From: lhoward388@aol.com
Date: Wed, 12 Jul 2000 18:48:45 EDT
Subject: xfc: Mystery Date (1 of 2)
Source: xfc

Title:  Mystery Date
Author: Agent L
Classification: S, UST, minor Mulderangst
Rating: PG for a couple of bad words
Spoilers: Small Potatoes 
Distribution: Archive anywhere, but keep my name and 
e-mail attached please! 
Disclaimer: To Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Fox:
I may be obsessed, but I know they're not mine. No infringement is intended.
Summary: Mulder wants to know what would have happened if he hadn't 
interrupted Eddie and Scully on the couch.
Author note: Small Potatoes is one of my all-time favorite episodes, 
and I thought a lighter story might be welcome amid all the post-Requiem 
angst.  
Feedback: Yes, please! LHoward388@aol.com. 


Mystery Date
    "I don't need to tell you this, Mulder, but you're not a loser."
    "Yeah...But I'm no Eddie van Blundht, either...Am I?"

I have, in the course of my illustrious career at the Federal Bureau 
of Investigation, faced giant flukeworms, all manner, color and 
temperament of aliens, mysterious clones with toxic green blood, 
and Mexican goatsuckers. But I have never been so terrified as when 
I burst through Dana Scully's door to see her about to kiss...

Me.

All right, not me. Another genetic mutant to add to the ever-growing list.=
 
A shape-shifting lump of a guy named Eddie van Blundht who stole 
my identity and almost stole my partner. They were both committing 
major invasions of each other's personal space -- which believe me, 
Scully holds nearly as sacred as her Hippocratic Oath -- about to 
liplock but for my timely intervention.
 
Timely? I'm still wondering about that, more than two weeks later. 
I can't get the scene out of my mind -- or more precisely, the image 
of Special Agent Scully as her kinder, gentler, alter ego Dana. 
They looked so cozy, she and I. 

Him.

Whatever.

I just can't help thinking what might have happened if I'd been 
thirty seconds later. Would she have done it? Would she have 
kissed me? Him? This is just the kind of situation my obsessive 
self loves to gnaw on, like a hyperactive puppy with a nice, 
meaty bone. We haven't talked about it, of course, other than 
in the formal context of making our statements and writing our 
reports -- not that that's unusual in our relationship, in which we 
discuss the hell out of everything except what really matters.

So when did this start to really matter? 

And does it matter more to me or to her? 

What if Eddie had turned himself into a Scully-clone? Would I 
have told "her" a few interesting little anecdotes about my high 
school days just before...My mind shudders and closes the door 
on that twisted scenario, and I better understand how Scully must 
have felt that night. No wonder she couldn't look me in the eye. 

I comfort myself with the smug thought that I, Special Agent Fox 
Mulder, would have known the difference. That's what hurts 
the most about this whole situation. She should have known it 
wasn't *me*. After everything we've been through together, does 
she still not know me at all?

I glance at the clock on my desk. 6 p.m. Normally only half way 
through my work day. But tonight I'm leaving early. Tonight I have 
a different sort of investigation to undertake. Tonight I'm going to 
find out what would happen if Scully and I -- I mean, Eddie -- 
hadn't been interrupted.

I need to know.
_________
Frohike says you can't count stakeouts as dates, so I guess my last 
real date was....uh...Well, that's beside the point. It's like riding a bike. 
The rituals are ingrained in us as early as high school. Hell, today 
junior high kids know more about sex than I do. Of course I didn't 
have much experience in high school and college -- skinny, shy, in 
therapy, and more interested in books than bustlines. Then I met 
Phoebe at Oxford and didn't look at anyone else until we broke up, 
at which point I swore off women for life. Besides, you couldn't 
really call what Phoebe and I did "dating."
 
So how to woo the fair Agent Scully?

Eddie brought wine. I remember seeing the bottle, but I don't 
know what kind it was. I don't even know what kind of wine 
Scully likes or if she likes wine at all. For all I know, Eddie drank 
the whole bottle himself. Okay, so maybe not wine. Candy. 
Chocolates. Except I can't remember ever seeing Scully with 
caramel on her lip from a Milky Way or smelling peanuts on her 
breath from a Snickers. 

Flowers. All women like flowers, right? I stop at a little corner 
florist near my apartment. The subtle shades and brilliant hues are 
dazzling, even to my color-blind eyes. From tiny star-shaped flowers 
in ceramic pots to regal lilies in crystal vases, the variety is nearly 
overwhelming. A young saleswoman, probably seeing the beads 
of sweat on my forehead and the dazed look in my eyes, pegs me 
as another unfortunate male in search of forgiveness for his latest trespass. 

If she only knew.

"May I help you sir?"

"Yes, I need some flowers." You have a gift for stating the 
obvious, Mulder.

She smiles, probably laughing on the inside at yet another hapless 
victim of the female conspiracy. Our shadow government could take 
some lessons from these complex, confusing creatures who change 
the rules for male behavior as often as they change their clothes. I have 
a sudden desire to run, to go find the alien bounty hunter or a crazed 
serial killer to battle -- anything but this. 

"Is it a special occasion?"

I consider the question. What defines special? Certainly this is the 
first time I've ever gone over to Scully's without a file c
lutched in my 
hand or in need of medical attention. I suppose that would qualify, 
so I nod.

"Any preferences? Does she like a particular kind of flower?" 

"Umm...I don't know." We've only been partners for five years, 
after all, and I don't know if she likes wine or chocolate, or if she's 
got some deadly allergy to a common flower. I don't know anything 
about this woman.

The assistant guides me around the store, carefully explaining the 
type of flowers and flowering plants as I nod dutifully, thinking I'll 
just make a break for it when she's distracted. Then I smell 
Scully's perfume. 

Roses. Red, white, pink, yellow, from buds to full blooms, the 
delicate petals as soft as her skin. After much discussion, we 
choose one perfect flower, which the florist assures me is a lovely 
shade of red, and we both sigh in relief as she wraps the delicate 
bloom in paper and I pay an exorbitant sum for something that 
will be dried up and dead in a matter of days. 

Still unsure about the wine, but feeling alcohol will probably be 
necessary at some point in the evening -- if not for her, then for me -- 
I stop at a liquor store and buy a six-pack of beer that I know Scully 
likes, feeling an inordinate sense of pride in this small victory 
of perception.

On the way over, I plot out the events of the evening. Step One: 
Get in the door. This may seem obvious, but sometimes it's not 
that easy. Scully is an incredibly private person, and while she'll
usually open the door for me because I'm her partner and friend, 
there have been nights we've had half hour conversations through 
the tiny gap allowed by the safety chain. She has her limits, even 
with me. 

Step Two: Offer rose and beer. Make small talk as drinks are 
poured. Small talk...My only consolation is that Scully is probably 
worse at it than I am. Nevertheless, not wanting to be at a 
disadvantage, I review some potential categories. Nothing like 
carefully planned spontaneity.

"How about those [insert name of sports team here]?"

"Nice weather, huh?" or the ever popular, "Hot enough/cold enough for you?"

"What's a nice girl like you doing with a loser like me?"

Shit.

All right, so I'll make it up as I go along. Not much different than 
the rest of my life.
 
So we move on to Step Three: Intimacy. The end result of my 
entire plan, the fruit of my labors, to find out just how far Dana 
Scully will go before her innate sense of duty or honor or common 
sense kicks in. To sneak over those barriers that Eddie managed 
to lower and take this evening to its inevitable conclusion. 
Not some high school make out session on the couch -- I respect 
her too much for that (although I wouldn't fight her if she insisted). 
Not even my ego is large enough to think she would allow herself 
to lose that much control, however. What I hope for is a new 
openness -- a shift in perspective -- an exploration of the territory 
beyond our rigidly controlled borders. 

Yeah, right. You don't even know what kind of wine she drinks. 
Face it. You're jealous. Someone played with your Scully doll 
and you need to re-establish your rights, mark your territory 
like some stray dog. 

Ah...a little more baggage for me to carry into the evening.

End Part 1

After cruising the neighborhood for a while, telling myself I'm 
looking for just the right parking space, I finally pull into a spot 
a few blocks from her apartment and hurry up to the apartment 
building, where I lean on the buzzer in my own charmingly 
obnoxious way.

"Yes?" She sounds pissed.

"Scully, it's me."

I recognize the sigh. It usually comes a few moments after I've 
just presented my latest flawless theory and just before she 
proceeds to tell me -- in the most logical and scientific of terms -- 
that I'm full of crap. Not an auspicious beginning.

The buzzer sounds for a generous three seconds and I take the 
stairs two at a time to her second floor apartment, where I tap 
on the door. She opens it to reveal a side of Scully I've never 
seen before. Her bright auburn hair is covered by a faded blue 
bandana and she's scrubbed off her make up, leaving her 
fresh-faced and freckled. She's wearing a loose man's flannel 
shirt and baggy jeans that are nearly white with wear. Her knee 
peeks out through a hole in the right leg. In her scruffy sneakers, 
she loses the height advantage of her two inch pumps, so she has 
to crane her neck to look up at me -- which in no way diminishes 
the force of her glare.

Oops.

I probably should have called first, but having never done so in 
the past, regardless of the hour, this unexpected concern for her 
privacy would probably have made her suspicious. My extremities 
in danger of frostbite,  I thrust the rose at her like a shield to 
protect me from the death-rays in those laser blue eyes.

Fortune smiles on me tonight, though, as does Scully -- a slight 
curve of her lips as she gazes at the flower and I find myself envious 
of that damned rose. If I were a smart man -- and I am, according 
to the various degrees on my office wall -- I would now quickly 
apologize for disturbing her and leave. Instead, lured by the danger, 
I dangle over the fence in the lion's den, poking at the female's nose.

"Hey, Scully."

"Mulder, what the hell are you doing here?" A growl, a snap -- 
but no blood drawn. 

"I - uh - I just thought we could talk."

She arches an elegant eyebrow. "About what?"

That's my Scully. Constant challenges, questions, never lets me 
get away with anything. When did I start finding this arousing 
instead of annoying? Unfortunately, my brilliant mind can't get 
itself unhooked from a rapturous meditation on the cleavage 
revealed by her oversized flannel shirt to give her a credible 
answer.

"Ummm...Did you ever get the reports back from Quantico 
on Eddie van Blundht, Sr.?"

That's good, Mulder, let's talk about work. Remind her that 
she's not only a scientist, but an FBI agent and that consorting 
with fellow agents is a no-no. Great foreplay, you sweet-talker, you.

She didn't actually issue an invitation, but she takes the rose as 
she turns away and heads into the living room, so I follow. She's 
saying something about the test results on Eddie's father, and I'm 
ashamed to say I'm not paying much attention, fascinated by the 
sway of that shirt over her hips as she strolls into her kitchen.

Scully's apartment is tastefully decorated, completely feminine 
and yet not so intimidating that a slob like me feels uncomfortable. 
Everything is color-coordinated in soft pastels, and how she 
manages to keep the cream carpet actually looking like cream 
is beyond me. She has declared the place a seed-free zone, 
however, after my first few visits left her picking shells out 
of the soft pile. 

And the chair cushion. 

And the hand-knitted afghan. 

When I sit down on the couch, I suddenly remember I still have 
the six pack in my hand and I open one. She walks back into 
the room with the rose safely ensconced in a pretty crystal vase 
and sets it on the coffee table, then very deliberately places a 
coaster in front of me.

"I brought beer."

"I see that. Would you like to share with the rest of the class?"

The quirk of her mouth says that's a joke, so I manfully twist 
off the cap and hand her one of the bottles, fascinated by the 
undulation of her throat as she swigs it down. 

"I was cleaning," she informs me, and now that she mentions it, 
I notice the smell of lemon and soap -- not the cloying perfume 
of some household cleaners, but a fresh, pleasant scent. I imagine 
her attacking the task with the single-minded focus she brings to 
her work and almost feel sorry for any germ daring to darken 
Scully's counter top or bathroom sink. Her apartment is probably 
cleaner than any laboratory even before she starts scrubbing.

"So what's this about, Mulder?" she asks, settling back on the 
couch. "What's wrong?"

Of course she would think something's wrong. Why else would 
I come see her when there's no case going on and I haven't
been shot or drugged?

I shrug, Mr. Casual. "Nothing. I just thought we might --" I see 
her gaze flicker to the door. "Are you expecting someone?"

She looks a little pale and I realize she just had an Eddie van 
Blundht flashback. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. 

Never one to let these small errors of judgment interfere with 
the task at hand, I plunge ahead even as I notice that little 
frown on Scully's forehead that appears when she's thinking 
of recommending a psych eval for me.

"So Scully...How long since your last date?"

Her expression freezes for a moment, then her face goes blank. 
"None of your damn business, Mulder. When was yours?"

I thrust, she parries. This is our small talk, full of minefields 
and barbed wire.

"What kind of wine do you like?"

The non-sequitor stumps her for a moment and I can almost 
hear the buzz and click of her brain trying to figure me out. 
What new game are we playing? She hates being a step behind. 
I think it's because she's so short.

"Chardonnay," she finally says and I file that away for future 
reference. 

"Chocolate. Do you like chocolate?"

The line of questioning is too bizarre for her disciplined, 
by-the-book personality, especially after work hours. 
She's uncomfortable not knowing the rules in a given situation, 
so to gain some kind of advantage, she stands up and stares 
down at me with a withering glance, her hands on her hips, 
anger only visible by the flush on her cheeks and the set of 
her jaw. Unfortunately for Scully, she really *is* beautiful 
when she's angry.

"So how about this weather, huh?" My voice takes on a note 
of desperation and I hear Eddie snickering somewhere.

Scully sits back down and puts her hand to my forehead. 
Not the physical contact I had in mind, but at least she hasn't 
thrown me out of the apartment.

"Come on, Mulder," she says quietly. "Talk to me. Is this 
about Eddie?" Her mind is as sharp as a scalpel and I can't 
help wincing as it exposes my poorly conceived scheme. 
What little pride I had vanishes at the pity in her eyes. I hate 
pity from anyone, but most of all from Scully. 

"I just need to know..." I'm startled at the ragged edge to 
my voice, the pleading note that makes us both cringe a little. 
We'd both be relieved if someone burst through the door right 
now to rescue us from this. "I need to know if you would have -- 
Would you have kissed m - Eddie?"

She lowers her eyes and plucks at a thread around the hole 
in her jeans. "Is that why you came here tonight?" Then she 
meets my gaze head-on in a silent game of Chicken. I suddenly 
find the label on my beer bottle fascinating. So far this is pretty 
much how I remember all my first dates: awkward and pathetic. 
Why did I think it would be different with her -- easier, somehow? 
We should be past all this.

I raise my head to find her still staring at me. Scully could stare 
down a sphinx, and her expression is nearly as inscrutable as 
one right now. Sometimes we know exactly what each other is 
thinking. This is not one of those times.

"Mulder." She's still using that gentle tone, that low bedtime-story 
voice that she probably reserves for escaped mental patients 
and terminal cases. "What happened with Eddie and me was 
natural. You can't force something like that."

Eddie van Blundht is about as *unnatural* as it gets. I enjoy a
rare opportunity to practice my skeptical look. 

"It was a natural *process*," she amends, annoyed at having 
the tables turned. "A matter of timing, mood, circumstances..."

"So you would have kissed him."

She shifts uncomfortably. "If the event had been allowed to 
progress to its natural conclusion, yes, that's the most likely result."

We're both silent for a few minutes, a silence that seems to 
descend slowly upon us, like one of those ceilings with spikes 
in an old horror movie.
 
"Well..." I say finally, simply to hear a sound other than the 
ticking of the clock over the mantle and the sweat trickling 
down my spine. "I should go. You're cleaning."

Scully nods absently, and although I didn't expect her to 
beg me to stay, it would have been nice to hear. As she 
walks me to the door -- apparently to make sure it's locked 
and bolted after me -- she looks pale and thoughtful, and 
I'd give my entire collection of XXX videos to know what's
going through her mind. Or *my* mind, for that matter. 
What just happened here?

We pause at the door and she takes my hand. I stare down 
at our joined fingers, marveling at how small and delicate her 
hands are, yet so capable and strong -- just one of the 
paradoxes that make up Dana Scully. Lost in contemplation, 
I rub my thumb in gentle circles on the back of her hand, 
examining the faint blue veins, the soft, freckled skin, breathing 
deep of the clean, floral scent of her hair. 

Her breath catches, and when I look at her face I see a mixture 
of desire and fear that is probably mirrored in my own. She licks 
her lips unconsciously and my body tightens in response. 

I need to get out of here.

I don't want to leave.

While I struggle to reconcile my physical urges with my 
intimacy issues, Scully raises up on her toes and puts her arms 
around my neck. Impatient with my clumsy attempts at seduction, 
she has taken over. I follow along helplessly, falling into her blue, 
blue eyes as if I've just jumped out of a plane for the first time,=
filled with terrified exhilaration, praying the chute will open before 
I slam into the ground. Her lips touch mine in what she intends to 
be a sisterly kiss good night, chaste and simple. But she's not my
sister, and nothing between us is ever simple.

As always, I trust my instincts. My arms go around her slender 
body, drawing her up close to mine. My tongue probes at her lips, 
a pilgrim seeking entrance to the holy temple. When she opens 
her mouth, whether from surprise or invitation, I plunge recklessly 
ahead in the heretofore forbidden realm. Since she's not wearing 
her gun, the worst she can do is slap my face or kick me in the balls, 
neither of which would be a new experience for me and both of 
which I probably deserve -- but it would be easier to stop breathing 
at this point than to let her go.

To my shock and delight, she doesn't fight, doesn't even stiffen 
in my arms, but leans against me, her tongue boldly dallying 
with my own. She tastes of malt, bittersweet and earthy, and 
her lips are soft and pliant, moving slowly with mine in a 
timeless dance. Most of the women I've kissed close their 
eyes for some reason, but not Scully. She lives every moment 
to its fullest, observing and recording even her own behavior. 
Her eyes have darkened to the deep blue of the ocean and 
I go from flying to drowning.

Then as quickly as it began, it ends. She draws away and 
smiles up at me. Not a polite special agent smile or a sarcastic 
smile, but a genuine smile of pleasure...of promise.

"See, Mulder? Timing, mood and circumstance. You just have 
to let it happen."

I manage to nod as she opens the door.

"Good night, Mulder."

"Good night, Scully."

As I walk down the hallway I can still taste her, still feel the heat 
of her body on mine, and I know this is a beginning, not an end.

Next time, I'll bring chardonnay.


The End
Feedback to: LHoward388@aol.com