From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Wed, 23 Feb 2000 02:55:15 -0600
Subject: Dr. Scully\'s Guilty Pleasure (1/1) by addicted2fanfic
Source: direct

Reply To: addicted2fanfic@hotmail.com


Title: Dr. Scully's Guilty Pleasure (1/1)
Author: Addicted2fanfic
Email: Addicted2fanfic@hotmail.com
Rating: PG
Category: VH, MS UST
Spoilers: Redux II, Chinga.
Keywords: Mulder POV
Summary: What is Scully typing?
Authors notes: Ending courtesy of Mish_rose!

Dr. Scully's Guilty Pleasure (1/1)

What in the hell is she typing? Damned basement is so quiet 
sometimes every sound carries.  Even here, practically at the 
elevator I can distinctly hear the clatter of her keyboard. 
What could she be typing? Autopsy reports? Nope, last one was 
two weeks ago. Field report? Nyah. That was turned in 
yesterday, and she has been at this for weeks, usually during 
lunch. Letters to her brothers? Yeah, sure, Bill, Charlie and 
every friggin' Scully alive and dead wouldn't take that much 
typing.

Maybe she is inputting medical data into the Fox
William Mulder Medical Database. Hmm, wouldn't put it past her 
to track every hospitalization I ever had. Maybe I can see the 
screen as I hang my suit jacket on the back of my chair. Nope, 
she has the screen angled so I can't, but she isn't 
transcribing notes or medical records or anything.

She is sitting on the edge of her chair - tsk tsk, Dr. Scully, 
that's not ergonomically correct. Her head is bent over the 
keys, hair covering her face. As I get closer it is clear she 
is a million miles away. She doesn't even see me. My chair 
squeaks loudly when I sit down, but she doesn't even look up. 
What has her so focused?

Omigod. Could she be documenting every
sexual innuendo I ever threw her way? 
Taken one by one they are no big deal, but if she
recorded them ALL, she would have quite a sexual harassment 
case. Shit! But why now? What have I done to piss her off 
recently? Maybe that "Marry me." while she was 'on vacation' in 
Maine was the last straw?

Wait a minute. I'm the one with the eidetic memory. I
recall every line I said to her. She couldn't remember them 
all. Could she?

She looks up, and gives me a 'be with you in a minute' glance 
as she saves her work to a floppy.  She puts the floppy in her 
suit jacket pocket. No Chance of 'borrowing' it or her laptop 
for a look-see.

Leaning back in my chair, tapping a pencil against my
hand, I consider my options. Sometimes with Scully the direct 
approach works best. It's what she uses.
Clearing my throat to get her attention, "What have you been 
typing Scully?"

She startles just a little and looks my way. I walk over to 
her, slip my hand into her pocket, and extract the floppy. I 
hold it up to her like a priest with a communion wafer. 
Evidence, hard evidence - of what?

Scully looks up. She's annoyed. This is it - she's
closing in for the kill. Years of innuendo are about to come 
home to roost. But wait a minute, that's
not her 'I got you, you bastard' look. If anything she
looks sort of, shy, no, embarrassed. That's it. Scully is 
embarrassed, blushing. This should be interesting, very 
interesting. 

Waving the floppy I say, "I haven't been able to talk you into 
going out for lunch in weeks. What is this?"

I look at her expectantly. Her lips curl into
something between a smirk and a smile, and she looks at the 
floppy then at the floor.

"Fan fiction." She says quietly.

"What?"  Although I have an idea what she's talking about I 
have to ask. "What?" I croak again.

"Fan fiction, Mulder." Sitting primly, going into lecture mode, 
she lifts her head a smidgen and explains, "A work of creative 
speculation, a story, based on fictional characters created by 
someone else."

Aha, so that's it. I have come across the stuff from
time to time trawling the net. Never read any. Its appeal is 
beyond me; kind of like playing with action figures. Why would 
mature adults waste their time on this? Well, there is no time 
like the present to find out; seems I have an expert right in 
front of me.

My chair squeaks as I sit down and lean forward to ask, "Why?"

I have her attention now. I had better listen up, Agent Scully 
- no, cancel that - Author Scully is about to tell me.

Looking away she asks, "Have you ever watched a TV series and 
found discrepancies between the current episodes and past 
episodes, or anomalies in a movie?"

With my memory, that's easy. The wristwatch on the
slave in Spartacus is a classic example. Nodding, I encourage 
her to go on. "Yeah, continuity sucks."

She nods, agreeing with me. She's been doing that more
often lately. Agreeing with me. Actually I have been agreeing 
with her on occasion, too. Have to think about what that means 
later. She is speaking.

"Right. When I had cancer, before I went into
remission, I mourned all the things I wouldn't live long enough 
to do. Writing a story about two of my
favorite characters, using my own ideas - well - it
was one of the things I thought I would never do. The events I 
imagine are not going to happen. For one thing, the creator of 
the series is dead."

Dead? What television series creator has died? Gene
Roddenberry of 'Star Trek' fame! Figures Scully would be a 
closet Trekker. All that science would appeal to her. Wonder if 
Spock is her role model? Of course I don't say this aloud. I 
just say "Oh?" and look interested. I am
interested.

"Yeah," she says. "So I am playing 'what if.' What if Sherlock 
Holmes had an ally at Reichenbach Falls?"

Sherlock Holmes? You bet Arthur Conan Doyle is dead.

"As field agents we are continuously generating 'what ifs,' 
hypotheses that fit, or almost fit the facts."

Hmm, Holmes and Watson were investigators. One off beat 
brilliant detective and one doctor. Fits, sort of. What other 
non-extreme possibilities has she been dreaming up?

"Can you give me an example? Something from real life?
Something from our experience?"

There, I left that open. Maybe, just maybe, she will
tell me one of her fantasies. Maybe one starring me. Yeah, 
right, Mulder, get a grip.

She closes her eyes and rummages through the filing
cabinet of her mind, searching for something to illustrate her 
point. What comes out of her mouth flabbergasts me.

"What if Alex Krycek was CIA?"

Hell, Alex Krycek, why would she bring him up? Leaning
forward, closing the distance between us, I have to ask, "What 
do you mean, Scully?"

Finally she looks up, explaining. "Think about it
Mulder. That one fact would change our understanding of why he 
did what he did. It would create a whole different Alex 
Krycek."

Seeing my consternation she adds, "Look, Mulder, I
just picked that as an example because that one little fact 
would have so many ramifications. It's not what I think."

Leaning back I puff out a breath. Whew - she had me going there 
for a second.

Hmm. Krycek in Intelligence would explain some things,
but complicate others. Enough about Krycek already. I can't 
believe Dana Katherine Scully has a hobby. One that feels 
almost 'normal.' I scootch my chair closer and
peer down my nose, holding her floppy hostage and say,
"And you have been doing this at work?"

Her head comes up, and I see a righteous glimmer in her eyes.

"Lunch time, Mulder." She spits out. "Last time I checked, 
lunch was considered personal time. According to personnel we 
even get breaks."

Yeah, I know that, Scully, but we usually blow them off and 
work straight through. Till the case is done.

"When the muse strikes." she says.

Whoops, caught woolgathering. Quickly I utter a
profoundly intelligent, "Huh?" It's way too late to impress Dr. 
Scully.

"I said," she repeats, "I write when the muse strikes." Her 
smile is teasing. She knows I wasn't paying attention.

Scully, my Scully - doing something imaginative!
Fanciful even.

Holding up the floppy, I ask, "May I read it?"

She snatches the disk from my hand and shoves it into her
briefcase. "Not yet Mulder. It hasn't been beta'd. You know, 
proof read and copy read. You'll get to see it along with the 
rest of the world when it gets posted on the
Baker Street Irregulars web site."

Wonder what she wants to change or add to Holmes and
Watson. Hmm. Two men, living together. I remember a web site 
that said many homosexual stories, slash fiction, were written 
by women. I wonder? That would explain the
blush.

"So Scully, which 'what if' are you writing? Sherlock Holmes 
and Watson were gay?"

Oooo, that got her. She smiles as she snorts, "No, Mulder." One 
eyebrow up. "Is that your fantasy?"

Low blow, Dr. Scully. Actually my fantasies do have a doctor in 
them but definitely not Dr. Watson. 

Ignoring my discomfort she continues, "Did you know Conan Doyle 
based the character of Sherlock Holmes on a doctor?" I nod, I 
do know that but I keep quiet, encouraging her to continue.

"Doyle based Holmes on Joseph Bell, a contemporary,
who made amazing on target diagnoses based on observing the 
patient, and asking a few questions.
He was often able to determine not only the disease,
but also the patient's livelihood, and where he had traveled."

I would love to read something besides autopsy reports by Dr. 
Scully. "How will I find your story?"

"I'll let you know when it gets posted. I haven't decided on a 
title yet."

She looks up and adds, "Look for an author named Sergeant 
Pendrell."

"Pendrell?" Where is this coming from?

She sighs, "Yeah, kind of a tribute. He took a bullet intended 
for me."

I always knew she had a soft spot for Pendrell.
Against my better nature, I feel a twinge of jealousy. "It's 
better than Sergeant Fox, I suppose," I mumble, returning to my 
desk. Anything's better than Fox.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her shuffle a bit
at her desk. I hear the scratching of her Monte Blanc. Ignore 
it, I tell myself. Don't let her see you upset over something 
so trivial.

After a few seconds, her hand appears over my shoulder
and a canary yellow sticky note is slapped over the expense 
report I'm supposed to be working on. I lift it gently from the 
computer screen and turn to find her shoving
papers into files, closing down her laptop.

"What's this?" I ask, although I can see it's an Internet 
address.

She doesn't look up. "Just take a look, Mulder," she says 
impatiently.

The word 'erotica' jumps off the note. I know I
shouldn't be looking at this at work; hell, Scully knows that, 
too. She finally lifts her eyes to mine.

"When you get home this evening, Mulder, take a look at the 
fiction of 'Dr. D.K. Watson'."

I can feel the color flooding my face now. "Dr. D.K.
Watson?" Is that my voice that sounds squeaky?

Her laptop under her arm, she grabs her briefcase.
Oh, yeah, she has a class at Quantico this afternoon.

"One of the great things about fan fiction, Mulder is
that you can really improvise. Move time and space with a few 
keystrokes. Do anything you want."

"And," she says giving me a sly grin, pausing at the door, "you 
can make the characters do anything you want. Did I mention my 
favorite 'what if'?"

I gulp and shake my head slowly.

"What if Dr. Watson was a woman, a woman who was attracted to 
her partner?"

"Attracted?" I croak.

"Romantically attracted." she adds.

Scully smiles smugly. "Oh, I forgot. That's more than
one 'what if'. Besides, everyone knows Dr. Watson was a man. 
Guess I got carried away."

I watch her walk out of the office, the click of her heels 
barely audible over the thumping of my heart.

'What if,' indeed.