From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: 26 Mar 2007 14:38:42 -0000 Subject: Lift and Drag (1/1) by Athene Source: direct Reply To: athene1121@hotmail.com TITLE: Lift and Drag AUTHOR: Athene EMAIL: athene1121@hotmail.com RATING: PG CATEGORY: Vignette, M/S relationship, UST SPOILERS: The Pilot (grin) ARCHIVE: Gossamer; elsewhere, please ask. SUMMARY: The physics of airplane flight and interpersonal relationships. Lift is the force that keeps the airplane in the air. Drag is the force that tries to slow it down. Thrust overcomes drag. Gravity is just there, and must be dealt with. DISCLAIMER: Not mine. REMARKS: Dedicated to my fellow Havenites. Lift and Drag By Athene Self-control has always come easily for me. Easy, that is, until I have to board an airplane. I began to hate flying in the summer of 1975. Until then, airplane flights were an exciting adventure. The push-you- back-in-your-seat force as the powerful engines thrust you down the runway at over 150 miles per hour. The exhilaration of those brakes slowing the hurtling plane after it touches down. The unusual meals, the friendly attendants, the plastic "wings" each child passenger received. The tall, handsome pilots and copilots. As a child, I imagined there was an invisible hook that attached the top of the plane to the heavens to keep it from falling. On that particular flight in 1975, I was flying unaccompanied, coming home from a summer visit to my grandmother in San Antonio. As we made our final approach into Dallas, the pilot aborted our landing at tree level due to a sudden burst of wind shear. The jet engines screamed as the crew fought against gravity to thrust the plane back into the air at an impossible angle. I felt small and helpless, pushed hard into my seatback, my mind scrambling to make sense of the danger. I was amazed that a 747 could even lift off, much less remain airborne. Air was so light, so breezy; how could it hold that massive airplane and its contents? I apparently have Mulder to test my self-control, in addition to airplane flights. He walked past me once, in the hallway outside the morgue at Quantico, about 4 months before I was assigned to his department. Like most of the women who knew of him, I was intrigued. By the morning after we were officially partnered, however, I was so mad at him, I could have spit tacks. He told me we were leaving for the very plausible state of Oregon at 8:00 AM, and then I was dismissed. I waited for a call or a courier to deliver the ticket or an itinerary. Tired of being passive, I checked with Melanie in the section chief's office, but she couldn?t find the 302. My efforts to reach Mulder resulted only in two voice mail messages that were not returned. He had inexplicably left the office at lunch and had not returned. I realized pretty fast that this was some sort of elaborate test designed to drive me away. I was up and showered by 5:15, in the car by 6:00, at Dulles by 6:30, and at the gate by 7:00, all according to schedule. Of course, I?d been up all night, partly tense due to the impending flight, and partly indignant that Agent Mulder saw fit to ditch me on our first case together. Choosing Dulles had been a guess on my part. There were only three flights departing for Portland before 10 that morning, and only one leaving at 8. Damn, I hate to fly. It was only with concentrated effort that I kept my breathing even and slow. My heart was racing; I sipped my coffee cautiously as I made my way through security and down the TWA concourse, trying not to spill from the tremors in my hands. When I arrived at the gate, he was already seated in a corner chair, eyes closed, both legs splayed outward, his tie askew, and his headphones on. Probably blaring some seventies rock, I thought. I found a chair two places away from his, and settled down quietly. His nostrils flared once as I sat down, but he didn't move. I reached over to tap his arm, and flinched when his hazel eyes opened and bored into mine. He pulled one headphone from his ear, and I heard Scarlatti in the background. "You found the place," he stated. Was it my imagination, or was there surprise in his voice? It wasn't my imagination. He obviously hadn't expected me to make the flight. "It really didn't require a lot of detective work, Agent Mulder. Thanks for leaving the ticket at the check-in counter." I tried to mask the sour mood his little ditching maneuver had instigated. "How'd you hear me coming with that headset on?" "White Linen. Eau de toilette. Classic, but not exclusive. I'm guessing it was a gift from your mom." His eyes shut again. "Like the suit." My fists tightened in irritation. Damn his impudent manner. And he was right about my mom. "Did I do better than you thought, or better than you hoped?" He smiled lazily, eyes still closed. "You did better than I thought." "Why are you so resistant about being paired with me for this investigation, Agent Mulder?" "I don't trust you, Doctor Scully," he shot back, and now the ice in his manner was painfully obvious. "I didn't ask for any help from you or any other agent. I like to work alone. You're gonna slow me down, and you're gonna take notes. What's to like about that?" His generous lower lip compressed briefly, but then he seemed to take a deep breath and gather his composure again. He stared in my direction, but he was obviously focusing behind me. "Bring any helpers with you, Scully?" My face flushed at his tone, and my control snapped. "I don't know what you're talking about, Agent Mulder. Yes, I'm taking notes, but only as one method of evaluating the investigative techniques behind your impressive solve rate. I don't appreciate being treated like a piece of crap." His eyes had closed again, and his face smoothed back into inscrutability. "Of course, Scully. Forget I mentioned it." He replaced the earphones, stretched his feet out a little more, and withdrew from me completely. I felt my face burn with indignation. I flashed back to my interview with Blevins the day before; I'm not naive enough to assume everyone's motives are pure and simple, and I could see that my assignment had overtones of espionage. I had to admit to myself that Mulder had some reasonable suspicions about my presence. Time to try and mend the fences, or it would be a long, unpleasant investigation. Deep cleansing breaths, I told myself. "Agent Mulder?" He didn't respond, so I tapped him on the forearm. "Agent?" His arm drew back like it was on fire; he tore off his headphones, and I flinched reflexively. "What?" he thundered. I was embarrassed to see heads turning in our direction. He eyed me angrily for a few seconds, and then I saw his face soften as my nervous jerk backward registered. "Sorry," he whispered, and I finally saw a glimmer of sincerity and even humor in his eyes. "That was uncalled- for; I never should have shouted." God, the man had longer lashes than I did. "Agent Mulder, please let me try to clarify this situation. We've obviously gotten off on the wrong foot, and we'll work better as a team if we get some facts straight." "Who says I want to work as a team?" he groused, but he flicked off his portable disc player, and sat up straighter in his chair. His lower tone seemed to mollify our audience of onlookers, and I relaxed as their attention returned to their own pursuits. "Agent Mulder, until yesterday I was a forensics instructor at Quantico. I've never been in the field. I've never met Blevins, McGrath, or that chain smoking man in the director's office. I have heard of you, of course." I stopped as his eyes narrowed again, took a deep breath, and pressed on. "I was at your lecture on Disorganized Serial Killers at the Academy in March of 1990. You had the complete attention of the entire audience in spite of it being a Thursday night at 9 PM. The instructors were still quoting that lecture to our class when I graduated a few weeks later." He fidgeted restlessly, and I hurried on, hoping he would hear the sincerity in my tone. "I consider it an honor to have a chance to work with you, and if I can offer any scientific insight or medical expertise into this case, I will do so gladly. I don't have an agenda. It's been my experience as a scientist that the scrutiny of a peer with a different set of skills can fine-tune any hypothesis." The smirk was back, full-force, his voice heavily sarcastic. "Right back at you, Dr. Scully." He stood up, grabbing the straps of his carry-on with one hand. "I don't trust anyone anymore, Scully. It remains to be seen if you're being up front with me. I should be pretty sure what makes you tick by the time we fly home. You can tag along, but don't get in my way. Let me hear your ideas, but make damn sure they're presented as options, not ultimatums. I won't try to ditch you again on this one. That was a dirty trick," he admitted. For just a second, I saw chagrin shade his arrogant expression. It was gone before he started speaking again. He paused. "I'll let you know what I'm thinking, but I need for you to remember that I am always fine-tuning my own hypotheses. The initial analysis only rarely resembles the final conclusion." He held my gaze with a deadpan face, but this time his eyes smiled. "We're in different rows, but the flight is half-full, so we don't have seatmates. Here's the file. Don't scare any civilians with those photographs." He handed me a thick folder with red stripes around it. "It's gonna help keep your mind off the fact that you're five miles above the ground in a steel cage." He smiled again, almost kindly; "Let me know if you need to hold someone's hand." He started to lope off toward the gate, where boarding had already begun. I stared after him in amazement, appalled that he spotted my little problem so early in our partnership. "Mulder? How did you know?" He turned around, and the bastard was laughing. "Benadryl in your carry-on. Coffee stains on your lapel." He cast an impudent glance at my suit. "Half-moon shaped indentations on both palms. Lip gloss on your teeth, sweat on your brow. Mascara smeared under your eyes. Dilated pupils. Your earrings don't match. When the gate agent made the first boarding call, I watched you tear your paper napkin into a hundred pieces. You're tapping your shoe against the chair leg at a pretty fast tempo. You're either pissed as hell, aroused as hell, or scared as hell." He held my gaze with one eyebrow on the rise, daring me to pick one. Some combination of the three, I thought to myself. As I sought an appropriate response, he took two steps toward me, and leaned over to speak directly into my left ear. His warm breath lifted the wispy hairs near my ear. "I told you yesterday that, in my line of work, the laws of physics rarely seem to apply. I think you can trust Bernoulli this morning. I'm getting a good feeling about this case." He headed off to the gate, and I stood, wiping little bits of paper napkin off my lap, and pulling off both earrings. Damn profilers. Lift and drag, I mused as I walked reluctantly up the jetway. I was sure I wasn't going to get much sleep on the flight, but his casual reassurance warmed me, and his kindness in the face of my fear was unexpected. All of a sudden, he didn't seem so hateful. I really think his bark is worse than his bite. I heaved my navy blue bag onto the scale next to the airline agent's station, and handed him our return tickets. Behind me, Dr. Scully pushed a khaki gym bag up a few inches with her foot, and waited her turn to check her bag. There were bags under her eyes, too, and I didn't think they were merely due to fear of flying. Neither one of us slept last night, between the reports and the interviews down at the station. I doubt she'd have slept anyway, considering the level of her phobia. Her shoulders were slumped, and the bruise on her forehead was in stark contrast to her pale skin. I'd endured the hostile stares of a dozen or more Good Samaritans who noted her bruises, her dejection, her ill-fitting suit, and the disparity in our body sizes. It all apparently added up to a high index of suspicion, and two people had already stopped to ask her if she needed any assistance getting to a safe place. Away from me. She shot me several apologetic glances as she assured her self-appointed protectors that she was not in a violent relationship, but I could tell her patience and her nerves were wearing thin as our departure time neared. My hope of a simple investigation turned up nothing more than a rat's nest of conflicting information and secret personal agendas. All the evidence, save one little piece of metal, had burned to ash in the hotel fire. Scully's laptop, both our suitcases, and most of our clothes shared the fate of our evidence. It's a pity that suit of hers managed to survive the conflagration. An early morning trip to Target resulted in clean underwear and some basic toiletries, as well as two makeshift suitcases. My wallet and credit cards were gone, and Scully had only her badge and a $20 bill. Some guy named Bill in San Diego wired her $200 to cover her expenses, and she was thoughtful enough to give me half of it to outfit myself. My guess is that dear old Bill couldn't really spare the money, but there was no way in hell I was gonna call dear old dad and ask for a loan. I decided to wait until we got back to DC, and then let Simpson's staff handle it from the trust fund. When Agent Scully realizes I never filed a 302, and therefore her losses won't be covered, she'll probably refuse to work with me again. The idea of not having her around is disturbing me on several levels, and I'm gonna have to analyze this change of attitude at length. Not now, though. I hauled her bag up onto the scale, and she made a face at me. Yeah, so my mother raised her son to be chivalrous. Too bad, Scully. Partners help one another out, and that's what we are now. Partners. The idea has quickly begun to appeal to me. She was very smart, very quick to spot inconsistencies or errors. She pointed out my more radical leaps of intuition with gentle humor, combined with respect, which I'd not experienced in several years. She resisted my attempts at physical intimidation by keeping her feet in one place, craning her neck back, and speaking volumes with those clear blue eyes. She just held her ground, and kept making her points. Our flight was departing at 9:30 at night, and going the wrong way on a red eye meant the plane was sparsely booked. I used my best smile to wheedle the exit row seats for us, and made sure she was sitting by the window, and I was by the aisle. I got more leg room, and she could be the first one out of the plane in an emergency. A "survivable emergency", that is. There was no need to keep aloof now. So far, she was indeed proving to be precisely what she appeared oh, God, except for those see-through silk panties and that bra, unveiled before me in a cloud of White Linen in a candlelit room. Who would have suspected that under that frumpy, boxy suit she'd have the figure of a Botticelli angel, matching her face and those perfect cupid lips? I hurriedly cleared my throat and tried to think of something less alluring. Thoughts like those, thoughts that made her female, or delicate, or attractive, would not only serve to get me a harassment suit, but would endanger us as partners. I had to refocus my attention on her competence and skills, so as not to be distracted or inclined to take unnecessary risks to protect her while we were on a case. And what was with the red hair? My taste runs more toward tall brunettes. Distracting myself was going to be damn hard, considering the little tic of worry tugging right now at the corner of her eye, her hands nervously rolling the strap on her carry-on bag, and the pallor of her already pale skin. Mummified aliens, shifty-eyed sheriffs and corrupt coroners she could take in stride, but my new partner, the physics major, was afraid to fly. I was enchanted against my will at this dichotomy, and I could not let her suffer without some support. "Hey, Scully, why don't we sit over here; there's a news stand and I can smell the coffee all the way over here. How about a tall one to go?" "Thanks, Agent Mulder, but coffee's the last thing I need." She smiled weakly, acknowledging, without words, her heightened nerves. "How do you usually handle this?" I asked her, my psychologist's mind already sifting through years of study for the perfect course of therapy. She shot me an exasperated, knowing look. "If I have to fly, I take some Benadryl and try to sleep." "It doesn't work, does it?" "No. I have to fly the plane along with the pilot. I have to stay awake." "Control." I nodded my head sagely, and I watched her eyes roll at my soap-opera psychology. "Yeah, it's control," she admitted, and all of a sudden the situation grew tense. "I know the statistics, I understand the physics. Hell, I can prove Bernoulli's principle to you on that paper napkin. I know the pilots are just as interested in their safety as my own, and I know the plane is being inspected and is almost certainly being well- maintained. But I'm still not comfortable with it." "Is it death that you fear? Or pain?" I prodded her psyche with my question. She glared at me, but then her eyes softened, and she said, "I'm a scientist. I trust fact and evidence-at-hand. The tangible reassures me." She fingered a small gold cross hanging around her neck, and her expression grew sad. She began speaking, but I got the feeling she was talking to herself, not me. "I used to trust in God and angels. I used to trust in the goodness of human nature. I used to believe my dad could do no wrong, and that justice always prevailed. But then I grew up." The intangible air between us rippled with her sorrow, and I felt another tug on my heart at this display of artless confession. She continued. "I know what my mother believes, what my religious upbringing assures me, and I know what I want to believe." She glanced at me, willing me to see the link between her words and my midnight confessions about Samantha. "But belief comes harder and harder as I age, as I see inhumanity all around me. I don't want to fear death; my heart tells me there is nothing to fear, but my brain is asking for proof." Her voice drifted off, and I felt the mood in the air change yet again. It appeared that confession time was over. I gave her my best smile, and patted her hand perfunctorily. "I've got your back, partner. Let me fly this one for you, and you get some sleep." She regarded me doubtfully, and then we were boarding the plane, hearing the safety spiel, and clicking our seat belts. She smiled humorlessly as the attendant told us about those oxygen masks ? unpressurized, my mind supplied, and therefore useless at cruising altitude. I held her hand during take-off; she wrenched it away when we leveled off, but her face told me she was grateful. I really have a positive feeling about this partnership. She's got a lot of integrity and drive to go with her impressive intellect. She's a little stiff, a little cagey, but she's not the first person I've met that has those issues. Look at the guys. A few minutes later, I was startled when she dropped her rolled up jacket over my leg. She toed off her shoes and curled up, taking up most of the two inner seats, and put her head down on the jacket without a word. I was astounded when she fell asleep almost immediately. For the entire flight, I held myself as still and unmoving as I could, and she slept on, her breathing deep and her eyelids rippling gently with her dreams. I trusted her with the story of my sister, and she was giving me her trust, in return, by sleeping while we were in the air. Positive acceleration was overcoming drag and lift was achieved, overcoming gravity. Ladies and gentlemen, I do believe this partnership is airborne. I've always appreciated Bernoulli. The End