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  This author's e-mail address has changed to: xanaduxf@yahoo.com
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***DISCLAIMER***: All "X-Files" elements and references
in this story belong to Fox Broadcasting, Chris Carter,
and 1013 Productions, and I am making no money from it.

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Lessons Learned: Driving Music
by shannono
shannono@iname.com


Series, Mulder/Scully Romance

Spoilers through "Three of a Kind"

Rated PG

Summary: Barbecue, music, and conversation.

Author's note: No, it's not songfic! But I am getting a 
little schmoopy here and there with these. I just figure 
they get enough angst on screen and in other stories, so 
I'll try to give them a few laughs, a little fun, and some
nice moments. This is an angst-light series. :)

Thanks: To Paulette and Brandon, for the beta.

Disclaimer: *shaking head firmly* They. Are. Not. Mine. 
This. Story. Is. Got it? Good.

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Lessons Learned: Driving Music
by shannono


Seems you really *do* learn something new every day.

After six years together I thought I knew pretty much all 
there was to know about Scully. Okay, so she keeps some 
things secret; I certainly don't begrudge her the privacy.
I have a few secrets of my own.

Somehow, though, I think I should have known that the woman
is an absolute expert on the subject of barbecued ribs.

Now, I know she likes ribs; I wiped the remnants of a 
feeding frenzy off her face myself once. She dug into those
things with gusto, and it was a sight to see. But that was 
four years ago, and I haven't seen her touch a single rib 
since.

Apparently, I've been missing something big here.

She's taking me to dinner. On a date, as she took great
pains to clarify; our *first* date. So I was expecting
quiet, secluded, maybe even a little romantic.

I got noisy, a little grimy, and a hell of a lot of fun 
instead.

We're ensconced in a corner booth at Jed's Rib Shack, just
off Highway 234 in northern Virginia, about five or six 
miles outside the city but at least a light year away in 
atmosphere. The place is crowded and a little on the loud 
side, with country music emanating from the jukebox in the 
corner. Much to my amazement, Scully is mouthing the words 
along with Mary Chapin Carpenter. She feels lucky today, 
she lip-synchs, shooting me a grin as the music shifts to 
"Heartbreak Hotel."

Ho, mama. If this is what I have to look forward to with 
this new, softer, more relaxed version of Scully, I think
I'm a beaten man. From now on, whatever Scully wants, 
Scully gets.

She ordered for us both, shooting me one of her "no
arguments" looks, and for once I listened. This place is 
certainly authentic, right down to the huge Mason jars 
full of super-sweet iced tea the bleached-blonde waitress
plopped down a few minutes ago. Giant bottles of pepper 
sauce and Tabasco sit alongside the ketchup, salt, and 
pepper at the end of the table, and an apparently permanent
film of hardened grease covers the walls.

I can't believe Scully even knows where to *find* a place
like this, much less that she'd actually *eat* here
voluntarily. Not after years of watching her try to find
what passes for healthy food in the dives I tend to hunt
up on the road. She'd rather eat three slightly-wilted
lettuce leaves and a sick-looking tomato than trust 
anything cooked on a truck stop grill.

But she walked into this place like she owned it, asked
for a corner booth, and refused a menu. Now she's kicked
back in her seat, crunching ice from her rapidly-depleting
glass and tapping her toe in the air to the beat of Elvis.

Even my best dreams aren't *this* good.

I know I'm sitting here like a bump on a log, staring at
her. I can't seem to do much of anything else. Shock, I
guess. I wouldn't be surprised if I started shaking and
sweating profusely in a minute.

If she uses her tongue to pull an ice cube from her glass
again, I just might.

She's glancing at me every few seconds, a tiny grin playing
around her mouth, and I can read her thoughts as if they're
flashing in neon across her forehead. She knows she's
surprised me, and she's loving every minute of it.

Elvis gives way to Loretta Lynn -- they like it all here,
it seems -- and I pull myself from my stupor long enough
to take a good-sized drink from my own tea. The cold
beverage chills me all the way down and leaves me a little
more alert, and I grin at her as I set the glass down.

"So this is your idea of a dream date, Scully?" I ask,
leaning forward to brace my arms on the edge of the table.
"Sure wish I'd known; I'd have been dragging you to every
rib joint in the lower 48."

Her smile spreads slowly across her face, gradually raising
the meter on her beauty from simply lovely to absolutely
breathtaking. Every time I see that smile, I'm thankful
that she rarely uses it, or I'd never get any work done.

"I've seen the places you pick when left to your own
devices, Mulder," she says, her tone as playful as I've
ever heard it. "I trust you with my life, but not to pick
a good barbecue place. Not without a reference."

I feign a hurt expression. "Hey, I found the one in
Wisconsin, didn't I?" I half-whine. I'm teasing her, and
she knows it. And she loves it as much as I do.

"On a reference, Mulder," she points out, eyebrow up. "I 
stand by my statement. You wouldn't be able to pick a 
decent barbecue place without help. Now, every greasy diner
in the lower 48 I'd believe ..."

I give in and chuckle. "Okay, okay, I'll allow you your
area of food expertise," I say. "Assuming, of course, that
this place is really *that* good."

"Oh, it is," she says, waving a hand around to indicate the
dozens of filled tables. "Any place this far off the beaten
path that stays this full *has* to be good. How do you 
think I found it in the first place?"

I shrug and turn up one corner of my mouth. "A *reference*?"
I inquire, innocently.

She glares, but it's belied by the smile still hanging
around her lips. "This place is my own discovery, and don't
you forget it," she says archly. "Like I said, any barbecue
place this crowded all the time in an area like this has 
*got* to be good. After I drove by three times and saw the
parking lot always full, I stopped. And it was worth every
moment."

Now I'm curious. "You drove by three times?" I ask. "This
is a little out of the way from Georgetown, Scully. You've
got me wondering what you were doing 'this far off the
beaten path,' as you put it."

Her eyes drift off somewhere to my left, toward the window,
as if she's looking at something outside. But I know the
look in her eyes; she's hiding something. Not something 
bad, or serious. This is another tease.

"Oh, I just passed by on my way to Norfolk a few times,"
she says. "It was always full, so I decided to try it out."

My mind kicks into overdrive. She wants me to ask what --
or who -- she was going to see in Norfolk. She's hoping
to make me think it was a man, trying stir up a touch of
jealousy. As a joke, of course; she wouldn't deliberately
provoke me like that. That's just not like her.

One problem with her plan. She didn't take into account 
my memory. And I know good and well that her brother was 
stationed in Norfolk until three months ago.

"So how is Charlie these days, anyway?" I say in a mild
tone, lifting my drink for another sip. I watch her 
reaction over the edge of the glass and am rewarded with
a roll of her eyes.

"You know, you could at least *pretend* to be taken in
once in a while," she grumbles.

I smile wolfishly behind my veil of ice and tea. "That
depends on what I'm being taken into," I murmur.

*That* comment earns a faint blush, and she quickly changes
the subject. "Charlie and Bill are both out on their ships
for about the next six weeks," she says. "The good thing
about it is that at least they're all in San Diego now, so
Beth and the kids can visit with Tara and Matthew. It's a
lot better than moving to a new base and not knowing
anyone."

Her voice is a little wistful by the time she finishes
speaking, and I realize my hand has gravitated across
the table to cover hers gently. I can't really understand
what she went through as a child, having to move around
so often. My childhood was far from typical and, at least
in the later years, far from happy. But at least I lived
in one place and didn't have to leave my friends behind
every few years. Yeah, I lost quite a few of them after
Samantha disappeared, and maybe moving somewhere new
would have been nice then.

But Chilmark and the Vineyard were about the only stability
I had. Scully had her family. I know they weren't perfect,
but at least they were together, no matter where they had
to move.

I can't really think of anything to say to reassure her,
but I think just reaching out might have been enough.
She's more relaxed now, looking out the window again, her
foot once again tapping lightly on the floor in time to 
the music. I don't recognize the artist this time, but the
song is nice, a little jazzy and with some good harmonica.
Something about how a song can change your whole state of 
mind.

That's true enough. I've never been one for sitting around
and listening to music for hours on end, analyzing every
line and every nuance. But I do like having some music
around when I'm doing certain things, like driving alone.
And some songs can bring back memories, both good and bad.

Like this one. I want to memorize this moment, complete
with the slightly-twangy soundtrack and the thin haze of
smoke in the air. I want to save this forever, to be able
to pull out the sweetness of the tea and softness of her
eyes as a balm against the evils I know I still have to
face.

"Who's this singing?" My voice asks the question before
my mind can register it, but I let the question hang. My
memory is good, but it wouldn't hurt to have a little
aural trigger to help me bring this back whenever I want.

"Clint Black," Scully answers, her face a little quizzical.
"Why? It's not exactly your kind of music, Mulder."

I shrug, not bothering to ask how she knew. She's been
here before; for all I know, she has the jukebox memorized.
"I kinda like this one," I say. "Nice harmonica."

She nods. "I actually bought his greatest hits CD after I
heard this song," she said. "There's a few good ones on
it. He does a great version of 'Desperado'."

I grin at that. "Closet Eagles fan, Scully?"

She returns the smile. "Nothing closet about it; I've got
three CDs in plain view in my apartment, and four old
albums in storage," she says.

I feel my own eyebrow arching. "I've never seen those CDs,"
I say. "You sure you don't hide them when I come over?"

She's saved a reply by the arrival of our food, and quite 
a feast it is. Two huge plates covered with slabs of baby 
back ribs dripping with sauce, with baked potatoes and 
mounds of cole slaw on the side. I don't even think I can
finish this, and there's no *way* she can.

Shows how much I know.

Thirty minutes later, with hardly a word passing between
us, we've cleaned our plates. And yes, Scully ate all of
hers. It was just as good as she said it was, but 
unfortunately, she was entirely too neat about eating it.
I was really looking forward to cleaning sauce off her 
face again ...

She sighs and sets down her last stripped rib, wiping her
hands on another of those little moist towelettes. We've 
collected quite a pile of those things, along with a 
collection of demolished napkins. I think maybe a bedsheet
would have been the best bet.

The combination of Scully and bedsheets in the same thought
brings me up short, as I realize -- not for the first time,
even tonight -- that this is no longer just a game, or a 
flirtation. I think it's just as well I didn't say that out
loud. Innuendo is all well and good, but there's more here 
now. It's obvious this is going somewhere definite, and any
double entendres have suddenly taken on a whole new layer 
of meaning.

Because now we're fairly sure there's going to be some
following through on them in the not-too-distant future.

But not tonight. Tonight we have a nice dinner, we enjoy
each other's company, and we go home alone, as usual. 
Slow and steady wins the race.

We'll be going home together soon enough.

Scully's leaned back against the seat now, her eyes closed
in either contentment or pain at having eaten too much, 
I'm not sure. The waitress breezes by and drops the check,
and I reach for it before Scully even notices. Hey, call 
me a male chauvinist pig; I'd like to pick up the check 
for our first date. I'll let her get the next one.

I slide out of the booth and the movement draws Scully's
attention. She opens her eyes about halfway and looks up
at me, and a rush of arousal fills me at that heavy-lidded
gaze, weakening my knees. I manage to keep both my feet 
and my cool, to my own amazement, and flash her the best
smile I can muster.

"Let's get out of here, Scully," I say. "After that amount
of food, I'm likely to fall asleep on the drive home. We'd
better head back into the city."

"'Kay." She sounds half-asleep herself, and I hold out my
hand to help her out of the booth. To my delight, she 
actually takes it. She's not normally one for chivalrous
gestures, and I try to repress most of them around her 
when we're working -- other than the hand at her back, of
course. She's my partner and my equal -- hell, my superior
in many cases -- and I do my best to show her all the 
respect she deserves on the job.

But this isn't work. *This* is an official date, so I
guess she's allowing me to treat her as a date, rather
than a colleague.

I kinda like it.

She rouses a bit after she's on her feet and starts
looking around. "Where's the check?" she asks, digging
in her pocket and pulling out a credit card.

I shake my head. "You get the next one," I say. "You
found this place, so let me get the check."

She seems about to argue, but then something in her eyes
softens and she nods. I take her hand in mine again and 
we head for the register at the front in comfortable 
silence.

We're back in the car before she speaks again. "Are you
sure you're okay to drive?" she asks, still sounding
endearingly sleepy.

"Yeah, it's fine, Scully," I say as I check the empty road
and pull out from the parking lot. I glance over at her a 
moment later and see her eyes are closed again.

"Do you need me to keep you awake?" she murmurs huskily.

No, Scully, just that tone of voice was enough to put
every nerve in my body on full alert.

"Don't worry about it, Scully" I answer softly. "You 
rest. I'll wake you when we get home."

And my music for the drive is the sound of her breathing
as she sleeps.