Subject: Bitter and Butter Pecan (1/2) Lilith


Title: Flavours: Bitter and Butter Pecan (1/2)
Author: Lilith
Category: SRA
Rating: R
Archiving: Please just let me know.
Feedback: ladylilith@geocities.com
Keywords: UST, Mytharc
Spoilers:   Mostly just the mytharc eps.
Summary:  Scully receives a series of disturbing birthday
 surprises.
Notes and Disclaimers below.


This story is set sometime after One Son and before Arcadia



 Butter pecan.   Butter pecan.   Mmm, butter pecan.
 Don't think of anything else.   Don't look at anything
else.  Spoon goes in naked, spoon comes out thick with
butter pecan.   Insert spoon into mouth.   Taste butter
pecan, swallow butter pecan.   Nothing but butter pecan.
 Ignore the ringing phone, ignore the knock on the
door.  Butter pecan.  Cold, rich, creamy butter pecan.
 Happy birthday to me.
 This is my present to myself, to lay around in my
robe, eat ice cream, and watch Fargo.   My other presents
are scattered around my living room.  The new luggage
from Mom,  flowers and a sweater that Tara must have
picked out from Bill.   Charlie, with his usual twisted sense
of humor, sent me a catalogue and gift certificate for
Victoria's Secret.   What, pray tell, would be the point?
 The knock on the door becomes persistent, and then
there is a voice that asks tentatively, "Scully?  Scully, are
you home?"
 Maybe I should answer it after all.  He sounds
worried.  I shove my tangled hair up off my neck into one of
those claw contraptions and open the door.  Byers looks
nervous at my appearance.
 "Byers?  Is everything okay?"
 He shakes his head and gives me a half-smile.  "No,
it's just....well, it's your birthday, and we thought that
maybe, if you don't have any plans..." he drifts off.
 "Yes?" I prompt, crossing my arms over my chest
and lifting one eyebrow.
 He smiles at my familiar gestures and continues with
the invitation.  "You like Mexican food, Scully?"
 My stomach growls at the thought and Byers
chuckles softly.  "Give me ten minutes," I say.
 It takes me less than that to pull on socks, jeans,
boots, a tee-shirt.  Glancing at myself in the mirror on the
way out, I put on a coat of lipstick and decide to just leave
my hair up.  This might be a bad idea, I think as I hop up
into the back seat with Frohike.  But once I've had my first
margarita and a plate of nachos, I'm pleased to find I'm
wrong.  This is actually fun.  I'm actually having a happy
birthday.
 The food is good, though I'm told the salsa isn't as
savory as Frohike's own recipe.   The drinks are free, since
I'm the birthday girl.  And thanks to Byers' theory on
genetic mutations in ant colonies, I'm having one of the
more intellectually stimulating conversations I've had in
months.
 My hair fastener is lost due to my rather
uncoordinated dancing with Frohike, there's a salsa stain on
my shirt, and my mouth almost hurts from laughing at their
rendition of 'Happy Birthday to You.'  I'm actually reluctant
to leave when the bartender shouts 'last call.'  But I also
have to go to work in the morning, so Byers drives me
home.   Before letting me go upstairs though, they swing by
the office to pick up my present.
 Byers drops the kitten in my lap and shrugs.  "I
know you used to have a dog, but we thought you were
more of a cat person."
 "She's not pure-bred or anything," Langly interjects.
 "From the humane society," Frohike explains.
"She's had her shots and everything."
 "We house trained her too," Langly adds.
 The silver tabby nuzzles my elbow and purrs when I
stroke her fur.  "I like her," I assure them.
 "Happy birthday," they say again.
 "She needs a name," Frohike suggests.
 "Molly," I proclaim impulsively.   I say my
goodnights, gather up my cat and the bag of kitty things
they provided for me and stumble up the stairs with Byers
as an escort.
 "Thanks Byers, I had fun."
 "I'm glad you had a good time."
 Impulsively, I add,  "I'd let to hear some more about
this theory of yours.  Maybe we could discuss it over dinner
sometime?"
 Byers is staring at me.   He clears his throat and
manages, "Okay."
 "Sunday?"
 He nods slowly.  "Um, around seven?"  He still
looks slightly ill.
 "If that works for the three of you," I add.
 His relief at the realization that the invitation is
extended to Frohike and Langly as well is comical.   Almost
insulting in fact, if I were less understanding of his reasons.
After all, the man still wears a wedding ring.   Someday, I
might get around to asking him why.
 "I'll see you then."
 My senses dulled, it is only when I've placed Molly's
box in the bathroom and set out some food for her that I
realize someone is in my room.
 For a moment, I am sure it is Mulder.
 I am wrong.




 "Don't be afraid," I hiss.
 She jumps and turns to face me in the darkness.
Drawing her gun, she stoops by the floor for a better look at
my huddled form.  I know how repulsive I must appear,
even in this lack of light.
 How beautiful her eyes are, so blue and white.  My
own are a hideous grey and red from the experiments.
"Who are you?"
 "My name," I breath out, "is Marita Covorubius.    I
once worked for the SRSG, but you may be more familiar
with my other employers.   Most of whom were recently
burned to a crisp."
 "The Consortium?" she breathes.
 I stand slowly, opening my arms to demonstrate that
I am unarmed.  She lowers her weapon and turns on the
lamp beside the couch.  I close my eyes against the
brightness, and she gasps when I open them.
 "What happened to you?"
 I try to smile.  Never cross Alex Krychek.  "I need
your help," I whisper.


 I know it's a bad idea, keeping her here.  But she has
no where else to go, not in her condition.   And besides, I'm
drunk.  So I feed her, lock my gun in a drawer, and let her
sleep on the couch.   Showering seemed such a luxury to
her, and the mewling way she swallowed the glass of milk I
gave her was almost obscene.
 Keeping it from Mulder will be difficult, especially
since he's paying too much attention to me today.   Maybe
it's guilt at having forgotten my birthday.  He is leaning over
my shoulder, ostensibly to read the file on my desk.  I can
feel his breath on my hair, mussing it.  I resist the temptation
to elbow him in the gut, even when he rests a hand on my
shoulder.
 He's talking to me now, exposing some curious
theory.  I find myself listening attentively, irked at how
easily I am sucked in by this.   Suddenly, I realize his hand
has traveled lower to graze my breast.   Fondling it blatantly
now, he keeps talking in a cool even tone.
 When I turn my head up to object, his mouth is on
mine.   His other hand roughly works free the buttons of my
blouse.  He grunts as he tugs the material free from my
waistband.   Despite myself, I respond by wrapping an arm
around his shoulders.
 Taking this as encouragement, he reaches up under
my skirt and tears down my panty hose, pulling my
underwear along with them.   I hear a zipper as his pants
open.  I want to look, want to tell him to slow down, but his
mouth lifts off mine only to let me breath.  His fingers flick
at me and I feel wetness form.
 So does he.
 Immediately, he draws his fingers from my breast
and pulls me forward on the seat, separating my thighs.
Too soon, I want to tell him, too soon.   But it's too late,
he's already insinuated himself between my legs, pounding
away and grunting into my mouth.
 Perhaps 30 seconds later, he bellows my name, bites
my lip hard enough to draw blood, and pulls away.   Gently,
he wipes himself with a tissue and refastens his pants.   He
hands me my underwear, studies my expression and says,
"what?" impatiently.
 "Scully!  Scully, wake up!"
 I raise my head and groan.   Just a dream, just a
dream.  Of course.  I had my own desk.   Good indicator
that it's just a damn dream.    Dammit.  Even in my dreams
these days, he's a jack ass.
 Marita is over me, looking worried.  "Are you all
right, Agent Scully?"
 In this light, I can't see her eyes.   My loaned
nightgown is clinging to her and she smells of milk.   "Was I
talking in my sleep?" I ask, rolling up on my left side to face
her.   Please say no, please say no.  The last thing I want to
hear is that in my tipsy slumber I started shouting about
Mulder.
 She shakes her head.  "You were hitting the
headboard repeatedly," she reports.  She takes one of my
hands and turns it in hers.  "Your hands are red.   You
should take better care of your hands, Scully."
 She eyes my bedside table, finds the lotion I keep
there and pours a little into my palm.   "What are you
doing?" I ask as she massages the cool gel into my skin.
 "You have wonderful hands, Scully."
 I watch, feeling almost detached from my hands as
she rubs the lotion into them.  "This was part of the job for
you, wasn't it?"
 She doesn't look at my eyes now.  "If I were trying
to seduce you, Scully, I wouldn't have started with your
hands."
 To demonstrate, she lets one hand skitter over my
hip to the small of my back, slipping under the pajama top.
An involuntary shudder bursts through me as her nails brush
my branded skin.  Her hand leaves my skin and pulls the
blankets back up over me.
 "Good night, Scully."
 With Marita gone, Molly jumps up to take her place.
My back still tingles disconcertingly from the touch.
Tucking my still-slick hands under my pillow I decide, yes,
letting Marita stay here was a very bad idea.


 "Coffee?" I hear a soft voice ask as I  wrap my robe
around my waist.   Jumping, I turn to see Marita standing in
my room, her hands wrapped around a mug of milky coffee.
Recovering myself, I reach out to take the cup from her.
 There's a pleasant smell wafting through the room as
well.  "I hope you don't mind.  I made eggs," Marita
announces, "for you."
 I amble over to the table and sample the scrambled
eggs.   Just the right amount of margarine and salt.  There's
toast too.  Deciding to put off dressing in favor of warm
food, I take a seat across from Marita.
 "You haven't asked how long I'm staying."
 I swallow my last bite of eggs and wash them down
with orange juice before answering.  "I gathered you weren't
certain of the duration of your ... visit."
 She smiles.  "I don't wish to impose more than
absolutely necessary," she assures me as she clears the
dishes.  "I have... contacts... in the Czech Republic.
However, it may be some time before our correspondence
results in documents that can deliver me to them safely.   In
the meantime, I intend to repay you for your hospitality."
 I manage not to blush at the memory of her caresses
last night.   She refills my coffee mug and elaborates, "in
information."
 I lift an eyebrow.
 "You should dress," she recommends.  "Or you'll be
late for work."



 Her hair looks softer somehow and she's smiling
ever-so-slightly.  Looks like someone had a happy birthday.
Without me.  It's my own fault, of course.  I could have said
something before she went home for the day.
 Her eyes flit over the desk and the items laid out on
it.   I feel myself begin to grin as she moves cautiously
toward it.
 "I tried to call you last night, but you weren't home,"
I explain as she turns the little gilt-wrapped box in her
hands.   She says nothing and makes no move to open the
box.   "Are you....are you going to open it, Scully?"
 Her tongue flicks out to moisten her lips and she
breathes deeply.   Finally, she begins carefully separating the
paper around the box.  Her eyebrow lifts slightly at the site
of the little purple box.
 "They're lovely, Mulder."
 I let out a breath too loudly and smile.  "Finding
matching alien implants isn't as hard as you'd think," I tease
as she lifts one of the earrings from the box.   The black
pearls turn from grey to vivid blue in the changing light.
 "Do you like them, Scully."
 She nods absently, fingering her necklace as she
moves around to her table.   As her jacket slips off her
shoulders, a small sheet of paper falls from the pocket.  I
catch it and glance over it.
 Underwear
 36 C
 Chestnut or Chocolate
 Blue or Hazel
 Toothbrush and whitening paste
 Lipstick
 Milk
 Cat food
 Butter Pecan
 This isn't her hand writing, except for the last three
items.  I extend it to her.  "Scully?  I think you dropped
your shopping list."
 She blanches entirely.  "Oh, thanks," is all she says.
 I reach out to touch her shoulder and she jerks
away, just barely, so that my hand falls just short of her.  I
am still not forgiven.  Give it a rest, Scully.  This jealous
wife act is really getting old.
 She's still playing with her necklace, and biting her
lip now.   Maybe it's more than that.  Maybe something
more complex is going on in there.  Whatever it is, she
obviously isn't going to talk about it.  This could be the
beginning of a very strange day.



 It's very late.  Or very early, depending on how you
look at it.  I fell asleep on the sofa shortly after 11, but the
cat pouncing on my stomach woke me about ten minutes
ago.  The clock's blurry digits tell me it's after 3 am now.
The sheets folded under my head smell like Marita.  She still
hasn't come home.
 Back rather.  She hasn't come back to the apartment.
Marita, with her new nut-colored hair, Pearl Drops
enhanced mouth, polymer blue eyes, and new clothes.  If her
little hand job with the lotion that first night was
disconcertingly stimulating, thrusting my dye and deep-
conditioner coated fingers in and out of her hair, trying not
to notice that her torso and shoulders were covered only by
an old towel was equally discombobulating.  Even with the
gloves for the dye.
 Thursday night, she was setting the table when I
walked in the door, dinner simmering on the stove.
Tonight when I got home, there was a casserole in the oven,
almost done.   But no Marita.   Just a note on the
refrigerator telling me not to worry and to take the
casserole out before 6:30.
 Why am I worrying about Marita Covorubius?   Am
I afraid she won't come back?   Is it because I'm intrigued by
her, or because I can't go for a second without wondering
what sort of intelligence she will use to pay her room and
board?
 The door opens slowly, nearly silently.   Marita
takes off the heels she's wearing and moves tiredly toward
the couch.   Obviously she did a little shopping today.  "I
didn't mean to wake you," she whispers as she takes a seat
beside me.
 I turn my head sharply.   The smell of cigarettes and
alcohol is heavy around her.  There's another odor too, one
I can only describe as 'man.'   "Where have you been?" I
demand as I turn on the lamp.
 "Securing documents," she replies.  She reaches into
her purse and takes out two brown envelopes.   "One for
you," she announces as she hands me the packet, "and one
for me."
 She flips open the passport.  In her picture, she is
smiling demurely.  "I leave next week.  They will contact me
when the rest of the arrangements are made."
 I run my nail under the edge of my envelope.  "What
is this?"
 "A down payment."
 There are three pieces of paper.  The first looks
almost like a recipe, a chemical formula of some sort.   The
second is a list of names and addresses, each with a note
'failure as of ..." beside them.  The third is a computer
printout of an image file.
 Automatically, my hand clenches, crushing the
picture.    It's too late though, the image branded into my
brain.  How thoughtful of them to print the time and date
recorded on their images.
 So, that's what Mulder was doing while I was out
trying to save Cassandra, and maybe the whole fucking
world.  Marita watches me with obvious curiosity as I stand
on shaky legs and move toward the bedroom.   She says
nothing when I emerge, fully dressed and armed.   "I'm
going to work," I tell her tersely as I grab the envelope.
 "Don't you want to know what those papers mean."
 Yes, but not right now.  I have a sneaking suspicion
what all those names are, and I don't think I can hear it right
spoken aloud just yet.  "When I get home."
 She doesn't question the fact that I am going to my
office at 4 am on a Saturday.  She does grab my hand as I
reach the door though.   She has smoothed out the image
and folded it in half.  "Keep it, Scully.   You may yet find it
useful."
 Sure.  Fine.   I've always wanted a dartboard.


 Finding Scully in the office at odd hours is
something I'm becoming accustomed to.  However, seeing
her in jeans in the office, her shoes kicked off, her shoulder
holster hanging haphazardly, asleep in my chair is a little out
of the ordinary.   There are three stacks of paper in front of
her, plus the restoration equipment.  I've been spending
most of my weekends trying to put the charred remains of
the last five years back together myself.  From the stack of
clean pages, I'd say it's almost finished.  She's been busy.
She's also been here since about five, according to the
guards at the door.
 The printer is humming, expelling neat stacks of
paper and both computers are on.   I am reaching for a print
out when the arm she had flung over her eyes drops into her
lap and I see the circles, the redness, the dried trail of
saltwater.   She's been crying.
 "Scully?"
 She jumps at my voice and frowns when she sees
me.  "What are you doing here?"  Her tone is less than
inviting.   My worry quickly turns to irritation.
 "Good afternoon to you too, Scully," I reply acidly.
 "Afternoon?" she mumbles, looking at her watch to
confirm.   Her eyes rove to the printer and she rubs her eyes
vigorously.
 "What are these?" I ask, reaching for one of the
papers.
 She beats me to it.  "Adoption records," is all she
says.   "And no, I don't have authorization, so keep it under
your hat please."
 Now I am really intrigued.   Scully has violated
several laws here.   These records must be awfully
interesting.    Scully flips through the stack and I view one
when she's finished with it.
 It suddenly realize why these are so interesting.
With every record there is a picture, in black and white, and
a physical description.  "How did you get these?"
 She shrugs.  "They are all dead," she says tonelessly.
I count the number of records.   23.   23 dead children.  She
hands me a piece of paper, a list with names and dates of
their deaths.  Twenty-three children, no two from the same
agency of course, ranging in age from infants to four-year-
olds.
 "Oh Scully."  I don't know what else to say.
 "Samantha's file is almost finished," she says softly.
 My eyes turn to the restoration equipment and I
realize that Samantha's file is the one she has been working
on.   For some reason, I kept putting it off.
 "Scully?"
 "Mulder.  No."
 No what, Scully?   She isn't looking at me to see the
question practically written on my forehead though.   She
stretches and swivels the chair to another computer as it
beeps.
 She's cross-checked the dates of their deaths and the
towns where they lived with the FBI logs.    The database
yields the significant log entries for those days and places.
There's one very obvious  common thread.
 Diana Fowley.
 I wait patiently for her to say something.  She
doesn't speak at all though.   Just hits ctrl-p and sighs a
laugh under her breath.
 "Scully."
 "No.  Mulder."
 "Don't give me that.  Talk to me."
 She shakes her head.  "To be honest Mulder, I have
no interest in talking to you about this.  I need to go home."
 I grab her shoulder but she shakes me off and starts
gathering her papers.   One folded sheet falls from her
hands.   I unfold it and swear loudly.   Scully pretends not to
notice and silently ties her shoes.
 "Leave me alone," she insists when I kneel before
her to be at eye level.
 "It's not that easy, Scully.  I need to talk to you
about this," I insist, waving the picture at her.
 She throws her coat over her shoulders and grabs
her briefcase.   The incriminating photo is still laying
crumpled on the desk.  "Mulder, I have to go to the lab.   I
was given a formula, and I want to know what it is for."
 "Scully, you have to understand.   About Agent
Fowley."
 "Mulder," her laughs harshly and her words are like
icicles,  "I don't care who you fuck.  I have twenty-three
more dead daughters to explain to myself and maybe the
recipe for a vaccine.  *The* vaccine, Mulder.  I'll see you
Monday."
 "Scully," I practically scream at her.  "Listen to me.
You're blowing this way out of proportion.  That
picture....it's not what you think."
 She blinks at me and I realize, to my utter horror,
that she really didn't care.  Not anymore, anyway.   Of all
the things she just discovered, of all the things I saw in the
last fifteen minutes, the most significant to me was the
picture of Diana kissing me.  To her, that was a pin pricked
finger compared to the open wound in her chest.
 Scully just found out she has over twenty dead
children whom she never saw, never got to hold, never got
the chance to love.   She may have information in her
briefcase that could stop colonization, and I am standing
here screaming about Diana.
 Her eye blink rapidly as she leans against the door
frame.  I approach her carefully and tentatively put my
hands on her shoulders.   She's completely unresponsive.  I
think it would have been easier if she had pushed me away.
 "Unbelievable," she murmurs.
 "I'm so sorry, Scully."
 "Mulder, please, I need to go."  Her voice is
stronger now.    Scully straightens her spine and her body
seems to grow under my hands.  "I want to be on time for
mass."


Date: Tue, 20 Apr 1999 21:01:37 -0500 (EST)
Title: Flavours: Bitter and Butter Pecan (part 2/2)
Author: Lilith
Feedback: ladylilith@geocities.com

 "Dana?"
 "Sh.  Mom.  No talking during mass."
 "Dana.  Take off your jacket."
 "Can't.  Armed."
 "What?  Here?"
 "Mom!" she hisses, kneeling on cue.   To anyone
else, it might not be apparent that my daughter is breaking.
I can see the light seeping through every crack in her
facade.  For one thing, she very rarely makes it to mass,
especially on Saturday evenings, and never wearing blue
jeans.   She keeps blinking, trying not to cry and her words
tumble over each other nonsensically as she rocks back and
forth on her knees.
 When mass is over, she stands on unsteady legs and
sucks in a deep breath.  She smiles at the people who
recognize her and they smile back.   She grasps my elbow
and asks me for a ride back to the Hoover building.  She
walked.
 Oh Mary Mother of God, she walked all the way
here.  The last time she walked like this.... oh, God, it's Fox.
 I stop on the church steps and grab her hand before
she steps down.  "Dana.  What happened to Fox?  Is
something wrong?"
 Her eyebrows raise to her hairline and she looks
eight years old for a moment.  "Why does everyone always
think everything is about *Mulder*!" she yells before she
goes barreling off the steps.
 I almost laugh when I realize that Fox just stepped
from the parking lot right into her path.  He catches her,
holding her by the shoulders.  The rest of the congregation
fail in their attempts to appear not to notice their arguing.
Dana keeps trying to jerk away from him, and I just know
that at any moment, Father McQue is going to appear and
offer them couple's counseling.  Mercy.
 Finally, Dana says something that makes Fox drop
her and stagger backwards.   She glances at me, still
standing on the steps.   I approach slowly, watching Fox's
face for some indication of what they were arguing about.
 Dana takes three steps away from him and cocks her
head toward my car.   "Dana.  I thought you said this wasn't
about Fox?"
 "It's not, Mom.  Please, I need to go home."
 "Dana?"
 "Mother!  Home.  Please."   She turns to face me
and I can see that her control has finally broken.  There are
tears on her cheeks and she sniffs violently.   Glancing
behind me, I can tell that Fox can see them too.  His face
contorts and he starts to walk toward us.   He stops,
mutters something, kicks one of his tires, and drives off.
 "Dana.   Please talk to me.  You need to talk to
someone."
 She sighs and wipes her eyes.  "I know that, Mom.
I just wish I knew who I could talk to about this.  I love
you, but you just can't understand this, if you would even
believe me."
 "And Fox?"
 She laughs.  "Obviously, I can't talk to him about it
either, Mom."  She leans her head against the car window
and closes her eyes.
 "Okay Dana.  Let's go get your car."




 She is staring at herself in the mirror, pursing her
lips just so, forcing a smile.   She opens a small lavender box
and stares at the contents for a full minute before taking one
earring out.   They are actually rather stunning on her.
 "Hot date, Scully?"
 "Not a date, Marita.  Just dinner with a friend.  It
was supposed to be three friends, but there's a new episode
of Voyager on tonight."
 "Are you sure they just don't want to play chaperone
on your dinner?"
 "I hardly think I need a chaperone.   This isn't the
prom, Marita."
 "Is that why it took you half an hour to decide what
to wear?"
 She turns to look at me.   Her pose asks 'what the
fuck do you know?'   I'm glad she doesn't realize how much
I know about her, about her life.  Including that she did
have a chaperone at the prom, whether she knew it or not.
Sometimes I wonder how much of her life I'm responsible
for, baiting Mulder the way I did.  If I felt anything
anymore, if I felt remorse over one thing, one person, it's
possible that it would be Scully.
 More likely it's the child though.
 "Frankly, I can't remember what one is supposed to
wear to have dinner with a friend."
 "That depends on the friend."
 She nods absently.  After a moment, I realize Scully
is still facing me, but not looking at me anymore.  In fact,
she's not looking at anything.   The phone rings and I wait
for her to answer it.   She does no such thing, stopping to
pet the cat instead.  The machine picks up.
 "Scully?   Scully, I know you're there.  Pick up the
phone, Scully."
 Scully sighs and walks past the phone, grabbing her
jacket and keys.
 "Scully?  Scully?  If you're there, pick up the phone.
Pick up the phone, Scully.   It's about a case."
 Scully pauses in the doorway, waiting.
 "Scully?  Okay, so it's not really about a case,
Scully.  Would you just pick up the phone?"
 Scully flexes her shoulders and turns the doorknob.
 "You know, Scully, this is going to sound really
pathetic if you're really not home."
 She smirks and opens the door.   "If he comes over
here," she warns me, "hide."



 "Dammit!"  I swear and slam down the phone.   I
hate fighting with Scully, especially when she gives me this
particular brand of the silent treatment.
 Just in case she really wasn't home, I try her cellular
phone as well.  After 15 rings, I hang up.  I smack the wall
in frustration, causing more damage to my hand than the
wall.
 In an act of utter desperation, I call Frohike and ask
him if he can locate her via her cell phone.  I give him some
bullshit about a case.  He laughs at me, tells me he knows
where she is, but that if this really isn't stupendously
important, I can kiss free cable and Internet access good-
bye.
 As I stare at the phone, wondering who the hell
Scully is having dinner with and how many ways I can kill
him, I try to remember when the Gunmen started acting like
Scully's personal emotional guard.
 A voice in the back of my head knocks at my brain
and shouts, "Diana, you fucking moron.   When Scully tore
open her chest, showed them her heart.  Made them a little
attached, a little defensive."   Particularly since I was being
so very receptive to her ideas.
 What was it she called me in the parking lot?   A
'self-centered bastard with the audacity to assume that these
men spent the last fifty years trying exclusively to make
your life miserable.'   Instead it was her life.  They've tried
and failed to destroy me, because I had her.  Even when
they tried through her, I had her and I was saved.   In the
meantime, they took another chunk out of her life.  Maybe if
they keep taking pieces of her, she'll be a half-person just
like me and we can put ourselves together and make one
whole person.
 Christ, that's romantic.  Maybe I don't need a drink
tonight.  I sound to myself like I'm there already.  Armed
with the knowledge of Scully's location, I drive around,
pretending for about half an hour that I'm not going to spy
on her.   How astounding when I realize I've actually been
moving in the general direction of Alan's.
 One of cars parallel parked outside the restaurant
pulls away and it seems only natural for me to pull in there.
The windows are tinted, but I can see through them, make
out murky objects.  Scully's hair shines through though.
 Between the candles on the table and the tinted
windows, she looks incredibly soft.   She's smiling too, and
from her eyes she appears to be paying absolute attention to
whatever her dinner partner is saying.    I can't see him; he's
shielded by dinners at other table.
 There's poison, razors, guns, fire....
 Scully laughs, then looks down at her hands.  I see
another hand cover one of hers, very gently, and only for a
moment.  When her eyes lift to his face, the hand squeezes
gently and pulls away.   The hand is wearing a wedding ring.
 There are sirens approaching, but I don't hear them.
I'm too transfixed by the sight of Scully's dinner partner as
the people blocking my view rise from their table.   I am in
utter shock.   In such shock, that I don't notice the squeal of
tires and the roar of the approaching engine.
 So I am taken utterly by surprise when the speeding
vehicle crashes into mine.  My car absorbs the momentum
by crushing itself into the parking meter.  Glass and metal
rain inside my car, but the fugitive manages to get out and
start firing at the police who naturally fire back.
 'Matching scars' is my last coherent thought.   There
are people running out of the restaurant.  I can hear the
police saying, 'stay back people.  We have wounded.
Ma'am, ma'am, you have to stay back.'
 I hear the woman say in clear, slow tones,  "I am a
med-i-cal doctor."   I try to open the door, but it's
unsurprisingly stuck and my shoulder screams at the
exertion.  I shout for help and I hear the back door being
opened.
 "Mulder?  Mulder!"
 And then nothing.

 "Scully!"
 I sit up too quickly and my head spins.  The doctor
is sitting next to me, smiling blandly.   "Your partner left
you some clothes and cab fare.   We're releasing you today,
Mr. Mulder."
 "Where did she go?"   I wonder if she didn't want me
to see her.   I have hazy pain-drenched memories of
someone stroking my hand when I called for her,  of a
shadowy little body asleep in an armchair near my bed.
The doctor keeps talking, about taking my medication,
about staying off my feet for about a week.
 "Where's Scully?"
 The doctor shrugs.  "When I told her we were
releasing you, she said had some things to take care of."
 Great.  Things to take care of, besides me.   Things
more important than me.  I count the cash she left and see
that there is plenty for cab fare, enough to take me home, or
to take me to her apartment.
 Glutton for punishment that I am, I take the second
option.  Fumbling with my keys, I manage to stumble into
her apartment without incident.   Her apartment has a
strange new smell mixed in with the usual Scully aroma.
My headache is so sudden that I actually close my eyes
against it, feeling along the wall to her bedroom.   I fall in a
graceless pile on the bed.
 Still wearing my shoes and jacket, I fall asleep.
Something small, warm, and furry pounces on the bed next
to me and it takes me a few minutes to realize it is a cat.
Soon it makes itself at home behind my knees and I fall
asleep again.   In my drowsy state, I am barely aware of the
cold hands under my jacket, of the scrape of paper against
my shirt.  I think I see a woman in Scully's doorway, but the
image fades behind my eyes as somewhere very far away, a
door closes.



 Marita.
 My heels click out the cadence of her name as they
stamp down the hallway.  Is she still here?   Will she come
through on her promise?  Will I ever be able to keep solid
foods down again if she does?
 At least Mulder is out of the hospital, I remind
myself.  Now I don't have to feel so damn guilty for being
angry with him.   Mulder is difficult to be angry with.  Not
in the short term, of course, my temper flares regularly
around him.   But in the long run, he'll do something
adorable or pathetic, and I'll forgive him.    Or he gets
injured, and it's hard to stay angry at a man who's hooked to
a hospital bed, mumbling your name in his sleep while you
sit holding his hand, hoping that somehow his eyes will open
again.
 Now that he's going to live, it's much easier to be
angry with him.  Angry with him for thinking my life is so
tied up in his.  Angry with him for looking at the faces of
my dead children and forgetting them the moment he saw a
picture of her.  Angry with him for reminding me that I will
always be an afterthought.
 Marita, if she's still here, will take my mind off of it.
She'll have dinner waiting, and she'll tell me stories about
Russian landing sites.  I desperately want her to be there.   If
she just keeps talking, in that lispy soothing voice, I won't
have to think.
 Marita is indeed very good at what she does.
 "Marita?"  I call as I throw the door open.   The
moment I cross the threshold, I know she's gone.  The
sheets are no longer folded on the couch, the small bag she
kept by the door is absent.   There is food waiting on the
counter and I mechanically put it in the oven.  There's a
bottle of red wine to go with the lasagna.
 My hands shake slightly as I turn it.  To soften the
blow, perhaps?  Maybe I'll need it to get through the
information.    Half-heartedly, I start searching my
apartment for another envelope.
 Instead, I find a completely different, and even less
desirable surprise.   Great.   Fucking wonderful.   I couldn't
have planned it better myself.
 "Mulder!" I bellow.
 He lifts his head slowly and gives me a drowsy grin.
 "Helloooo beautiful," he croons.
 Great, he's in my bed and drugged.  This I need.
 "Get your boots off my pillows, Mulder."
 He bends his knees and points his toes toward the
ceiling.  Ignoring his request for approval, I yank the pillows
off the bed and put new cases on them.   "Mulder, either get
off the bed or take your shoes off," I suggest sharply.
 He seems to consider this for a moment, then tries to
reach his shoelace from his present position.  Needless to
say, this doesn't work very well and I end up removing his
boots for him.  Mulder kindly waits for me to replace the
pillows before dropping his feet back onto the bed.
 "What are you doing here, Mulder?"
 "Don't be mad, Scully."  I sigh and refrain from
looking at him.  "Hey Scully, there was a woman in your
apartment."
 I whirl around to face him, my mouth forming
soundless words.  "You saw her?"  I manage.
 "Kindof.   She gave me something.  At least, I think
she did.  Someone did.  I was tired," he finishes
apologetically.  "Was it Marita?  I thought I heard you
calling for Marita."
 "Marita is the cat," I lie lamely, hoping he's too
doped up to notice.
 "Oh," he says and scratches the cat's ears.
 "Where is it?"  I demand.
 Mulder slowly rolls over onto his back and points at
his stomach.   "Come and get it," he offers.
 I fail to stifle a snort and reluctantly perch on the
mattress next to him.  Marita has a twisted sense of humor.
Carefully, so as not to disturb his bandaged arm and chest, I
run my hand over his torso until I hear the rustle of paper.
Mulder is staring at my hand with rapt fascination.
 Ignore him, I admonish myself as I pull his shirt from
his waistband.   With the envelope in my hands, I lean back
against the headboard and close my eyes.
 "Aren't you going to read it, Scully?"
 "I don't know."
 "Are you still pissed at me, Scully?"
 "Yes Mulder."   He stares at me, then frowns deeply.
 "How long have you been dating Byers?"  I scoff at
him and run my fingernail along the edge of the manila
envelope.  "Well, how long?"
 "I had dinner with Byers.  That doesn't qualify as
dating."
 "Last time I checked..."
 "Is it dating when we eat dinner together, Mulder?"
 He blinks thoughtfully at me, then closes his eyes.  "I
don't know, Scully.  I don't know what to call what we're
doing anymore."
 That makes two of us.  "Go back to sleep, Mulder.
I've got some reading to do."




 Scully is gone when I wake up.   I stumble to the
bathroom and brush my teeth.  There are brown hairs in the
sink.  I don't bother to try to wrap by brain around that at
the moment.   I do want to know where Scully is though.
 There are papers scattered on the coffee table, a
cold blob of pasta, and a half-full glass of wine.  Judging
from the bottle, half a glass is all she had.
 I settle into the couch and choose a set of papers at
random.  The title page announces 'The Scully Report, Part
17.'   The first few pages are complicated biology, too
complicated for me.  But I gather that the gist is there's
something special about the Scully women.
 My guess is confirmed when the next page is a
report on Melissa Scully.   There are details of her activities
and whereabouts dating before Scully's abduction.   At the
bottom is a disconcerting note.   'Melissa Scully was
accidentally terminated, forcing us to consider an alternative
source.'
 So logically, the next page is Mrs.  Scully.  'The
Scully line must be preserved.   As the Scully brothers and
their sons are lacking in the pertinent property, our attention
must be focused on the women.  Agent Dana Scully is
unacceptable as a source due to the overwhelming
possibility of death through either her law enforcement
career or her interference in our affairs.   The mother, Mrs.
Scully, is therefore to be considered off limits.  There seems
no need for surveillance or security as Margaret Scully is
low risk.     Any evidence of the existence of other Scully
females should be brought to this committee's immediate
attention.'
 Written in sweeping hand in the margin is a note
'Protect the mothers.'  Unfortunately, if there is a Dana
Scully Report, it's not included with the information here.  I
look at the clock and realize it's time for me to take some
more medicine.  I'll pass.   I've humiliated myself enough for
one night.
 I have vague recollections of her complaining about
my boots and me babbling out accusations about Byers, of
all people.  I also remember quite clearly her saying that she
is still angry with me.  I can't say that I blame her.
 The door swings open suddenly and Scully speed-
walks past me, making it to the bedroom door before
realizing I'm on the couch.   Her face is flushed and her
hands are shaking slightly.   She looks like any minute she
might burst into hysterical laughter.
 Gulping air, she hands me a thick brown book, a
scrapbook titled 'High School.'   I open it am immediately
assaulted with images of young Dana Scully.  She flips to  a
page titled 'Abby McCabe.'   For a moment, I'm mesmerized
by the pictures of little Dana in her tight jeans, skirts, knit
shirts, little sweaters, long hair and lipstick.  Then I notice
the other girl featured in all these pictures.   Something
about her is hauntingly familiar.
 "Scully?"
 "It's her, Mulder," she insists in a breathless whisper.
She hands me a sheet of paper.   The Mulder Report, Part
22.   At the top of the page is my sister's name.   There's a
list of names, dates, and places.  Most of the report has been
blacked out with a marker.  Scully points to one line.
"Abby McCabe, Mulder.   She told me her father was in
Navel Intelligence, but I never met him."
 My brain slowly puts the pieces together.  "This is
my sister?" I whisper, as though talking too loudly will
make it false.
 She nods.  "She was a year younger than me, but she
was the only girl my age around the base who was anything
like me, and she was my best friend, Mulder.  For a year she
was my best friend.   She told me her mother was in Europe
and she was going to live with her soon.   One day she was
just gone, Mulder.   I kept waiting for the letters."
 Scully is whispering too, her voice still containing
that edge of delirium, almost as though she doesn't believe
the words herself.  Or maybe, like me, she's afraid to
believe.   "Oh my god, Scully.   This means she may still be
alive."
 "From this report," she replies, waving the paper,
"I'd say she has a history similar to Cassandra's."
 I shudder a little at the thought.  Scully traces her
nail along a picture of the two of them.  In the photograph,
Scully and Samantha are siting on the hood of a car, armed
with water guns aimed at the photographer.  They are
laughing.  They are beautiful.
 "It's her, Mulder."
 "It's her."
 It tumbles out finally, the sobbing laugh she's been
swallowing.  She collapses on the couch next to me and
props her feet up on the coffee table.  "Mom thought I'd
gone crazy when I showed up demanding to know where
my old photo albums were."
 "How old?"
 "She was 15."
 "Tell me, Scully."
 "Tell you what, Mulder?"
 "Tell me.  Tell me about her.  About my sister."



 Mulder eventually fell asleep on the couch, his eyes
finally getting too tired and heavy to stare at the pictures of
his sister any longer.  My back screams in rage every time I
take a step and it's cold here by the windows.   Still, I look
out at the night sky.  In the city, with all the lights and
smog, the sky is smudged with oranges and greys, giving no
hint of the stark beauty of long dead stars, budding nebulas,
and nascent planets.
 What did the sky look like to my daughters?   Did
they stare up at it as I did as a child and wonder what was
up there.  Did they wonder as I did, though I'd never admit
it to Mulder, if there was someone looking back from one of
those mysterious bright spots.  My fingers trace
constellations on the pane, and I shudder as an intense deja
vu overtakes me.  Did my daughters love the stars?
 Did their adoptive mothers love them?  Did my
daughters throw their arms around them when they were
picked up from daycare?   Did they eat their peas and
carrots?  Did they like rabbits?  Did they have siblings?   Did
they have pets?  Did they play in the dirt and scrape their
knees and tear their dresses and cry for women who weren't
me?
 My knees crack loudly as I slide down the wall to
the floor.   It's so cold in here, cold and empty.   I can't cry,
not for this, this is beyond crying.  I lean my back against
the cold wall, prostrate on a cold floor, chilling me through
my thin slacks.   Everything around me is ice,  turning me to
ice as well.
 Through the veil of ice over my eyes, I see
something move across the room.  That shadow is upon me
now, and around me, and so warm.   There are hands
rubbing my palms and arms coming around my waist and
very gently pulling me into a warm lap and swaddling me
with blankets.   We rock back and forth, the heat snaking
back up through me almost painful compared to the gentle
caress of the hands on my face.
 The mouth follows, melting little patches of my
cheeks and forehead, dipping to the corners of my mouth,
drinking the melting ice.  One heated drop falls onto my lip
and I realize that the ice was saltwater.   My head buries
itself in a shoulder, hears a grunt of protest, and
automatically moves to the uninjured arm.
 "I wish I could think of something to say," says the
voice plaintively.
 "Better if you don't," I reply honestly.
 "You're so cold, Scully.   You scared me."
 "I'm fine."
 The head pulls away from mine and the hands drop.
I shiver as the cold comes racing back in.  He relents and
pulls me back into his embrace.  "You always faint when
you're fine, Scully?  When was the last time you ate."
 "Lasagna tonight."
 He scoffs.  "You had two bites, maximum."
 "I've been eating," I insist.
 He watches my face carefully.  "Is it staying down?"
When I don't answer, he pulls us both carefully to our feet.
With more force than is strictly necessary, he steers me
toward the bathroom, closes the toilet and motions for me
to sit down.   He turns on the hot water tap.
 "When you're warm," he says as he turns toward the
door, "we'll try eating again, Scully."
 Slipping into the hot water feels divine, though I
know it's wreaking my skin.  I just can't care right now, it
feels so good.  I soak a wash cloth and put it behind my
back to keep my neck warm as I sink into the tub.   The
water is becoming tepid when I hear Mulder knocking on
the door.
 "Scully?  Are you okay in there?"  I nod without
thinking about the fact that he can't see me doing so.  He
knocks again and I ignore it, stretching my legs out of the
water one at a time, watching the water run down my skin.
"Scully?  Don't make me come in there!" he adds playfully.
 I laugh.  God, it feels good to laugh.  "And if I do,
Mulder?  Then what?" I shout at the door.
 "Not tonight, Scully, I've got a bad arm."
 It's hard to be angry with him when he's like this.
The water has turned cool anyway, so I get out and dry
myself off.  My pajamas feel warm and cozy, so does the
living room.  Mulder has the world's biggest fire going in
my fireplace, and there is a big bowl of salad on the table
waiting, along with another glass of wine and one of water
for him, because of the medication.
 Next week, or maybe even tomorrow, he'll do
something so selfish or idiotic that I'll never want to look at
him again, or at least not for a few hours.  He tucks the
blankets around me and steals cucumbers out of my salad.
 "Dessert?" I ask when the salad is nothing but a few
slivers of lettuce and shavings of cheese.
 Mulder waggles his eyebrows at me and I resist the
temptation to kiss his forehead.  "Watcha got?"
 "Butter pecan," I tell him.  "In the freezer."  He
watches me dig into the tub of ice cream ravenously.  "Put
in a movie," I suggest.
 "Coen Brothers?" he asks, waving my copy of The
Hudsucker Proxy.
 "Sure," I reply around a mouthful of ice cream.  My
tongue tastes bitter and butter pecan on the spoon.  He puts
the movie in and curls up on the couch next to me.  After a
moment, he reaches over and starts playing with my earlobe.
 "What are you doing?"
 "You're wearing them," he comments, sounding
absolutely awed.
 "I like them, Mulder," I tell him.  He smiles and
feeds me another spoonful of ice cream.  I grin at him as he
props his feet up on the table, throwing his good arm across
the sofa back.  I lean back against it, leaving the rest of the
ice cream to melt in front of the roaring fire.
 "I know it's late, Scully.  But happy birthday."
 "Yeah," I sigh in utter, though temporary,
contentment. "It is, Mulder."



Disclaimer:  I don't own them, though I have a set in
miniature.  I intend no infringements on anyone's rights,
particularly the people who create and maintain the on-
screen story line.   No Foxes were permanently injured in
the making of this story.

Acknowledgements:  Spooky, thanks for letting me know
this story had the desired effect on at least one person.
Suzanna, thanks for slogging through revision after revision
with me.  I don't know how I'd ever finish a story without
you.   And of course, many thanks to Amy and the folks at
Jan and Julie's for inspiration and support.

Notes:  Okay, please give me feedback people.  This was a
hard one for me.   After One Son, I felt an intense need to
punish Mulder.   Shooting him was only supposed to be part
of it.  How this became Scully Torture, I'm not sure.   Plus,
it's only UST, which is not my usual realm.   And I left
Mulder's trust in Diana an open issue, even though I want to
believe his comments at the end of One Son indicated a
change of heart.  So please folks, let me know what you
think, good or bad.

Title: Flavours:  The Metallic Aftertaste (2/4)
Author: Lilith


     This has been the longest week of my life.   Exhausted, I
flop down on the bed, not bothering to even take off my jacket, I
toe off my shoes.  Molly pounces up on the bed, demanding
attention.  She needs food and I should clean the liter box too.
      For the matter, I should also empty my trash, water the
plants, vacuum the living room, and call my brothers for good
measure.   But it's been a damn long week.
        And I want a cigarette.
        Staring at alien life in a flask, sometimes not knowing which
faces some of my coworkers will wear on a given day, the foreign
and startlingly familiar smell of purity.   Strange how quickly I've
become used to it.  Like drinking diet soda.   At first, the flavour is
a shock, but with every glass you acclimate until it becomes
standard, and you only notice just a hint of a metallic aftertaste.
Now I'm thirsty and I want a cigarette.
        Finally, Molly gets impatient and threatens to run her claws
through my last intact pair of hose if I don't feed her.   Reluctantly,
I peel myself off the bedspread and stumble to her food dish.  My
answering machine light is blinking rapidly, but I ignore it.  Most
of them are messages I've saved over the past week.   Mulder's
attempts to apologize.
        I called back once, only to get his machine as well.  I said his

name, then sat clutching the receiver with no idea of what else to
say.   I haven't seen him since I told him three weeks ago.  I
managed to stay in the Academy labs and in accounting, running
various errands while my two week notice passed.   I came in on
the weekends to finish repairing Samantha's file, hoping and fearing
that he'd come in.
        When Molly begins happily chomping away, I realize that I
ought to feed myself.  There's not much in the fridge though.
Where's a desperate ill woman on the lam from a shadow
government when you need one?
        The doorbell rings and I hesitate before answering.  Steeling
myself, I peek through the fisheye lens.  Mulder.  I open the door
and step back to let him in.   God, it hits me hard how much I've
missed him now that I'm looking at him again.  I pray my hands
aren't trembling.
      He forces a smile and holds out his fist.  Of course, the
necklace.  I open my palm under it and he lets my thin gold chain
pour out of his hand into mine.  "You left this," he says.
      He looks tired, tried and sad.  "I wanted you to keep it," I tell
him, watching the glint over my fingers.  I raise up as high as I can
and he ducks his head so I can clasp it around his neck.
     "How's your leg?" he asks after a pregnant pause.
     "Fine," I tell him.  "It was just a scrape," I amend quickly.
      We stare at each other for a while, neither of us knowing what
to say.
     "Apology accepted," I blurt.
     I expect him to come back with some sort of sarcastic quip.
Instead he says, "thank you, Scully."  He turns to leave and I feel a
sharp sting go through my body.
     "Mulder," I call out too loudly at his back.  He turns slowly.  I
try desperately to think of something to say, to keep him in my
sight for thirty more seconds.  "Have you had dinner yet?"
     He forces another smile.  "I have plans, Scully."
     And he's gone, shutting the door quietly behind him.



     What the hell is the matter with me?
     I stare at the door I just closed and lean against it heavily.  I
can
see her shadow under the door frame as she paces back and forth.
What the hell is wrong with me.  Her shadow moves away from the
door, but I still stand here, wondering if there's some way I can
knock on the door and tell her I've changed my mind.
     Inside her apartment, the phone rings.  I hear her voice, but it's
too muffled for me to hear the words.
     Suddenly, my support gives way and I fall against something
much softer and not as solid.  Flailing for a handhold, I manage
regain my balance and grab Scully to keep her from falling.  She
grips my arm in response, and we stand like that for a while,
breathing hard and clutching each others elbows.
      I shift my feet and manage to come up with, "Um, about dinner,
Scully."
      She drops my arm and straightens her jacket.  "Let's go," she
answers.
     At first I think she has said 'let go,' and I hold her arm tighter
instead.   "Go where?" I ask after she repeats the order.
     "The Gunmen are meeting us there, " she informs me, pulling us
toward the door.    There's a slight smirk on her face.  "Those were
your plans, weren't they?"
     "Did they...did they tell you that?"
     "Call it a hunch, Mulder," she replies as she locks the door
behind us.
      "A hunch, Scully?  When, pray tell, did you start having
hunches?" I needle her.  She ignores me and increases her pace a
half step.  "Where are we going anyway, Scully?"
      One corner of her mouth turns up.  "Alice's Restaurant."
      I mimic her expression.  "You can get anything you want at
Alice's Restaurant."
     She opens her car door and looks me in the eye over the roof.
"I don't think what I want is on the menu, Mulder."
     We stare at each other across the car roof and I feel a warm rush
start in my groin and streak through the rest of my body until my
fingers are glowing.  Scully starts the car and she is laughing softly,
silently.
      "What?" I ask.  She shakes her head and puts her hand on the
parking break.   She pauses for a moment to finish her laughing fit,
and I take the opportunity to place my hand over hers.  "What is it,
Scully?"
      "Nothing.  This dinner.  Frohike's clever plan to get us into the
same room."  Her face it solemn suddenly.
      I squeeze her hand.  "I know I wasn't very understanding,
Scully, but this is hard for me."
     "It's hard for me too, Mulder," she whispers.
     "I'm not as good without you, Scully."
     She rubs her thumb across my knuckles.  "Mulder, you don't
have to be without me," she says and that warmth intensifies.  Our
eyes meet and she licks her lips nervously.  "I'm just a phone call
away," she adds quickly.
     "But we aren't partners anymore, Scully," I point out.
     She gently draws her hand away and places it on the steering
wheel.  As she pulls onto the street, she whispers, "Aren't we,
Mulder?  Do we have to work in the same office and on the same
project to be partners?"
     I watch the buildings pass by outside the windshield.  "I don't
know, Scully," I answer honestly.  "I don't know."



     I stare at Mulder through my glass.  Through the glimmer of my
half-empty wine glass, he looks fuzzy and incandescent.  When I
lower the glass, I notice that he is still fuzzy.  I do believe I am
drunk.  I don't even remember refilling my glass.  My guess is that
*I* didn't.  Mulder gives me a big goofy grin.   I think we're both
drunk.
     Frohike is talking about something, I can't concentrate.
Something about mandroids and Robert Anton Wilson's theory on
relaxed presidents.   I try to remember whether I've read anything
by Robert Anton Wilson, but it's difficult to remember.
     The only thing I can remember reading right now is Jane Eyre.
We are but one soul.   I set my glass down on the table and my
hand incidentally brushes Mulder's.   His palm opens under my nails
and now we are holding hands.
     I do believe we are smashed.
     Byers is watching us.  Poor Byers, always the sober one, smiling
tolerantly under his mustache at his sodden companions.  I smile
back at him.  Mulder seems sufficiently distracted by Frohike, so I
lean closer to Byers.
     "So whose idea was this, yours or Frohike's?" I whisper.
     He doesn't feign surprise.  "*Dinner*," he stresses, "was my
idea.  It's nice to see you talking again."  He nods in the direction of

our clasped hands.  "But that's nice too."
     I flush slightly and lower my eyes.  All those girly mannerisms I
never express tend to creep out when I've had too much to drink.
"Dinner was a good idea," I reply.
     "How's work?"
     I shake my head.  "Strange, frustrating.   I wish I could tell you
more."
     He nods his understanding and flags down our waitress for the
check.   I nudge Mulder and remind him that his car is still at my
apartment.  Somehow, we decide that the best idea is for Mulder to
sleep on my couch so that in the morning he can drive me back to
the restaurant to get my car.  I think it was Langly's suggestion.
     Which is how I ended up at my apartment door with Mulder
hovering over me as I try to get my key into the door.  We drag
ourselves inside and I fill two large glasses with water.
     Mulder nods his approval.  "Hydration," he acknowledges,
joining me in the kitchen.   We lean against opposite counters and
watch each other drink.
     "Are you tired?" I ask finally, refilling the empty glasses.  He
shakes his head.  I sigh.  "Okay, let's see what's on TV."   I turn the
television on to CNN and settle back into the couch.
     Mulder immediately picks up the remote and starts flipping
channels.   He notices my raised eyebrows and snorts.  "You really
wanna watch the news, Scully?  Mystery Science Theatre is on."
     I let my head drop back on the arm of the sofa and wave my
hand dismissively.  He turns up the volume, and I feel myself being
strangely lulled by the sound of cheesy space battles.
     When I open my eyes again, I am looking at Mulder's chest, my
necklace swaying inches from my face.   Apparently, he is leaning
over me to reach his water glass.   This is a bad situation.  Or
maybe this is a good situation and I'm just too much of a prude to
take advantage of it.   I'm just not the type to wrap my arms and
legs around his torso, flip him over on his back and ravish him.
     My stomach flutters slightly with silent laughter, causing an even
stranger sensation as the cotton of our shirts rub against each other.
     "Scully, are you *giggling*?"
     Suddenly, I am under his face instead of his chest.   His face is
very close, and rather incredulous.  I look away abruptly, but he
catches the side of my face with the palm that isn't holding him over
me.    His thumb trails down my cheek to my chin.
      "How long was I asleep?"
      "Twenty minutes maybe.  Missed the battle of the Aracnaroids
versus the Terran Eleventh Order," he fills me in.  "So, what were
you giggling about, Scully?" he continues to jest, thought he knows
damn well that I did no such thing.
      "I don't giggle, Mulder."
      "No, no you don't.  I like that you don't giggle, Scully."
      "Yeah?"  Oh my, that came out just a bit too breathless.  His
finger is still caressing my cheek.  I feel an urge to ask him if
there's
anything else he likes.  Instead, my eyes close.
      "Yeah," he repeats and leans down to let his mouth trace the
same path as his thumb.  His lips are tracing little circles on my
skin, moving incrementally closer to my mouth.  I can feel his
breath on my lips when he says, "If you're going to stop me, now
would be a good time."
     I open my eyes and let the corners of my mouth quirk slightly.
The first touch is gentle, but only the first touch.   Soon, I have one
arm tight around his shoulders, holding myself up off the couch to
keep his mouth close to mine.  His lips separate above mine and my
tongue sweeps out to trace his lower lip and suckle it into my
mouth.
     Mulder makes a yummy sound and moves his fingers up into my
hair, massaging my scalp roughly.  We're moving gradually upright
until I am in his lap.   Eventually, he withdraws, leaning his head
against the back of the couch.  The hand holding my head guides it
to his shoulder.  For several minutes, we sit together, panting and
clinging to each other.
     A strange sound makes me lift my head.  "Mulder, are you
giggling now?"
     He shakes his head and leans down to kiss my forehead.  "I'm
just....Scully?"  I reach up to kiss him again.  When I pull away, he
adds, "I think I'm drunk."
     I smile and feel him do the same against my lips.  It's incredibly
erotic, but we are both drunk and tired, and I don't want us to wake
up tomorrow wondering if that's how we ended up in my bed.
"Mulder, we're both drunk, and I think it's past our bedtime.  You
have contingency clothes in your car?"
     He nods.  "I'll go get my stuff."



Acknowledgments:   Big thanks as always to Suzanne for constant
encouragement, ideas, and editing,  and Lori, that spookiest of
teachers for editing and support.  And to Amy of the Haven, for
featuring me while I write this.

Notes:  It ain't over yet just because our heroes are talking again.
Scully's job is about to get a lot more challenging.  Part three is
drafted and part four is on the way.  Thanks to everyone for their
suggestions and constructive feedback.
       Also, for those of you who have noticed the similarities
between Sour Times and Strange Currencies, it was intentional.
The idea was: what if Mulder and Scully had reconciled after Scully
accepted the offer instead of being parted for three years.  And so I
used the cross, one simple object, to springboard the difference.

Title: Flavours:  That Funny Taste in the Back of Your Throat (3/?)
Author: Lilith


       Two weeks later, I left my contingency clothes in the car.
       My face in the mirror is absurdly happy as I grin around my
toothbrush.  Scully smiles at my reflection and I form a kissy face
with my frothy mouth.  Scully swats my ass on her way back to the
bedroom and I smile a little wider.  I turn out the lights on my way
back to the bed and stare at Scully in the bed for a while.
       Her hair is a mess and the sheets are only half covering her
body.   She notices me staring at her and raises an eyebrow
provocatively.  Well, so much for sleeping.
       I wake up on my fourth morning in this bed wrapped around
Scully and realize she is speaking.  There's an unpleasant trilling
noise and I hear her grumbling to herself as she splays her hand
across the night table looking for her pager.
       As soon as she finds it, the phone rings.   She lifts the
receiver
to her ear and mumbles quietly to the caller.  While she listens, she
reaches out with her other hand to caress my shoulder.  I nuzzle my
face into her back in response.
       Eventually, she drops the receiver back into the cradle.  It
clatters loudly and she slumps back against the pillows.   Her arm
flops over her eyes and she blows air through her lips.
       "Gotta go?" I ask, trailing my lips down her shoulder.
       She makes a noncommittal humming noise and my mouth
continues to meander downward.   I've made it as far as her
stomach when she speaks again.
       "Yeah, they need me at work.  They had a problem at one of
their little corn fields."  My head jerks upright and she shakes her
head.  "That's all I know, Mulder.   They never tell me anything."
       I rub my hands over her hips and smile.  "I know, Scully.  I
know."
       She scrapes her fingernails through my hair, and I take this as
encouragement to keep moving my head downward.   She laughs
quietly under her breath and rests a staying hand on my neck.
       "Mulder, I have to get ready for work."
       "I won't take long," I assure her.
       She laughs aloud this time.  "Mulder, it's four in the morning,"
she informs me, squirming out of my grasp.
      "Do you have time for a shower?"  She nods and disappears
into the bathroom.
       She gulps down the coffee I made for her and shoves her bagel
into her purse.   I stop her as she rushes out the door and kiss her
quickly.  "I'll call," she promises.
       I drop down on the couch and let Molly curl up in my lap.
       "Scully, you are still my partner," I call out to the door.
       The door opens, and Scully beams at me.  "I know, Mulder,
and I will call."



       I really did intend to call before noon, but it just didn't work
that way.  For one thing, they hadn't explained on the phone that I
would actually have to go to the little dome city where they keep
their bees and corn.  Apparently, the human patients have already
been rushed to the nearest properly-staffed emergency room.
       The clones though, have yet to be tended.  Apparently, they
are second class citizens, and besides that most of the doctors on
staff are not well equipped to deal with the clones.  Still, no matter
how many pieces of tissue I've studies, puddles of green ooze I've
seen, I am unprepared for the spectacle at the dome city.
       Dozens of identical children are slumped over in the corn rows,
their little hands still clenched around their buckets.   All of them
are dead.  Strange protrusions have sprouted on their faces and
arms.  It looks like chicken pox or small pox.  One of the doctors
takes my arm and leads me inside.
       "Only one survived," he tells me.  "Her biochemistry appears to
be somewhat different from the dead ones."
       The girl looks up at me from her little stretcher.  She looks
much older than the other children, but the appearance of age is
deceiving with these clones.  In fact, she doesn't look like a child at
all.  I would estimate that she is in her mid-twenties.  Her mouth
opens in weak little gasps of breath.   Her hauntingly familiar
features contract as she struggles to speak.   I was told the clones
on these farms have no language, but this one manages five words
that shatter me.
       "I'm afraid," she rasps weakly.  "I'm afraid, Fox."

       "She's perfect," hisses the doctor next to me.  I recognize him
as Dr. Irving.
       "Perfect?" I inquire incredulously.   "She appears to be dying to

me."
        He nods.  "Yes.  That makes her a perfect test subject."
        "Test subject?  For what?"
         "Serum 7.5," he replies.
          I shake my head.  "We haven't completed the live tissue tests
on Serum 7.5."
         "So what?   If it works on her, we don't have to any further
tests.   Come on, sterilize her arm."
         I put my hand on the clone's shoulder and stare Dr. Irving
down.  "No.  You can't just inject her with something when you
have no idea what it will do to her.   She's not a lab rat."
        He sighs.  "Of course she is a lab rat, Dr. Scully.  Why do you
think we breed these children?  They aren't intelligent, they have no
sentience.   It's no different from breeding Wisteria rats for cancer
experiments."
        "Yes it is different.  These are human beings, at least
partially.
And the intelligence argument isn't going to work.  We both heard
her speak."
         He shrugs.  "Genetic memory?   Look, Dr. Scully, we
manufacture these creatures in a lab.   Tell me, do we manufacture
a soul for them?"
         I stand still, listening to her labored breathing.   She looks
up
at me, her eyes so like his.   She reaches up with a shaking hand to
touch my shirt.  "I'm afraid."
       Something occurs to me suddenly.  "Wait a minute, you said
that her biochemistry was different?  How different?"
        He shrugs.  "Different enough that the infection that killed the

others didn't kill her.  The test results aren't complete yet."
        He hands me the results they do have.  "This looks like
radiation poisoning, not a virus."  I grip her hand tightly.  "She may
not be what you think she is."  He rolls his eyes.  I continue, "Look,
what do you know about the hybridization experiments?"
        He looks defensive.  "As much as most of the doctors on the
Purity Control project," he answers haughtily.
        "So what's that?" I bite out.  "Next to nothing?  I highly
recommend that if you do not have *express* permission to
experiment on this child, or clone, or even this lab rat,  Dr. Irving,
that you do not go near her."
        "Are you threatening me, Dr. Scully."
        I help the clone woman to sit and stroke her hair in an effort
to calm her.  "Not at all.  I am just reminding you that employees in
this organization that make mistakes have a way of dying."
       "You are threatening me."
       "I'm not letting you do this."
       "How do you plan to stop me?"
       Reaching behind me as unobtrusively as possible, I draw out
my new weapon, issued to me by my new boss.  The chrome barrel
gleams in the bright lights of the lab.  "How indeed."



       I'm not sure which woke me up from my nap actually, the cat
walking across my face or the resounding thud of a body slamming
into the front door to Scully's apartment.  Either way, I jump and
end up with a sizable scratch across my cheek.
        Whoever is on the other side realizes that the door is unlocked
and turns the knob.  Krychek is standing in the doorway, clutching
his leg and trying not to curse aloud.  Maybe I am still dreaming.
       "Where the hell is Scully?" he manages to bellow painfully.
       Suddenly, I am fully awake.  "What do you mean 'where is
Scully?'   Why the hell should I tell you where Scully is?"  I
demand, wondering frantically where my gun is, and absently
noticing that he is not holding a weapon on me either.
       There is a quiet, harsh laugh from the doorway.  I smell him
before I see him.   He smiles at us both, that slow, irritatingly
patient smile.
       "He wants to know," the man informs me, pausing to take a
drag, "because he is supposed to be protecting her."
       "Protecting her from what?" I ask, panic insuing in full force.
       He holds up a hand, as though to physically hinder my fears.
"She is being protected."
       Krychek looks offended.   Still rubbing his leg, he grits out.
"You found a better man for the job?"
       The Smoking Man smiles.  "Sometimes, Alex, there is no man
for the job."
       Krychek sighs.  "Marita?"   He turns to me and shrugs, limping
closer to the couch.  "Got any aspirin around here?"
       "Before I get anyone anything, would one of you care to tell
me what the hell is going on with Scully?"
       "Scully is quite all right, Mr. Mulder.   I am certain she has
come across something quite remarkable," he explains in that
meandering habit of his.   Tossing a glance at Krychek, he adds,
"But of course, someone was to have informed her of what she
would find there."
         Krychek mumbles something incoherent under his breath.
         "However, I have every confidence that Scully will perform
correctly, despite her ignorance."
         "Is she in any danger?"
          He looks around for somewhere to toss his cigarette butt.
"If she were, I would have heard from Marita by now."
          "Oh, that's exceedingly comforting."
          Ignoring the comment, he lets his eyes wander around the
room.   Something on the mantle catches his eye, the recently
framed photograph of young Scully and Abby McCabe, also known
as my sister  Samantha some twenty years ago.
         "You found Abby.   I wondered how long that was going to
take," he says quietly.
         "Would you care to elaborate?" I ask testily.
         He sighs.  "When you see what Scully has found today, I will
explain about Abby."
          "And when will that be?" I demand.
          In response, Marita and Scully appear in my doorway, with a
drooping girl supported on their shoulders.
          "I would say the answer is 'now,' Agent Mulder."



          Mulder is staring at me with his jaw unhinged.  The Cancer
Man has that irritating, allknowing smirk plastered on his face, and
Krychek looks like someone's been throwing him around a room
again.  Marita and I move slowly forward, the girl between us
moaning with each step.
        Mulder jumps to his feet and picks her up gently, then
carefully lowers her to the couch.   Her eyes focus on him and a
smile breaks across her pained face.   She reaches up a hand to him,
ignorant of his complete astonishment.
        "She's not well," declares the smoking man.
         I nod.  "Nausea, fever, dry heaves indicating dehydration.
I'd
say she has mild radiation poisoning."
         "She needs a hospital," Mulder comments absently, still
holding the hand of the girl as she smiles up at him.
         "We can't, Mulder.   Besides, I can take care of her here.   Go

run a warm bath.   And Marita, fill a glass with some chipped ice.
We need to get her hydrated."
          The Smoking Man approaches and couch and looms over the
two of them.  "Fox,  this isn't who you think it is."
          Mulder snorts and drops her hand.  "Why am I not
surprised?"
         The Smoking Man pauses.  "Covorubius, Krychek, coffee."
The two turn without a moment's hesitation and walk toward the
door.  I am surprised and somewhat unnerved by the way Krychek
rests his right hand on the small of Marita's back.
         The girl takes my hand and I guide her slowly to the
bathroom.  I leave the door open as I help her out of her hospital
gown and into the warm water.   She coughs on the first piece of
ice, but then begins greedily sucking the moisture as I feed her.
         The sound of the match striking is loud enough to startle me
into nearly dropping the glass.  "Scully remembered Abby, I see.
From the time she was assigned to you, I waited for her to
remember Abby."
         I hand the glass to Abby and she takes it.  I soak a cloth in
the
water and settle it under her neck.  She smiles and me and sinks
back into the tub.
        I wander back into the living room, wiping my hands on my
skirt.   "You kidnapped Abby, or Samantha," I conclude allowed.
        The Cancer Man smiles and takes a long drag from his
cigarette.  "You thought Alex and Marita are the only members of
our organization to take....a long, unpaid vacation?"
        Mulder sits straight up.  "Why?"
        The smile is gone.  He stares at the orange glow of the
cigarette.  "Samantha, like Cassandra and all the other sacrafices,
was returned from time to time.  I knew what they were doing to
my wife.   I saw what it was doing to her body.  I could only
presume the same was being done to Samantha.
        "When I was discovered, I made a deal through the help of
one of my old friends on the medical staff," he explains further.
There is a whistful look in his eyes, and they are wet.  The whole
expression is very disconcerting.
         "The girl in your bathtube is the result, Miss Scully, and it
is
she who was delivered.  The obvious age difference was of little
concern to them.  Samantha Mulder was spared further
experminentation.   The girl you found today is Samantha only in
the physical sense."
        "She remembers me," insists Mulder.
        The Cancer Man shakes his head.  "All of the Samantha clones
have been educated regarding you, should contact ever be made.
We cannot replicate memory anymore that we could replicate a
soul."
        The three of us let that statement hang in the air for a moment,

the comprehension of the clone's purpose slowly sinking in for
Mulder and myself.
        "And this girl, is she as success, like Cassandra?" asks Mulder.

         He nods and lights another cigarette.  "Unfortunately, yes.
That's why we hid her on the farm.   When they came for her, she
must have released the bees.  That would explain the radiation
poisoning and the death of the other clones."
        "Why would releasing the bees have stopped anything?"
Mulder asks.  Good question, I think, remebering my own
experience.
        "Those bees are designed to carry small pox, not the purity.
They would have attached the aliens as well, and affected them just
as harshly, and with the other clones dead, they probably assumed
she was dead as well."
         My head aches.  Mulder rubs his temples.  "Where is my
sister?"
         The Smoker closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.  "Fox,"
is all he says.   We both understand.   He doesn't know.  He's not
allowed to know.
         "So what happens to her now?" I ask, breaking the solemn
silence that has fallen over us.
         "For tonight, she will stay with me," he says, turning his head

to acknowledge the reappearance of Krychek and Marita.  "After
that, we will have to find some other place to hide her."
         "We have an idea," Marita announces.
         Krychek hands a styrofoam cup to his bus.   "Why don't the
three of us," he suggests, "discuss it over coffee."

Flavours: Sweetness Follows (4/?)



       Mulder gives one final gasp and collapses heavily onto my
chest.   He lifts his head and I see my satisfied face reflected in the
clean mirrors of his eyes.   Propping himself up on one elbow, he
twines his finger in my hair and presses my mouth forcefully against
his, transferring my lipstick to his mouth.  When he pulls away to
breathe, he rests his head on my breasts and lays there blissfully
panting for a moment until he remembers to shift his weight off my
body.
       I smile at his closed eyes and push my fingers through his
tangled hair.  "I think I need another shower now, Mulder," I
inform his as the sensation of cooling sweat on my skin begins to
irk me.  "Are you going to do this every morning?"
       "If you keep walking out of the bathroom wearing nothing but
makeup and a towel, probably," he counters.
        "I'm going to be late," I chide.   He shrugs and stands up,
stretching elegantly.
        "Wanna share the shower, Scully?" he asks, waggling his
eyebrows.
         "That strikes me as a singularly bad idea, Mulder," I reply,
but
he follows me in anyway.  Given the early morning romp we just
indulged in, I'm not surprised that we manage to shower together
with more cleaning than groping.  Mulder walks with me down to
our cars and I kiss him goodbye and watch him drive away.
         I get into my car and turn on the vents.   It's been two months

since the Abby Incident, as I've labeled it for myself.   Sometime in
those months, Mulder moved into my apartment for all intents and
purposes.   We've moved on to Serum 9.4, and the live tissue
experiments are promising.   We are close to unlocking the secrets
of the purity.   So very close.
        I catch a glimpse of myself in the review mirror and smirk at
my reflection.  The woman in the mirror may quietly save the world
someday.  Maybe today will be the day.




       The room is cloaked in blessed darkness as I gather my far
flung garments from the various pieces of furniture in the hotel
room.   Moving as quietly as possible, I done my clothes, straighten
my hair, and apply my makeup.   I was taught long ago the art of
performed beautification rituals in the dark.
       In the bed Alex sleeps peacefully, the glass he had been holding
overturned near his hand, spilling the remainder my special cocktail
into the sheets.  Smiling to myself slightly, I place the glass on the
bedside table and cover his naked body with the cheap hotel sheets.
I whisper good morning to Alex and kiss him goodbye.
       On my way out, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the
mirror.  Indeed, all women are fair in the dark, I think.   A car
passes by, the light reflecting brightly into the glass, showing my
own face too clearly.  Sighing, I throw one last glance back at the
man who may have ruined my life, and might just as well have
saved it.
        But I have more important things to think about.   Two
missions have been allocated to me.  Two missions for two people
who may hold the key to our survival.  One to convert if I can find
him, the other to protect at all costs.  Scully's importance to the
project has never been a question in my mind, the other assignment
I question.  The child Gibson Praise; there are rumors concerning
the whereabouts of the child, and I know without an exchange of
words that he is valuable to my superiors.  Some missions are not
assigned so plainly.   Some are indicated in the subtleties of gesture.
The down turn of a hand, the avoidance of names.
        A snippet of a musical swims through my brain.  One I
watched once while waiting for an unwitting man to enjoy his last
moments of life before the effects of the drink overtook his
circulatory system.   That was such a long time ago, when I was
still training.   As I slip quietly through the hallways, I sing it
under
my breath to myself.
        To kill, to keep, to find.
         To battle.



       I realize that I am still smiling like an idiot as I walk down
the
halls of the Hoover building.  The euphoria of early morning
orgasm leaves me slightly sleepy, but in a more tolerable mood than
I've been in for over a decade now.  By coincidence, I pass Skinner
in the hallway.   Our eyes meet and I think I see the smallest upturn
of his lips as he shakes his head at me.   I grin back at him and reach
to press the down button to call the elevator.
        Skinner interrupts me.   "Mulder, I've got something for you
in my office."
        I turn and follow him.  Anxious to get to my basement and see
if the fax I was waiting for has come through, I don't even glance at
the next in a long line of temporary secretaries while Kimberly takes
her maternity leave.     I barely even register her response when
Skinner brusquely orders, "coffee."
            Skinner motions to my usual chair and takes his time
settling in
 at his desk and going through the stack of file folders.  When he
 finally selects one and extends it across the desk,  his secretary
 waltzing in accompanied by the aroma of fresh coffee.
         Skinner reaches up for his cup and mutters, "Thank you,
 Abigail.  That will be all."
         "Yes sir."
         I look up at the hauntingly familiar voice.   She smiles back
at
me.   Skinner clears his throat.  "Agent Mulder, this is Abigail
 MacLaren.  Kimberly has decided to stay at home with her son, so
Ms.  MacLaren will be staying with us."
        "Yes," I manage, finally, absently noting the subtle change in
 her last name.  Sometimes things are most successfully hidden in
plain site.  "I believe we have met."
        I fail at my attempts to listen to Skinner droning on about
prospective partners.   Listlessly, I flip through the profiles in the
folder, scanning without registering the eager faces and glowing
commendations.
       I wonder where my real sister is, where they could have hidden
her that the Cancer Man, with all his connections and knowledge
couldn't find her.  Or is the threat of what would result from finding
her that great a deterrent.  As I leave the office, Abby stands to
greet me and walks me to the door.
       When Skinner's door closes, she grasps my hand.  My skin
feels strangely hot and cold in her embrace.   She smiles at me and
squeezes tighter.  "It is confusing for me as well," she whispers.  "I
have been almost programmed to recognize you as my brother, but
it's not true."
        "Is it?" I force myself to ask, my throat sore from pushing out
the words.
         Abby looks down at our joined hands and back up to my
eyes.   She shakes her head and drops my hand.
         "I miss her too, Fox.  You have to have faith."
         "Faith in what?" I demand.
          She smiles and opens the door to usher me into the hallway.
At first, I think she's avoiding my question, but as the door closes, I
hear her whispered reply.
          "Where has your faith always been, Fox?"
           Scully, I think with a sudden desperation, in Scully.




Acknowledgements:  Well, it's over.  First of all, a big thank you to
Suzanna for her tireless editting and for generally making my days
more pleasant.  Thanks to Spookyteacher for editing and
inspiration.   Also, I'd like to take a sentence or too to thank all of
those who wrote with suggestions, requests, complaints, and praise.
You make it worth it.  And, I can't forget Galia, Amy, Darkstryder,
Jan, Julie, Xrea, GertieBeth, Beaker and all the others who archive
my work.    I enjoyed writing this one, but it think it will be some
time before I attempt another WIP.  Thanks again, all.

Lilith
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/1947

Disclaimer:  In case I have been neglecting to mention this lately, I
cannot claim to have invented any of these characters, except
arguably Abby.   Mulder, Scully, Skinner, etc are the property of
CC, Fox, 1013, etc, and I intend no infringment on their rights or
priveledgles.  No Foxes were harmed in the making of this story.