From: msrxfiles@aol.com (MSR XFiles) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: My Wild Irish Rose 1/1 Date: 16 Mar 1996 23:16:50 -0500 Nice little St. Patrick's Day gift for you all . . . comments can be sent to me at dettiot@udel.edu. Hope you all like it-thanks go to Amy, for reading this!! This is my response to Mary Kate's challenge for a St. Patrick's Day story. I intended for this to be more funny, but what came out was an introspective piece into Mulder and Scully's relationship, with some Mulderangst thrown in. Hope you enjoy it. Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to CC, the Big Karterhuna according to Ra, Ten Thirteen Productions, and Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended. My Wild Irish Rose By Melissa(dettiot@udel.edu) March 17, 1996 9:36 pm Fox Mulder grimaced a little. He had always thought St. Patrick's Day was a meaningless holiday. As a child, it bridged the gap between Valentine's Day and Easter. As an adult, it had become a day on which you could get drunk with a reason. Not that you really needed a reason to get drunk in the first place; but sometimes it made explaining your condition easier. He navigated through the streets, trying to avoid the drunken partiers as he did his usual three mile jog. He definitely should have run this morning, instead of waiting for tonight. But he had slept late that morning, because he had dreamed one of his nightmares . . . the one with Scully. Slowing, he approached the small public park near his apartment. With the air unseasonably warm, he decided to take advantage of it and spend a few minutes just sitting. his mind silently added with a chuckle. But as he thought about his nightmare, he couldn't help shuddering. It was the one that had haunted him since Scully's return: men in scrubs, taking her away again, performing experiments on her, placing another, better-hidden implant in her neck. While he watched, screaming until he was hoarse, struggling until he raised bruises on his arms and legs. He would always wake up at the same point: her eyes, beautifully blue, would open, with pain reflected from them. She would turn her head to look at him, without blame, but with only fear and hurt. And he would wake up, almost sobbing, from the sadness and the rage that thudded in his chest. Sighing, he pulled himself up and tried to think of something else as he covered the few steps from the park to his apartment building. He smiled at the thought of Scully with green hair, although he knew she would look awful. Suddenly, the full implication of that thought hit him: why did he think that green hair would make her look horrible? Even if her skin was green, she would still be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. his mind warned him as he pulled his key out of the pocket of his shorts. He sighed, conceding to that wisdom. He quickly unlocked the door to his apartment, intent on getting a shower. As he entered his apartment, he saw the light on his answering machine flickering. Hitting the button, he was moving towards the kitchen to get some water when loud music poured out of the tiny speaker, and an even louder voice. He froze when he recognized the voice, before moving to stand in front of the machine in disbelief. "Hey, Mulder!! It's me . . . .you know, Scully." Her last three words were slightly slurred. "I guess you're not home . . . otherwise you'd be talking to me now, huh? I'd call you on your cellular, but I forgot the number. Silly me." He could hear a little giggle. "Well, happy St. Patrick's Day, Mulder. I'll see you." As the tape rewound, Mulder felt himself sink onto the couch. Scully, drunk, probably at a party. He had no idea that she was doing anything tonight; the subject hadn't come up during a day marked with uneasy silence over another disagreement. A disagreement about a case that was the last in a long series of arguments. But she had obviously had plans . . . to go partying on St. Patrick's Day, which meant drinking. He let himself think for a minute about a drunk Scully. Would she become sleepy and clinging, or wild or exuberant? Would she be quiet, or flirt with any man around? He tried to ignore the horrible jealous feeling that was sweeping over him. There was no reason for it: they had never said anything that committed themselves to the other. In fact, there was a commitment not to say anything. In their situation, a crossing of the line would only cause more problems than it was worth. His mind protested. But he tamped down those thoughts, to only decide to call her. Just to check up on her, he told himself. Then why did his hands shake a little when he picked up the phone? He quickly dialed her home number. He heard the phone ring seven times, before her answering machine picked up. He quickly pushed the disconnect button, and dialed her cellular number. Just as he was about to hang up and try her mother's house, he heard Scully's voice. "Now who is calling me on my cellular. Wait, it's gotta be Mulder. Hi Mulder." Her voice still held the vestiges of drunkenness. He felt his jaw drop, but pulled it up and answered her. "Yeah, Scully, it's me. You called me." "Yeah, I did. Now why did I call you? Oh, well, I forget. Hey, you know what I'm doing?" He could almost hear the grin in her voice. "No, what's happening?" he asked, feeling his heart constrict a little. "I'm at my mom's house. Every couple of years, we have a St. Patrick's Day party-you know, being Irish and all. And you know what else? I'm drunk." He could almost feel the hand that was holding his heart and squeezing it even more. He wished, more than almost anything, to be with her. Just to see what she was like when she was relaxed and casual. Somehow, he managed to say, "Really?" She giggled. "Yeah, really. Hey, you wanna come get me? I drove here-I wasn't gonna drink anything-cause I'm Saint Dana Katherine. I was only gonna have one drink, but my glass never got empty. Don't want to worry my mom, either-it's her party, she shouldn't have to drive me home." Another giggle. Mulder ignored the rational part of his mind that assured him that Scully could have gotten a ride from her mother or anyone else at the party. Instead, he focused on his partner, who was drunk and giggling, two states he had never seen her in. Before he thought too much about it, he said "Sure, Scully. Hold tight-I'll be there as soon as I can. Okay? You don't go anywhere, you understand." Her voice sounded puzzled and tired. "Sure, Mulder. I'll probably take a nap-I feel sleepy." She hung up, leaving Mulder feeling unsteady, like he had just gotten off a carousel. Hanging up the phone, he picked up his keys and grabbed a jacket before leaving his apartment. ************************** Maryland 11:21 pm He pulled up in front of Mrs. Scully's house. There were only a few lights lit-obviously the party had broken up pretty early. He quickly walked to the front door, ignoring all the thoughts that had been circulating in his head since he had heard Scully's message. He knocked on the door, hoping to be able to get through this without ruining everything between them. Mrs. Scully opened the door, a big smile on her face. "Fox! It's nice to see you. And happy St. Patrick's Day, of course." He smiled, unable to resist. Mrs. Scully was the only person outside his own family that called him Fox-and he didn't mind. He had wondered once about what that meant, but had quickly rejected what he wanted it to mean. Realizing he was standing on her doorstep smiling like an idiot, he tried to compose himself. "Um, Scully called me-it sounded like she tied a few on tonight." Mrs. Scully's face lit up, a grin spreading across her mouth. "Well, yes, Dana was in rare form tonight. You should have seen her." At that comment, he could only smile again. He had often thought Mrs. Scully was psychic-after all, she had just read his thoughts and seen his wish. She beckoned him inside, leading him to the large living room that dominated much of the first floor of the house. As he walked inside the darkened room, he looked around for Scully, spotting her on a couch in the corner of the room. He felt his heart thud a little. She was asleep, and looked like an angel. The dress she was wearing was pretty-nothing too formal, but in the little light in the room, he could tell that it clung slightly to her small figure, its bright green color emphasizing that brilliant red hair. He restrained himself once again, and knelt beside her. Hesitating from waking her for just a moment, he forgot that Mrs. Scully was in the background of the room. Leaning close to her, he watched her sleep for a minute, her deep breathing sounding peaceful and relaxed. Then, he shook her shoulder, waking her gently, but not as gently as he had at other times. "Scully?" he asked, his voice low. She woke with a start, her eyes flashing open. She gave him a wide smile-not much different from the one that he knew he had missed in Alaska, but this one almost made up for it. She pushed herself to a sitting position, still smiling. "Hiya, Mulder. How ya doing?" He couldn't help another smile from crossing his face. Despite her nap, the alcohol was still present in her system. She would have done her Navy father proud. Not dwelling too much on the thought of her father, and the affect of his death on her, he looked at her. She was going to be a handful-she had what only could be called a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Hey, Scully. Looks like you had some fun tonight," he commented, observing the disarrayed living room. Scully frowned, looking confused. "I guess so-hey, how d'you know? You weren't here!" Mulder shook his head. "Come on Scully, time to get you home." He slipped his arm around her as she stood unsteadily. "Easy, Scully. Those heels will kill you if you try to walk fast." "Oh, yeah? Well, you try walking in them sober, and see how well you do," Scully shot back quickly. He almost laughed out loud, enjoying the different nuances of Scully that had appeared with the addition of-he quickly sniffed her breath-Irish whiskey, what else? He somehow managed to navigate her to his car, nodding goodbye to Mrs. Scully. He was so caught up in making Scully walk that he didn't notice Mrs. Scully's silent, approving look at her daughter and the man taking her home. ***************************** Somewhere else in Maryland 12:11 pm "Okay, Scully, end of the road," Mulder said, not without a touch of thankfulness. Scully had been teasing and laughing the whole ride to her house. At this point, he thought it was a good thing that he hadn't been at the party-this new Dana Scully would have been too much to resist. "What road, Mulder?" She collapsed into giggles at her inane statement. Mulder wished once again that she wouldn't laugh like that. The giggles that came from her perfect mouth sounded so wonderful; not high-pitched or childish, but deep, musical, and undeniably sexy. he thought, his mind boggled by all the possibilities that were within Dana Scully. Possibilities that he didn't know existed, but now had taken a firm grip in his imagination, fueling the feelings for her that had been running rampant all night. He quickly opened his car door, desperate to get out of the small car. Taking a deep breath of fresh, cool air, he opened the passenger side door. "Come on Scully, let's get you inside." This time, she laughed, instead of giggled, and put her arms around his neck. From under her lashes, she looked up at him, and smiled her killer smile again. Mulder somehow pulled Scully out of the car, almost dragging her up the sidewalk to her apartment building. He had to get her inside and in bed before he lost all control, resolve, and sense and did something he would always regret. "Oh, Mulder, don't be a stick in the mud. Hey, you wanna sing? My father always sang a song when he was drunk-the same song. I think it was the only Irish song he knew." She hiccupped, and continued. "You know the words to 'My Wild Irish Rose'?" Mulder almost groaned. "No, Scully, let's not sing. You'd wake people up, I think." She stopped, looking at him very indignantly. "What, you think I can't sing? I'll show you!" And in the sweetest voice he had ever heard, she began singing the words to the old Irish song. He did know the words . . . had learned them in England, and had thought, more than once, how well they fit Scully. "My wild Irish rose, the sweetest flower that grows. I've searched everywhere, but none can compare, to my wild Irish rose." As Scully finished the chorus, she grinned at him. "See? And I wasn't even loud." She slowly opened the door to the building and disappeared inside, leaving Mulder outside. By the time he had recovered his wits enough to follow her, she was at the door to her apartment. She was fumbling with her keys, trying to unlock it. Impatiently, he unlocked the door himself and pushed her inside, missing the infuriated expression on her face. "Come on Scully, you need to get some sleep." Suddenly, she whirled around, pointing her finger at him. "Listen here, Fox William Mulder. I am a big girl-I am thirty-two years old. And yes, I am intoxicated, but I still have my common sense. And you don't have to boss me around like a child! I can do anything I want, because I'm perfectly capable of doing so!" And with that, she pulled his head down and kissed him. Although his mind told him it was the alcohol, his heart couldn't help leaping at the feel of her lips. Soft, smooth, and full, they wrapped around his mouth, leaving him powerless to resist. Her hands were twisted in the hair at the back of his neck, and her fingertips, resting against his skin, sent chills through him. He fuzzily realized that he had wrapped his arms around her waist. Suddenly, she pulled away, a large grin on her face. "See? Showed you." And with that comment, she walked into her bedroom, shutting the door securely. Mulder felt his world crumble. She was still drunk, and the kiss had meant nothing to her. In the morning, she probably wouldn't even remember anything . . . which is what he had to do as well. Forget this whole night ever happened. Never mind that he'd never be able to totally forget the taste, the feel of her lips. he told himself as he quietly left Dana's apartment. And as he pulled the door closed behind him, he could hear Dana's voice again. Singing. "My wild Irish rose, the sweetest flower that grows. I've searched everywhere, but none can compare, to my wild Irish rose." End Melissa Rabey msrxfiles@aol.com, dettiot@udel.edu SYX #257, LGW #52, NSA, One of US, EMXC, EP, M&S, XAngst Anonymous, Creator of AGML, XFiles Fanfictioneer "Time is definitely not an universal invariant in *my* zip code!" From: msrxfiles@aol.com (MSR XFiles) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW-Taking You Home 1/1 Date: 11 Apr 1996 01:15:59 -0400 Well, I'm post-happy tonight . . . This is the sequel to My Wild Irish Rose-I recommend reading that before reading this. My Wild Irish Rose is at the Gossamer archive. Please send any comments to me at dettiot@udel.edu. Thanks a lot . . . Melissa Well, I didn't intend for My Wild Irish Rose to have a sequel, but since everyone was nice enough to ask for one. . . Anyways, this is from Scully's perspective, the day after St. Patrick's Day. I didn't mean for it to be this long, since the original story was relatively short, but hey, you can never get enough angst . . . right??? As usual, there's a relationship warning on this one-you were expecting something else? Anyways, hope you all enjoy it-comments will be gratefully accepted at dettiot@udel.edu. Thanks go to Amy(of course), for reading this, and to Char, for catching what would have been a major error-thanks a lot, you guys! Disclaimer: Since my name isn't Chris Carter, I can't say that I own Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, the X-Files, or any other people that he may own. However, this is a good thing: I don't have responsibility for "Syzygy." No copyright infringement is intended. Taking You Home By Melissa(dettiot@udel.edu) March 18, 1996 6:38 am She would open her eyes, but her eyelids were too heavy. Dana Scully didn't drink much. The odd glass of white wine after a long day, or champagne on special occasions. Rarely did she drink anything stronger than wine. But from the way she felt, she could only have drunk a massive amount of alcohol, and of the non-wine variety. She sighed a little, trying to think. She couldn't remember much, which was one of the reasons she didn't drink much. For some reason, whenever she drank, she was lucky if she remembered the barest outline of what had occurred. But last night was a total blank to her--she had no idea what she had drank, what she had done, or how she had gotten home. At first, Dana hadn't planned on going to her mother's traditional St. Patrick's Day party. It would mean being with a lot of happy, drunk people, most of whom didn't expect her to drink. But after another long day at the office, after another argument with Mulder, she had impulsively decided to go. Still, she had fooled herself into thinking that she didn't have to have anything to drink. She could clearly remember her line of thought: But somehow, she had gotten toasted. she thought, and almost chuckled despite her headache. Ignoring the familiar sound of the statement, Dana began the necessarily slow process of waking up with a hangover. With slow motions, she managed to get up and move towards the bathroom to "assess the damages," as a college roommate had always put it. With lank hair, dark circles under her eyes, and extremely pale skin, the "damages" were extensive. Sighing a little, she started the shower, giving the old pipes time to work, while she went to get some aspirin and orange juice. ******************** 9:16 am As the taxi dropped her off in front of the Hoover Building, Dana reminded herself never to drink on a week night again. she chided herself. Still, the hot shower and light breakfast had worked almost-wonders; she felt as human as anyone could. As she crossed the lobby to wait for the elevator, she idly wondered about what had happened last night. She knew that she would not have driven home from her mother's; not only was it against her nature to drive drunk, but her car wasn't in the small parking lot behind her building. she mused. As the elevator's doors opened, she shrugged her shoulders, content for now with not knowing. *********************** Fox Mulder gulped the last third of his second cup of coffee, and poured himself another cup. He hadn't gotten any sleep last night, and the caffeine was helping him maintain a veneer of wakefulness. All he had to do was stay awake long enough to get through the day, and he could go home, crash on his couch, and let his exhaustion trigger the sleep that had deserted him the night before. The night before, when he had escorted a very drunk Dana Katherine Scully home. A very drunk Dana Katherine who had kissed him. He sighed, running his hand through his hair. That was the reason he'd been unable to sleep all last night. He had spent the early evening hours of St. Patrick's Day thinking about Scully, especially after she had called him from her mother's house. But it was when he had seen her, comfortable and charming even in drunkenness, that he knew that the emotions she stirred within him were real. They couldn't be passed off as aberrations any longer; it would be foolish to do so especially after the way he reacted when she had kissed him. Yes, she had kissed him in her haze, and he had enjoyed it. He had forgotten that she was drunk, and had allowed himself to respond, to make-believe that she wanted it as much as he did. But when she had pulled away, he felt his dreams shatter. And he then began repeating his new mantra, clinging to it more than "I want to believe": "It didn't mean anything." ************************** As Dana entered the small basement office, she wrinkled her nose at the strong coffee odor. Even Mulder, who drank his coffee black, wouldn't have drunk the tar that gave off that smell. Sighing a little, she went ahead and poured herself a cup, and had dropped her briefcase gently on her desk before she realized that Mulder was at his desk. She blushed a little. "Oh, good morning Mulder. I didn't even see you. Did you have a nice St. Patrick's Day night?" She couldn't help grinning a little at the silly statement. But instead of returning her smile with a grin and a flippant remark, Mulder merely looked at her silently. Instantly, her suspicions were raised. She took a close look at Mulder, and wondered to herself if maybe he had spent the night looking through the bottom of a glass as well. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his suit was hopelessly rumpled, his hair was standing straight on end, and he obviously hadn't shaved. In short, he looked like hell. "Mulder? You okay? It looks like you joined in the spirit of the holiday last night," she said, using the only reasonable explanation she could find for his appearance. She saw him grimace a little, and then, a small, sad smile flitted across his lips. "Yeah, Scully, something like that. How about you?" Pushing aside her curiosity over his mood, she breezily answered, "Well, I went to my mom's St. Patrick's Day party-had a very good time, in fact. Too good, I guess-I woke up with a hangover you wouldn't believe." As she moved around her desk to turn on her computer, her back to Mulder, she thought she heard him mutter something that sounded like "Oh, I'd believe it." ******************************* 11:21 am Mulder felt like he was hanging by a gossamer-thin rope that was ready to snap. When Scully had first walked in, he had only been able to think of the kiss. Now, he could only think how good she looked, despite the hangover he knew she was fighting. He knew that he looked like crap--he had barely been able to get dressed this morning. And now, he was forced to sit in the small, incredibly cramped office with his partner, who just happened to have kissed him last night while in a drunken stupor. And she apparently didn't remember any of it--she had said that whenever she drank, she didn't remember anything that happened. So he had a decision to make. He could forget about it, letting the memory of that kiss warm the corners of his heart whenever things got too hard, whenever the nightmares got too close . . . or he could tell her everything, and have her leave him. But he couldn't make that decision. He sighed, knowing that either way, his dreams would never come true. Suddenly, he was unable to stand being in the minuscule office any longer. With a quick "Going to lunch" he almost ran out of the building. As he walked towards his car, Mulder couldn't help hoping that things would work out. But with another sigh, he told himself, Scully stared at Mulder as he sprinted out of the room. He had been acting strange all morning; he seemed so distracted, but anytime she looked in his direction, he was staring at a file like it held the answer to the mystery of life. She didn't understand . . .it felt like Mulder wasn't telling her something, but she had no idea what would make him hold back. Sighing, she decided to find out what was in that file that had interested Mulder so much. In many ways, crossing from her desk to Mulder's was like walking across an invisible line, separating the plausible from the possible. The neat orderliness of her own desk and compact work space was in great contrast with Mulder's messy desk-- she thought with a grin. But the greatest difference was the personality that invaded the office--all Mulder. While most people's homes were the reflection of their personal traits and quirks, the cramped X-Files office was Mulder's home. Shaking off her odd mood, Dana sat in Mulder's chair and opened the file that was on top of the pile. As she read the case description-a possible mutation resulting in trout attacking fishermen in Oregon-she was reminded of their first case. It was funny-every time she saw that they were going to Oregon, she always had the little hope that time could turn back and they could return to the strange closeness that had formed between them on that case. Dana frowned. Ever since that first case, their relationship, both personal and professional, had experienced ups and downs. In many ways, they had become closer, going through unexpected dangers, becoming even stronger. But she had never understood why she thought of that first case with such fondness, almost like a girl remembering her first kiss. In a dreamy mood, she leaned back in Mulder's chair, her head resting against the back. As she slowly breathed, she realized that she could smell Mulder: his aftershave, coffee, and sunflower seeds that combined to trigger the mental image of him. She couldn't help looking up and around, almost guiltily, as if her thoughts were no longer her own. For she never wanted to admit, even to herself, that she found Mulder . . . attractive. Somehow, the little things about him, his eyes, his small half-smile, his quirks . . . they all combined to make her feel slightly light-headed whenever he moved close towards her. Giving in, just this once, she allowed her head to lower back onto the headrest, and inhaled again. Suddenly, her eyes opened wide. Her thoughts were paralyzed as a series of images leaped to her mind: singing on the path to her apartment; yelling at Mulder; moving close to him. And the clearest memory . . . kissing him. **************************** 1:02 pm Mulder tried to feel guilty about leaving the office, but he couldn't. He could only think about how his gut had wrenched when she had breezily walked in, that tiny maddening smile on her face. The one that gave her the title "the enigmatic Dr. Scully." The one that made him love her a little bit more. He raised his glass and ignored the sting of the whiskey, trying to enjoy his liquid lunch. He hated this; drinking this much only made him think of his father. But he had to forget about Scully, had to put last night into the past. And if booze would help the way a little, he'd do it. He'd do anything to forget the way her lips had felt on his, because it hurt too much to know that it would be the last and only time it would happen. The last time that he would feel such happiness. **************************** Her hands shaking, she somehow dialed her mother's house. She was still reeling from her memory . . . how could she have done something like that? It was so unlike her. And what would this mean for their partnership? With a sense of impending doom, she waited for her mother to pick up, only to get the cheerful sound of the answering machine's message. She hung up, cursing. she said to herself, feeling a strange desperation clutch at her heart. She had to find Mulder, had to find out what happened, had to find out how he felt . . . As that thought pounded in her head and her eyes watered slightly, she grabbed her coat and purse, to find Mulder. She checked his apartment, her apartment, and even drove to her mother's house. She felt like she was on a wild goose chase--Washington was a huge metro area, and he could be anywhere in a fifty-mile vicinity by this time. Dana felt hope slip away. Hope for what, she didn't know, but as she drove in circles, she only feared the worst. Like a flash, she got an idea--a long shot, but where else could he be? Ignoring the fact that she was already crazy, she drove to the small bar she knew that he liked. ********************** 4:37 pm Mulder had long ago stopped seriously drinking, because he had become too drunk to hold the glass very well. He sat at the bar, silently nursing the same drink he had ordered forty-five minutes ago. He knew he would have to take a cab home at this point, because there was no one he could call to take him home. No one. With irritation, he realized that someone had sat next him. Through a blurry haze, he turned to ask the person to kindly move over, because whoever it was, it was sitting a little too close for his liking. And as he turned, he saw a gleam of red. It was Scully. Dana sat quietly on the stool, looking at him. He looked even worse than he had that morning. But he could-and was-giving her jitters. She waited till he noticed her, before casually asking, "Come here often?" He gave a snort, and said, "Nope-could say the same for you, too, Scully," his voice husky with the influence of the alcohol. She hesitated, wondering if this was the right time, much less the right place, to talk to him. Somehow, the dim lights, thick smoke, and loud music, did not strike her as the best setting for a serious talk between two work partners. Then, with a sigh, she mentally shrugged her shoulders. "Come on Mulder, let's get you home," she said, taking his arm. He yanked away from her, and then wobbled on his stool. As quickly as she could, Dana moved around behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders to steady him. She felt him tense, his shoulders inching upwards. When he spoke, his voice was low and slurred. "Go home Scully . . . I'll be fine." She ignored her own curiosity and flippantly replied, "Isn't that my line?" as she pulled him off the stool. "Come on--there's no way I'm going to leave you here by yourself. I'm taking you home." At the sound of her words, he whirled around, his eyes large and sad. He opened his mouth like he was going to speak, but deciding against it, merely shook his head. Dana was getting ready to argue when he grabbed her arm and dragged her towards one of the booths in the back. In the dark booth, the noise was muffled somewhat, and at least the smoke was less noticeable. Dana slid into the seat next to him and wondered why Mulder had made them stay in the bar, instead of letting her take him home. She decided to skirt the issue for now. "Didn't see much of you today," she said, trying to keep her voice light. "I know with the hangover, I wasn't exactly a beauty queen this morning, but I'm sure I'm not so repulsive that you have to go out and get loaded to be around me." He gazed at her blearily, then reached out and with one finger, traced her cheekbone. "Ya know you're beautiful, Scully. You were beautiful this morning, and you were beautiful last night." She was surprised-last night? "You saw me last night?" she said. Mulder slowly nodded his head, and let his hand drop. "Yep, I saw you-in fact, I was the one who brought you home. Ya called me, and giggled. Never heard that before." She almost blushed, over a little thing like giggling. Well, never let it be said that she was a morose drunk. But it did help put the pieces together-she must have called Mulder during the party, and he was the one who got her home. She felt a sudden wave of tenderness for him; her mother's house was at least twenty-five miles from Mulder's apartment, but he had driven there to take her home. But what about her memory of kissing him? She still didn't understand how that had happened. She decided to be direct--in his condition, Mulder could only tell her the truth. "Mulder?" He was staring at the table top, entranced. Raising her voice a little, she called, "Mulder!" His head shot up, his bloodshot, beautiful eyes looking at her. "Mulder, did anything . . . happen between us last night?" she asked, keeping her voice quiet as she died inside for having to ask him. He looked confused, then a small amount of recognition dawned. "Oh, yeah, you don't remember. Well, I drove you home, and you sang 'My Wild Irish Rose,' and you kissed me." Dana leaned back against the booth's tattered cushions and closed her eyes, willing herself to remain calm. When she opened her eyes, Mulder was staring at her. She felt so horrible . . . she had crossed the line between them, and even though she had been drunk, they couldn't explain it away and forget about it. Simply the breaking of that boundary had changed everything. Even if they hadn't loved each other, it would have altered things. But she knew she loved him, and with the way he was looking at her . . . Her own thoughts were interrupted by Mulder. "Ya know, I was really surprised at you, Scully . . . never would have expected you to do that . . . dreamed about it, yeah, but never thought it would happen . . . I wanted it, you know . . . and I wanted to kiss you all morning, make you remember. But I couldn't, because we're partners . . . can't do things like that . . . " Dana felt her jaw drop. It was one thing to think that Mulder cared about her--it was something entirely different to know. She frowned a little, trying to think. Suddenly, she felt his finger on the corner of her mouth. She felt her stomach do the same somersault it did every time he touched her. With a gentle, teasing motion, he tugged at the corner of her mouth, trying to make her stop frowning. She looked at him now, Mulder, her partner, her best friend . . . and the person she was utterly in love with. That was why she had kissed him last night. Not because she was drunk, but because she loved him. And she could see the love in his sad eyes. He hadn't been trying to let her down easy-he had been trying to protect her, trying to make things easier for her. And though she hadn't thought it possible, her love grew for him even more. Somehow, a thought had invaded Mulder's soggy brain: Scully knew what had happened last night, but she hadn't hit him or asked for a transfer. Instead, she was sitting with him, with a dreamy expression on her face. Her face . . . he smoothed his hand over her face, moving from her mouth to her cheekbone. His finger, skittering towards her eye and then over her eyelid after her eyes had fluttered shut, brought forth a tiny smile on her lips. Tracing the line of her nose, he followed it down to her lips, and watched as his fingers lazily traced their curves. He could feel the haze lifting a little, and his head felt slightly clearer. But the feelings remained: he couldn't get enough of touching her. His eyes zeroed in on her lips, and he slowly saw them getting nearer to his own lips, as he leaned towards her. Dana thought she would die from pleasure, just from the simple movement of his finger over her face. Then, his attention had returned to her lips, and she had felt a spring of joy burst forth in her heart. She inched nearer to him on the booth's seat, as he leaned towards her. When his lips met hers, she remembered last night. Then, she had controlled the beginning and end of the kiss. But this time, Mulder claimed her mouth, and she could feel his every heartbeat. And as her arms reached up to hold him even closer, she heard the sound of a drunken customer singing, of all things, "My Wild Irish Rose." "My wild Irish rose, the sweetest flower that grows. I've searched everywhere, but none can compare, to my wild Irish rose." End Melissa Rabey msrxfiles@aol.com, dettiot@udel.edu SYX #257, LGW #52, NSA, One of US, EMXC, EP, M&S, XAngst Anonymous, Creator of AGML, XFiles Fanfictioneer "Time is definitely not an universal invariant in *my* zip code!"