, the woman was marked in his book as an epitome of hell. As usual, he'll risk his sanity if it means making his daughter happy. She wants her mother involved in this, so fine. He'll go. He's no chicken shit. He only hates the idea of sitting face- to- face with Diana again. She brings with her foul memories of a forced marriage, normal + Diana= happy equation, and that he spent a lengthy span of his life in the clutches of someone he never really loved. He was the kind of man who didn't want to be reminded of his bad past. "Sure. I'll be there. By that time, if all goes great here, Scully would probably be in and out of the dance studio." He tried to sound perky, to keep his daughter's hopes up. It must've worked, because Emily was chirpier than a while ago. They talked a little bit more, telling each other of what happened while they were apart, conversing like normal friends. A car honk from Emily's background crashed through their conversation. Emily excused herself, shouted a "Wait a minute!" to the car, and told Mulder that it was Jeffrey picking her up. He told his good- bye's and I love you's, afterward dropping the phone back into the cradle. His daughter promised him that she will scrutinize the mysterious bank deposit once more before he comes back to LA. That was basically one of Emily's jobs in his life; she ensured herself as her father's sort- of manager ever since she was conscious enough of money and its importance to their lives. She fixes his payroll papers, checks on his bank accounts, and settles the whole house. He once referred to her as his "surrogate" home keeper. That was even during his marriage with Diana. Without Emily, he'll literally be paralyzed. He'll have to relearn everything once again, starting from how to do the groceries for his own home to how to make an expense report for Warner Brothers. He should've listened to Byers. The mild- mannered man has told him a thousand times that he should not depend too much on his daughter. He shouldn't dedicate his whole life to her like a mere mortal would to a deity. He should have listened. What does the mere mortal do when he loses his deity? Mulder still needs to figure that out. He was staring at a blank spot on the telephone, seeing the space on that particular spot, when Scully tapped him on the shoulder. "Yeah?" "You are either very worried about the audition this afternoon- which I'm sure you are not- or very jealous of your daughter's marriage." Jealous? Jealous?!??! Him? "Jealous?!?" he sputtered, coughing out some bloodied snickers at Scully's word. "Why would I be jealous of my daughter's fiance?" "No," She shook her head, like a teacher to a very dumb pupil in kindergarten. "I don't mean it that way... I mean that you are jealous of her marriage. She'll be taken away from you." Then quietly, that he almost didn't hear if it wasn't only for the solemnity of their surroundings, "I could see that she is your life." He was wrong about the teacher- pupil thing. He was the grade- one school book once again. With bright fruit pictures, each page dictating which fruit is orange and which fruit is apple over and over again. Either that, or she must be a psychic. There was no doubt about what she read in those oversized books, so he didn't think about lying. "Yes. She is my life. Emily keeps me real." She smiled without showing any teeth, telling him without any words that she understood. "I admire your love for her. You must be a wonderful father." "I hope Emily thinks like you do," he partly agreed. No father could really admit that they were that wonderful, as Scully was telling him, without thinking about some mistakes. He had done his best, laid out more than 200% of his parental skills for his girl because he believes that Emily will be the only child he'll ever have. After Diana, his faith for a reconciliation with love, marriage and all that jazz was not even a centimeter long. He loves children- everyone knew how often he discussed having a dozen of his own flesh and blood crawling around the Mulder Manor- but Diana saw it in exact opposite. One child, and she was spent and done. No more. They never attempted after Emily. It was one of the reasons why he's bitter about Diana. Maybe he shouldn't be-- she endured the painful C- section when she gave birth to Emily-- but no one can really blame him. He can't even blame himself when it comes to that. Scully rested a hand on his shoulder, the same place she tapped a while ago. Mulder studied her fingers adjusting to the lint of his pajamas. "I'm sure that she does, Mulder. I see it in the way you treat each other." He gazed up, studying her face, her red lips, her endless blue eyes. It was now an unpredictable obsession on his part, to see the difference within her baby blues. With every expression, with every anger or spasm her emotions make, he tries to stare into her eyes to see the difference. It was due to a certain captivation that he sees more in her eyes than in her body language--- or in her language itself. This time, he saw longing. A strange longing. He wants to know about her. He wants to know about her past; where she studied, how she could dance like she could, how she developed that feisty attitude, how she became as she is now. 20 years is hardly enough time to mold a woman like her. His mouth was wide open to ask a question--- any question at all to pry into this complicated woman. Selfishly said, but he couldn't think of any word that'll fit what he's about to do other than "pry". Mulder's planned "prying" was cut off by Scully's withdrawal of her hand from his shoulder, and the appearance of her other hand from her Levis' pocket. It suddenly made him understand that she was wearing what he had advised. The result of it on her was astounding. With minor adjustments on her hair [a bun, probably, would suit it best], she's a regular Rita Hayworth, with feisty attitude intact. He breathed in, admiring her with all his extent. She is a very beautiful young woman. Any man would be happy to have her in his arms. "Would you please put this on me?" It was a golden cross pendant, chained with intricate delicateness. Mulder hooked his thumb on one end, and tenderly removed it from her palm. He studied the shiny surface of the little cross between his fingers, marveling at its simple beauty- or what it meant to Scully. "You are a Catholic." He was stating the obvious, obviously obvious. Scully nodded lightly, dismantling some auburn crimps from behind her ears. "I was born and raised one, Mulder." "Really? That's interesting. I've heard that our clan was half- Jewish, but no one really practiced." He patted the space beside him, and she sat down, her back to him. She collected her fluffy frock on one side, turning her head to her left to see what he was doing as she did so. Her chin touched her shoulder. Mulder was fumbling with the lock. No wonder she wanted him to put it on her. It had one of those locks that were stubbornly hard to open. "My Mother owned that necklace. She gave it to me when I was two," Scully explained, seeing how enthralled he was with it. When he was finally done, Mulder acknowledged what she said by rounding the necklace on her neck. It settled a few centimeters from her collarbone. To make sure that it was perfectly suited on her, Mulder shoved her face from her shoulder with his own, resting his chin where she used to rest hers awhile ago. He studied it against her porcelain skin, blinking profusely as it shined with twice the luster than it had when she wasn't wearing it. Mulder locked the necklace with one twist, and dropped his hands on the bed. He kept his head on her shoulder, breathing in her scent. She smelled of baby powder... of strawberries and cucumber. Of the hotel, the mustiness of the bed sheets and a faint touch of his own cologne. Scully doubled a breath, stiffening as goose bumps invaded the porcelain silkiness of her neck- where his breath was positioned- and it snapped him out of his illusion. Mulder removed his head from her shoulder, rose up from the bed, and stepped back from her until his thinking could be cleared. It was like a drug, crack, MJs from college. Her scent was indescribable. "You- you should change, Mulder." Scully bent her head down, avoiding his eyes. He understood why: she was blushing. He could also feel a faint heat from his cheeks. This wasn't going to happen. She was roughly 20 years his junior; and this was not supposed to be happening between them. No unrequited/unwanted tension should occur. She was his star, and he her director. It should permanently stay that way. Mulder swallowed, closing his eyes briefly as he did. "Yeah. I should." Scully was expressionless as she followed his request. Before Mulder knew it, Scully was closing the conjoining door, leaving him behind. He clenched his molars together, and disputed the memory of her scent in his brain. It was crazy. Crazy. Crazy. He IS crazy. A certified nutcase. Mulder ran a hand through his hair, and headed towards the bathroom. Icy cold water would shake all his craziness out of his system. ---------------------------- They met with Jerry Jayson outside his apartment studio. It was behind the totality of the Vegas strip, hidden behind the night clubs and the chaos with strong chain- link fences that were monitored daily by body guards. The man made good money from being the Folies Bergere's AD and choreographer. Probably more than what Mulder makes from producing around Warner Brothers. The patio, where he and Scully was asked to wait in, was decorated with imported and obviously very expensive dressings of flowers- ranging from Birds of Paradise to Scully's personal favorites of golden lilies. There were also visibly audible sounds of birds, probably from a soundtrack that the man found somewhere during his excursions abroad. According to John [who decided to abandon the par-tay; leaving with his wife just that afternoon], the man paused for three years from directing the Folies Bergere, and with the money he earned over the time he has allotted for the show, he was able to travel the whole world. His whole place was decorated with bits and pieces of his souvenirs: a native urn from Indonesia, a golden Buddha from China, some Eiffel tower paperweights near the pots of flowers, a Dreamcatcher from Vancouver. It was littered all over the front porch- and that was ONLY the front porch. Mulder was making trying to make himself comfortable on the bouncy wood of the lawn chair, scared that, if he moved an inch, he would hear a cracking sound on his ass. Scully was fiddling with the lilies, examining all of the identical flowers with keenness that makes Mulder want to buy her a whole boutique of them. First it was her insistence to keep her 7- eleven flowers inside her bedroom, now it was this endless fascination with every size or nature of them. "He is a very good gardener," Scully noted, cradling a lily in her palm gently. Her finger outlined the delicate petals, and she bent her head to breathe in the scent. Mulder smirked. Scully sometimes forgets that she's pretending to be 10 years older, and her naive stance bursts open uncontrollably. "He has very good gardeners. He pays them good, too." Scully dispelled her hold on the flower, turning her head to glare at him. An icy, familiar glare. That would count as the 7th time for the whole day. Mulder, with his immediate and also familiar reaction, snubbed her and shifted in his seat. A groan from the creaky chair made Mulder scrunch his face. He wondered how much it would cost if he breaks one of these. It probably is antique. It looks, sounds, and feels like it. "AH! Mr. Mulder!" At the sound of the greeting, Mulder quickly rose to his feet, mighty glad to leave the seat behind. Hearing it too, Scully shoved her hands into her pant's pockets, appearing like a little girl whose hand was caught fumbling around in a candy store. Mr. Jerry Jayson was a man who had a tasteful zest for clothes. That was what came running through Mulder's mind as he shook the choreographer's hand, getting a feeble handshake. Mr. Jayson smiled appreciatively at him, tucking in a flower embroidered scarf against his neck [it collided PERFECTLY with the present colors he was already wearing: neon green, neon orange, and neon yellow]. He then proceeded to Scully, who also shook his hand. The only difference probably was that he had Scully's palm on his a lot longer than he did with Mulder's. "Why, Mr. Mulder," Mr. Jayson's eyes danced as he studied Scully from head to foot. Under the scrutiny, the dancer's cheeks blushed. "You didn't tell me that she was this pretty." Mulder shrugged, as he regarded the encounter. He didn't know whether he should break the handshake off or if he should get going with the real program. "Uh, yeah... she is something, isn't she?" "*Something* is an understatement." Jayson finally disconnected their hands, and he turned to Mulder. "She is more than a something." Not knowing what to reply, Mulder stole a glance at Scully, who was looking back at him with eyes that flashed SOS. Mr. Jayson's intense admiration was rendering Scully in an embarrassing position. As Mulder had known before, she wasn't used to being overly credited. If you throw a comment or two at her, she blushes ferociously and shies away. Mulder moved closer to where the two was, and lightly patted Scully's back. "Should we start, Mr. Jayson?" Jayson flashed them both a toothy, generous grin. A silver molar peeked at Mulder through the man's pink gums. "You could come in while Ms. Scully dresses into something more danceable." Jayson's pink colored fingernails pointed towards the entrance of his home. The steel door was emblazoned in bubblegum blue finish, reminding Mulder of his 5 year old shorts, the one he wouldn't let his Mother wash. "I am still entertaining a friend, Mr. Mulder. Will you mind waiting? You could wait in the ballroom. " Mulder connected eyes with Scully. She nodded. "Sure. It's fine." Jayson was pleased with that answer. He showed it by flipping his chestnut hair against the wind. "It'll only take a few minutes. C'mon." The man entered his house, speaking of explanations about his eccentric designs that honestly, for Mulder, wasn't at all worth listening to. Bending over under the patio table, he picked up Scully's backpack, and hauled it on his shoulder. Scully waited for him, before leading the way, carefully taking steps that Mr. Jayson took. Mulder followed close, with his hand firm on the small of her back. The outside of Mr. Jerry Jayson's house was called eccentric. The inside was called pure insanity. Green leafy vines hung in rope- like tendrils fashion from the roof, some tangling with the ceiling fan, and some long enough to reach the floor. Fake stuffed animals lined one wall, and the other with jarred "shrunken heads". When they stepped inside, Scully paused in silence, trying to decipher the whole design. With her reaction, Mulder was also stopped. They both tried to see through the room's limited amount of sunlight, while their host sauntered to the middle of the room, flying his arms all around the designs. It was a crime to call the place insane. The correct word is "freaky". "I loved the jungles of the Amazon. I came back to the place thrice over the last year, and since I am now dedicated to the Folies Bergere, I decided that if I cannot go the jungle- then I should bring the jungle to me." Mr. Jayson swept his eyes proudly over the whole vicinity, as Mulder and Scully struggled to take their first steps inside. For all they know, there might be an Anaconda lurking somewhere. "The dressing room is right here." Jayson shriveled his hips to a vine- struck door on one corner. "Don't worry," he quickly had the initiative to add, studying the wary looks on both their faces. "It's normally decorated. Follow my direction for the ballroom, Mr. Mulder. I'll be in there for her audition. " Jerry left before they could reply. Mulder handed the backpack to Spunk, who was seemingly unsure about entering the dressing room alone. Seeing this, he took the responsibility of opening the door and inspecting the place. When he was sure that Jayson was telling them the truth, he stepped back to let her see that the inside was normal. Scully thanked him for his effort. "Do you want me to stay out here and wait for you?" he offered. Scully tossed her bag from one arm to another. "Your call, not mine." She entered the room, switching open a light and the exhaust fan. Mulder closed the door behind her, afterwards resting his back on it. He'll wait. Jerry Jayson's jungle euphoria decorations don't really give him much choice. There were sounds of struggle inside the dressing room during the whole 5 minutes that he was standing outside, his hands tucked firmly under his chest. Mulder licked his lips wet, glancing at his wristwatch, then to where Jerry disappeared a while ago. But, to his ultimate utter shock, the artistic choreographer did not appear from it--- a familiar, tall, and handsome asshole did. Alex Krycek. Mulder snapped up, tightening his jaw. Fantastic. So this was Jerry Jayson's *guest* that needed some entertaining. If Krycek needed more entertaining, he'll gladly give it to him- one of the left, one on the right. Both black and blue afterwards. "Why, Mulder. Fox Mulder." Alex's voice reeked of sick witticism, making Mulder's blood boil underneath his nerve endings. "Alex Krycek. It has been good time since the last." That is, since the last time his whole life was almost jeopardized by this insistent motherfucker. What happened between them that held like an anvil around Mulder's neck? Nothing, really. Alex Krycek simply backstabbed him to his superiors, almost got him fired from Warner Brothers, and tried seducing- and turning against him- his own personal assistant. If Walter and John didn't do a double check on what's happening inside WB, then Mulder could right now be a busboy in Burger King. Krycek snickered, taking a Rayban from his lapel, and shoved it up over his nose. "Yes, it had been. What brings you here?" Ah, the struck- out villain. The antagonist, always that he is. At that particular moment, Mulder had the sudden urge to lock the dressing room, to keep Scully in there, to make sure that Alex does not see her- or discover Spunk's talents. After being fired from WB for his deeds, Alex was taken in by MGM. Even if his reputation preceeds him like a deadly venom, the asshole still is a great producer. The past years after their bout in WB, the two giant companies have silently waged them in on a mini WWIII: they are both big- shot producers given a chance to direct their first movie. Mulder was offered the directing job earlier than Alex. As for now, Alex still does not have a script, let alone a plot--- but he wants it as extravagant as Mulder wants his own dance movie is. He's a few steps ahead of the bastard; however, Alex's breath is just behind his neck. Needless to say, if he saw what Scully could do, he'll do virtually anything that he could to steal her from WB. And from him. "What BRINGS you here?" he countered. There is nothing in this whole world that would make him reveal the real reason he's here unless he knows the snake's first. Alex tucked his hands into his pockets, stopping a few meters away from him. "Gazing around; seeing who I could include in my movie." Mulder laughed at that. "Sure. You don't even have a script yet." "So do you," Alex pointed out. Mulder kept his eyes in a steady slit. "I'll be getting the final draft next week. The story was already discussed, and the plots are already clear. Unlike-" He was cut off by a soft knock against the door behind him. Mulder gazed poison at Alex, unsure of what he should do. Scully's already signed with WB. He shouldn't be afraid. The moments that passed to and fro from Alex, Mulder, the door, and Scully at the other side was tenser than the one he shared with Spunk back at Lone Glitter. Alex was cocking a defiant eyebrow at him, waiting for Mulder to step away and allow the lady at the other side to exit. "Mulder? Get out of the way. You're blocking me." Came out Scully's voice. With that audible to Krycek's ears, the snake's expression changed into something Mulder never expected: familiarization. He could still read the asshole like yesterday, and it's no doubt that Alex knows Scully's timbre. They somehow met each other BEFORE him. Feeling somewhat defeated and confused, Mulder moved out of the way, allowing Scully to exit. When she did- clad in her usual black midriff, bikini, and leg warmers-, Mulder watched her eyes adjust to a saucer's size at the sight of Alex Krycek before her. Mulder bit his lip forcefully, almost tasting blood. They know each other. They fucking know each other. That knowledge made him feel like a big, big idiot. "So this is what you're trying to keep from me. Your big star. The lead in Fox Mulder's debut movie... Dana Scully." Alex gave Mulder a funny look that only sealed the idiot feeling in him. Scully didn't know what to do. She opened her mouth to say something to Krycek, but closed it, turning to him. He wanted to read what was going on in her brain, to read her eyes, but he missed it purposely. This wasn't the time to discuss something like this. Mulder held her by the elbow, and gently pulled her towards the direction where Alex came from. "You should go and audition, Scully. I'll be there in a while." She glanced at Krycek, before leaning in and whispering, "Aren't you going to watch? You are supposed to watch, right?" Mulder knitted his eyebrows together as he noticed Krycek's expression with their interaction. The right word was insulting. "I'll try to catch it. I have other things to take care of. You do your best. Good luck." From her elbow, his hand transferred to her lower back. He pushed her to the right direction. Scully didn't protest any more; she headed to the ballroom, clearly relieved to avoid the conflict between the two men. Now alone, Mulder crossed his arms again. He wouldn't want to result to something that'll require them. "How did you know her, Alex? You two clearly had some interaction way before we did." "No, the question is, Mulder," Alex replied, too fast, "How did you get her?" Then, it dawned on him. Krycek had seen Scully dance. He had seen her before she was even in Lone Glitter, had probably offered her a career and contract for MGM. The rat probably offered Scully more than what he did offer. Why she took Mulder's proposition, he has no idea, and he'll have to add that to the things they have to discuss one-on-one. For now, he'll enjoy that realization. Mulder shook his head, smiling smugly. "Through the Lone Glitter." "The three musketeers, your faithful advocates," Alex said, smirking. "A hard catch. I must say that I'm impressed with your stamina. You never did know how to quit." The director followed Alex's statement with a level gaze. Krycek shuffled around the living room, creating imaginary spaces in between their conversation to intimidate him. Not that it worked- he was using the pride of having Scully as his armor. When Krycek has rounded most of the room, with Mulder still standing in the same place, the rat turned to him with the same expression he was wearing. "You offered her money? A career- as if she'll comply with that-? You offered her..." There was a slight dip in his voice as he said the word: "Yourself?" That was it. The total last draw. Mulder lunged forward and took Alex firmly by the collar, keeping his knuckles together to make sure that the man was feeling the constraint beautifully. "Take that back, you asshole. I'm not like you. A grave shoveling man who'll whore himself just to get to this. I respect Scully, and she respects me." "You look at her funny," Alex remarked, and it took all of Mulder's resolve not to bruise that perfect chin of his. "I admire the woman. I admire her talent. I admire her attitude. You want a sample of what I've learned from her?" Mulder waved a fist in the vacant air between them. A flash of fear came to Krycek's face, slightly paling his lips. It seems that other than knowing each other, Krycek also had a taste of the recognized Spunk. "Fuck you, Mulder. Let me go." Those words were croaked out as Alex hopelessly pulled himself from Mulder. The director held on, not intending to let go until the man before him pales his face to death. He once came close to killing this man with a ten- inch knife. If it wasn't for Langly who stopped him, he would've done what he was supposed to do. He's not letting go this time- knife or no knife. "Mulder?" The unsure accented female voice behind him caught him unguarded. Alex's eyes flickered from his face, to Scully at his rear. The damn bastard was saved, yet again. "What's going on in here?" Her voice was now just below his ear; he could feel her unsteady, panting breaths underneath his nodes. Mulder eyed Krycek, who was squirming as the paleness threatened the deftly coward man. The director gritted his teeth, loosening his hold on Alex's collar inch by inch. "We were just finished, Scully." Once the man was freed, Alex resumed to his ratty- ness, straightening his clothes and elevating an eyebrow at Mulder. As Mulder knew Alex, you could threaten him and the hard- knocked man would definitely get scared shitless, but the SOB would walk away with more schemes up his sleeve. The man would intimidate you until you snap and finally kill him. One of these days, Alex might actually push Mulder to doing that. Krycek both gave them a funny salute, and cautiously stepped back from the pair. "Good day. Mulder," The funny salute towards him, "And Ms. Dana Scully." The bastard regained the steps he took forward and was about to take Scully's hand in his when Mulder swatted his arm away. "Go away, Krycek. Don't even think of touching her." Alex pursued his lips, and at Mulder's words, opted for the funny salute for Scully. He backed away again, maintaining some good ground, before leaving the living room, shutting Jerry Jayson's creaky front door behind him. Once that was settled, Mulder turned to Scully. She had her cheeks flushed once again, and her green towel was ruffled on her right shoulder. Tiny rivulets of sweat were coming down her forehead, passing through her brow and to her eyes that spelled nervous to Mulder word- per-word. Even if he were itching to ask her all about the Alex Krycek incident BEFORE him, he took the good graces of returning her question. "What's going on? How did it go?" "Good." She wasn't smiling, though, even if Mulder knew that she wanted to. He did grin with the news. "Mr. Jayson wants you inside the ballroom. He said he wants you to sign a contract." Mulder at once headed towards the room Scully indicated, brushing against her wet arm as he snaked his way out of her melting gaze. She had that interrogating appeal to her; if she wanted crap out of him- she could get it out of him- crap and shit all in one piece. "Mulder," her voice was tiny and far away as he heard it. He stopped in his step, staring directly in front of him, not daring to turn and fall under her melting gaze once more. "Are you okay?" she asked. "Later." Was his only answer. It was enough for her to shut up, and follow Mulder into the ballroom. -------------------------- They should be happy since Mr. Jayson more than loved Scully: the man ALSO adored Mulder for being able to get her in his movie and commended him for a wonderful talent. Mr. Jayson even told them that he was mighty glad that the new director happened upon Spunk before he called John to suggest someone from his crew. When Scully cooled off with Parisian iced tea and redressed in her casual clothes, Mulder signed a contract that stated Mr. Jayson's approval of Scully being an opening act for the May 6 performance of the Folies Bergere in the Tropicana. If all things go well, Mr. Jayson promised a 3 year contract with the dance show. What that was- was more than he had expected from that afternoon. However, when they stepped into the car, tension on a live wire cable reigned into their silence. None of them wanted to do the honors of opening up the topic of Alex Krycek. Mulder honked at a red ford van that was snaking his way around the intersection. Oh, fine- *snake*. More things to remind him of his rat bastard nemesis. He honked again, a succession of painful bleeps. Scully pressed her palms up on her ear, clamping them tightly together, as if wanting to crush her head in between. "JESUS CHRIST!" she shouted above the galloping noise he was making. "STOP THAT!" He did, settling his hands firmly on the steering wheel. A truck passed by their side, and the scruffy driver gave him the middle finger. Mulder ignored it. "What's wrong with you?" Scully cried out, and he half expected her to kick the dash board with all the whining her voice had. "If you are upset about Mr. Krycek, then you should talk to me and not sulk like a big baby!" Big baby. E- yeah, he was sure a big baby. With frills and idiot-like baby bottles. Idiot. "Fine," Mulder dared, stepping on the pedals as the stoplight flashed a red. He anchored the car with the emergency breaks, and steadily took a deep, calming breath. "How did you meet him?" Scully ran her tongue across the stern of her lower teeth, probably thinking whether she should cut down the chase and shit all over him, or answer his question. When she refused to keep her face in his direction, she had done choosing. "I was in and out some roadside bars before I settled in Lone Glitter. Umm, I happened upon a bar called-" "Gentle Touch?" Mulder supplied. That was Alex's favorite drinking bar. He actually had seven VIP cards there. Scully quizzically smoothed her crimped hair against her sideburns. "Yeah. He made an appointment with me, offering me drinks and a contract with MGM studios." She suddenly found the window interesting, studying the static cars beside them. "I gave him the same response I first gave you. It doesn't... matter, you know. I'm with your studio now." The green light was sported, and Mulder released the emergency breaks, accelerating as he spoke. "I know that, Scully. However, you should've told me about this. Alex Krycek had always been a big threat to Warner Brothers- in or out of it." "It doesn't matter, I'm telling you. I'm already signed with your studio." The window muffled her voice. Mulder impatiently tapped on the wheel, whizzing through tricky drivers. "Yes, but it matters..." He checked himself before he could spill it out. He shouldn't involve his star in personal feuds. Scully sighed, breaking away from the window. "It matters to you, doesn't it? You had a- a... you have friction with him. Tell me about it." So much for not involving her. Mulder hesitated. He wouldn't dare do that to her, or to himself. Krycek is another story, one that he has tucked under his armpit and filed it under "BAD". The guy was a freaking menace to his own life, and he almost lost that life because of the bastard. Scully rolled her eyes, turning her body towards him this time, adjusting the seat belt so that it accommodated her new position. "C'mon. This is my business. You cannot deny that information from me. You were protective of me when he tried to take my hand, and when I was leaving the dressing room. If I am supposed to be guarded about this man, tell me the reason why." She was right. If he's acting like an ass around Krycek-- and it's because of Scully-- she should know the reason. Mulder resigned, beeping coolly at another dazed vehicle. "Alex used to be one of my closest friends way back in college. He was the good one, because John and I were always smoking crack, Alex was the dorm boy. His nose was always in books and you would never think that he would turn into something inhuman." Scully chuckled at his comment. Mulder did too, and then continued. "Alex was- hands down- a nice, honest to goodness friend. Until he was forced by his drunkard of a father to live with him in New York for almost a decade. We didn't see him again until the late 1970's. He was officially a changed man, then." "Did he become like his father?" Scully tucked her legs away from him. Mulder shook his head. "No. He became worse than his father. But he was still our friend, so John and I got him a job in Warner Brothers. I was a producer, John was a producer, and Alex- with his wits and marvelous ideas- quickly rose to that position too. "When the talks about giving me a shot in directing started 4 years ago, Alex was distraught. He felt that he needed that opportunity, he felt as if he deserved it. So he did everything imaginable to get it." "What you mean 'everything imaginable'?" "Everything imaginable. He backstabbed me with lies- telling our superiors that I spoke bitterly about them. He has the power of speech. He could easily aggravate you or liquefy you into his charms. The big bosses were angered, and they ordered me a forced vacation. "Then, when I was out of WB, he seduced my personal assistant--- Marita Covarrubias--- to get all my files and turn against me. That was when Walter and John stepped in and took care of things. They gathered enough proof of the bastard's lies and shoved it into the big bosses' faces. Rather than getting me fired, THEY fired him." Scully considered all of that, curling a strand of hair in her index finger. "If, that is his conduct in Hollywood... then why is he in MGM?" Mulder turned right, following them to a bumper- to- bumper traffic. Ah, Vegas. "You cannot deny his smarts and charms, Scully. They are even giving him a directing debut." "Yes, I know that," she whispered, almost under ear shot. Mulder didn't look at her as he asked his next question: "What did he offer you?" "Basically... what you offered me." Scully hid a little smile. "Only twice as much." Mulder closed one eye, on the side that she couldn't see. She could've at least been a little less blunt about this. "So... what was the difference between his offer and mine?" "You mean why I took your offer over his?" She screwed an auburn eyebrow. Mulder didn't say anything. She accepted that as a yes. "Mr. Krycek didn't ask me what I was *really* dreaming about," Her hand touched his arm lightly, surprising Mulder. "And... he didn't offer to drive me home because someone might dare to harm me that night." She smiled, one of her fantastic smiles that melted something inside Mulder. The one consisting of all lilies and carnations. "He's not a stupid guy, Scully. He knew when to quit." "I'm kinda glad you didn't." She kept the smile as her hand moved towards his hand on the steering wheel. Her touch was warm over his skin. He watched as she molded her palm over the back of his hand, finding it fascinating that the smallness of her fingers fit the concaves of his knuckles. "Look, no matter how silly this may seem... I am signed with Warner Brothers now. I am under your care. Figuratively- *Figuratively*," There was a large emphasis on the word as her hands twitched over his. "I- am yours." She stretched her lower lip when she realized that the words were somehow off- key. "As- as much as I am Warner Brothers'." When the cars started moving, Scully kept her hand back to herself, and Mulder went back to his driving. Nothing more needed to be said. She said it all. Scully's right. She is already his. Scully's his. He's not gonna fight about that. Spunk Rule #4 was to never doubt whatever came out of Scully's mouth, anyway. Spunk Rule #5 was also formed that day: never let Alex Krycek--- or anyone for that matter--- get close to Scully. He needs her until his movie's fin ished. He needs her for that *break*. And she needs him for her dancing. -------------------------- To be continued --------------------------