This story was inspired by a song. It is intended to be a comedy, not be "true-to-life" or "realistic" fanfic (is there such a thing?). No Mulder-Scully romance, no X-File, not even any angst (except maybe for the character I invented...like you care about *him*). *Spoilers: none *Warnings: none (maybe a silliness warning; maybe bad writing?) *Ratings: no MSR, no X-File, No M/S angst (still want to read it?) I would suggest you ready a copy of the song "Motoreyes", by Jethro Tull (it's on the "20 Years" compilation for sure); there's a copy of it in the story, but ya can't dance to it . Play it at the appropriate time in the story (you'll know when), and read along. The music adds so much to the words, and was just as inspiring for me in the writing of this story. Besides...TULL RULES! IAN ANDERSON IS A GOD! Disclaimer: Dana Scully is owned by Chris Carter/Ten Thirten Productions, and/or FOX Broadcasting. I just "borrowed" her for this story, without permission; no copyright infringement is intended. No monetary profit was or will be made from this story. Dana Scully may bear no resemblence to CC's original vision (you know fanfic), and if so, my advance apologies to Mr. Carter, Gillian Anderson, and the X-Philes who hold this character so dear.....I'm trying/learning. (READ: "feedback appriciated") (And this one is a kind of parody/comedy anyway) Additional disclaimer: the song "Motoreyes" is copyrighted by Ian Anderson/Jethro Tull/Chrysalis Records...or *some* other person or organiation other than me! I just thought I'd borrow it. Motoreyes: The Secret Life of Dana Scully By Blackwood (Kimberlee Simmons) blackwood13@yahoo.com ==================================================================== There she was, sitting at the back table. Her hair, a swirl of fire fashioned into an elegant knot with a few flowing tendrils escaping the confines of the golden clasp that held most of it, was a beacon to him. He wound his way through the crowd towards her. She was smoking one of those small ladies cigars, and the smoke encircled her, veiling her face. Her could hear her laugh at some joke. It was the sound of delicately spun gold: bright, pure, and facinating to all who were near it. He stopped at a small empty table and sat down, content for now to simply watch her. He had first seen her a few weeks ago, as he was driving home from work in the early morning hours. He pulled up at a stop light, when a car drew up beside him; she was driving. The car, elegant and classic, just like her, was a 1960 Mercedes Benz 300SL convertable, painted the Mercedes Benz trademark color: cream white. The interior was loaded, with white leather upholstery, real wood trim...the works. She was wearing a white dress that night, with her hair and the convertable top both down. She flashed him a brilliant smile, blue eyes snapping a challenge.....and he just sat there in his 1988 Mustang (with Bondo all over it), dumbfounded. Then, with the change of the light and a peal of laughter, she was gone. The next time he saw her he was on duty, undercover in a club like this one: elegant, shiek, and private. He was trying to track down a cocaine connection, and this was his first undercover assignment. One of his informants had been able to get him into the club. When he had settled himself at the bar, he had noticed a small crowd gathered on the far side of the club, and at it's center was a small woman with vibrant red hair. Her eyes were the color of aquamarines, her skin was smooth and pale, and her mouth a soft red petal, set in perfect symetry on this jewel of a woman. And ever since, he had been enchanted. He watched her, trying not to stare, trying to be casual. A crowd of regular admirers encircled her like a protective moat, through which he would have to wade to get to her. He did not know *how* to approach her. He smiled a small, bitter smile; this had never a problem before. Women were usually taken in by his wit, his innate charm, if not his looks (his ears had always been a little large for his own taste), when he had time for any socializing at all. And he always made it clear that he was not interested in anything serious or anything permenent with every woman he became involved with. After all, the job had to come first. She got up from her chair, and he watched as she came towards him; she headed to the ladies room. As she passed, he admired her grace...her seeming nonchalance at all the attention she garnered at her passing. Her very movements were languid and relaxed, yet she was full of an energy that was revealed by gazing into her bright, watchful, sensual eyes. Those eyes. They held him, drew him in, and bound him. He remembered his first sight of her, those eyes wide and wild, as she pulled up to the stop light next to him. That car of hers, tuned perfectly, purring like a cat beneath her. As she turned to look at him, he felt frozen, like a deer held in the headlights of a car. And he could tell, the look in her eyes was due to the excitement of the powerful motor at her command. She was breathing quickly, and her eyes were bright, large, and shining; motoreyes. She returned, passing his table again. He sighed softly. Stopping the waiter who attended her table, and asked what the lady was drinking. "She *was* drinking whisky, sir, but she's switched to coffee, black." Smiling, he ordered a coffee for her, and, suddenly shy and nervous, stood to leave. As he turned, heading for the door, she caught his eye; she raised her coffee cup to him, nodded with sublime grace, and returned her attentions to the speaker at her table. Flattered, and strangly satisfied, he left. Two weeks later. He was in a patrol car, unmarked, on traffic duty. His foul-up with the cocaine ring didn't go down well at headquarters. This was his punnishment. He sighed, taking a deep drag on the cigarette. He perfunctually looked up and down the wide avenue he was well hidden from, but that he could see easily from the angle and shadows the alley afforded him. The billboards and neon signs lined the roadway, barraging the driver with so much visual stimulation that he wondered how anyone could keep an eye on the road. He smiled, remembering Washington's citizens, and wondered no more. It was not late; the better eateries and bars were preparing themselves for the after-the-show crowd on a friday night. The traffic would begin to thicken soon, so he snuffed out the cigarette, put the lid on his coffee cup, and reached for the radio to check in. Then, he saw her. She raced past him; instinctually, he pursued. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Out on the fast and free way, humming along through a build-up ad-man's dream. Steaking past in a cloud of spray goes the high-performance motor queen. And she looks round at me reflecting neon in her motoreyes. And now the chase is on. I know who'll be the loser --- me. See the end curve coming, then we're back on the street through the late theater crowds. And the stop lights go and we're cruising side by side still humming loud. And she looks round again --- her motoreyes going to tell me when. Put her right foot to the floor. Shows me she's no slow woman. She takes her cafe noir, smokes small cigars showing just a touch of thigh (sigh!). And sips her whiskey straight, and she stays up late to kiss the morning bye-bye. Now we're out of town, going to shake her down if I can stay along. got my blue light on, put her in the net with my siren song. Pulls over to the side --- her motoreyes are staring wide. She flashes her I.D., and makes a bigger fool of me. -------------------------------------------------------------------- He stood where he had been when she had showed him her badge and I.D.; she could have knocked him over with a feather at that point as she peeled out, just a bit, from the side of the road. She headed back into town. So, that was an F.B.I. agent. He shook his head. She *had* to be undercover. She had to be. He recalled the picture on the I.D.; calm, steady, serious. Obviously the same woman, but with a different fire from the one he was used to. No motoreyes. Walking back to his car, he flushed again, the memory of her wide-eyes suddenly looking wicked--as if *she* had captured *him*--as she flashed the badge at him. And as he shut off the lights that announced him as an officer of the law, he realized he *had* been captured, in many differnt ways, as he imagined many other men in Washington D.C. had been.....to what ends he did not know, but he was sure that F.B.I. Special Agent Dana Scully would not keep him--or any of her other enamored "captives"--waiting too long for the answer. The End. Please, send feedback on at *least* my style. I'm new at stories, need all the help I can get! Thanx! Kim blackwood13@yahoo.com