Off His Game by BeckyD Kelsy: This is the corrected version, I'm hoping. Let's try again, shall we? Disclaimer: None of this is mine, for heaven's sake. The characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013, Fox, etc. No copyright infringement is intended. Hasn't somebody told these guys non-profit imitation is the sincerest form of flattery? Dedication: This story is dedicated to Karen Rasch, whose works, "Three Little Words," "Saying the Words," and "At a Loss for Words" (all part of the "Words" series) are referred to, with the author's permission, herein. It is because of these great reads I have been forced to give up a promising career in lurking. If you are not familiar with the "Words" series, call your doctor, tell him you're finally out of the coma, go read them, take two or three ice cold showers, and meet me back here. (Damn! Can that woman write!) This story was inspired by, follows, but is not necessarily a sequel to, (got that?) "At A Loss for Words." (From what I've seen, Karen is perfectly capable of writing a sequel of her own, thank you very much.) Note: E-Mail me if you'd like. All well-reasoned, sound, insightful, constructive criticism sincerely appreciated. Or tell me about your cat. Whatever. dasilva@flexnet.com (this week, at least) Rating: Pretty squeaky, but since it follows "At A Loss..." we'll give it the NC-17 for the spill-over. Classification : V (LDV, long damn vignette) MA (Angst? You want angst?? We got angst!!) MSR (don't say I didn't warn you) Summary: Mulder confronts the fall-out from a long weekend in The Big Easy. Inspired by K. Rasch's "At A Loss For Words." ******** How much of his life had he spent on benches? Alone. Thinking. Waiting. Waiting for the school bus. Waiting to get picked up after track practice or a swim meet. Waiting for a suspect in some bus depot. Some train station. Some airport. An informant. A sign, a signal. Waiting on the front porch for his dad to come up the driveway. For Sam to come home. For the police to arrive, saying they'd found her. Alive. Dead. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. It had been six weeks. Six long, long weeks since he and Scully - he smiled at the very thought of her - returned from New Orleans. Six weeks since they'd agreed to keep away from one another until the fall-out from their unexpectedly complicated trip could settle. Six weeks without contact outside of work. Six weeks without a special look, a private smile. Six weeks of avoiding each other, looking the other way, staying out of the office. Six weeks of strict professionalism, more professionalism than they'd shown one another since she'd first entered his basement office - how long ago now? - extended her hand and taken his breath away. Six weeks of fabricating reasons to be out in the field, alone, so he wouldn't have to see her, smell her, want her, crave her. Six weeks almost constantly with her, but utterly without her. Forty two of the longest days of *his* life. He looked at his watch. 6:17. An hour. He'd been sitting on this bench an hour already. Waiting. They'd agreed to six weeks on the flight home. Their tryst at La Maison de la Lune Argentine in the French Quarter had taken on that strange edge that seemed to mark everything he did. "A haunted bed and breakfast, Mulder? Haunted? Leave it to you to plan a romantic getaway featuring fine dining, breath-taking scenery, and the troubled spirits of the dead," Scully had shaken her head when he told her he'd found their accommodations through the features section of the Washington Post. It had been, for the most part, a wonderful trip. Everything he'd hoped. And more. Until things got... well, frankly, even he had to admit, things had gotten weird. Then they'd gotten worse. There had been an emergency. Weeks and weeks of careful planning and subterfuge had to be abandoned when Mulder was forced to rent a car using a credit card. A credit card that would have been easily traceable, should anyone have cared to try. 6:26. Come on, come on, come on. Where is he? He didn't care that he had put himself and his work in danger. That was second nature, as natural as filling his lungs with oxygen. If he didn't do at least one recklessly stupid thing per week, it made the people around him anxious and confused. <"He *swore* at you?" he could still see Scully, the heel of her hand pressed against her forehead, eyes shut tight, her tone total disbelief. "The man who killed your father, killed my sister, tried to kill *you* I don't know how many times, he *swore* at you, so you decided to take him to Russia? What were you thinking?> But things had changed. Suddenly, recklessness was not so appealing. Suddenly, being very much alive mattered to him. And he reasoned that if anyone, *anyone* outside their tiny circle of two,knew the strength of the bond he and Scully shared - always strong but now, as lovers, so much stronger - it might endanger Dana. Again he smiled. Dana. He liked the sound of it. Once, he would never have imagined that Special Agent Dr. Scully, a bright, intelligent, funny, adorable, kind, loving, decent, drop-dead gorgeous - were there enough descriptives in this language? - woman, would ever, ever, want anything to do with him. At first, he'd simply assumed she was a spy, treated her with contempt and antagonism, did his best to annoy her into showing her hand or leaving. In time, after trial by fire, ice, bugs, and the odd serial killer, he learned to trust her, learned she trusted him, knew that they were a team. He came to respect her opinion, admire her work, appreciate her insight, enjoy her company, like being around her. In a life that was endlessly dark, complicated, painful, and hard, time with Scully was tranquil, peaceful, easy, nice. One morning Mulder had been showering, planning his day. He was rinsing out the last of the shampoo, wondering where he'd left a couple of files, why his travel expenses had been held up *this* time, and how he was going to explain yet another trashed cell phone. Suddenly, a little voice, one that he generally kept bound and gagged and shackled to the wall in his psychic cellar, got loose long enough to run up the stairs to his conscious mind and scream, "Of course it's nice being around her, you idiot!!! You're in love with her!!!" It hit him unexpectedly, as powerfully as any jolt of lightning, and he knew immediately that it was true, and had been true a long, long time. All outward appearances to the contrary, Fox Mulder was a man of few illusions, romantic or otherwise. "Sex," he had been known to say, "is easy. Remembering when you said you'd take her to the movies, that's almost impossible." Repeated first-hand experience had shown him how difficult women found it to sustain an intimate relationship with a man who spent half his time brooding, and the other half carrying on like a delusional paranoid schizophrenic on speed. He couldn't really blame anyone. When he thought about it - when he slipped and allowed himself to think about, he sometimes doubted his own sanity. Just *being* Fox Mulder was a challenge. How much more of a challenge it must be to be *with* Fox Mulder. And how very much more challenging for someone who already spent eight working hours a day with him. He didn't stand a chance. He'd fought his feelings for her, reprimanding himself for every slip, every time he let a look between them hang a second too long, every time he went out of his way to brush a leaf from her coat, take her hand, wipe a crumb from her cheek. "At best, Mulder," he would tell himself at 3 or 4 am, wide awake, restless, plagued by thoughts of her hair, her eyes, her lips, "At the *very* best, she'll invite you to her wedding. Maybe you'll get to be god-father to one of her kids." Thank God, thank God , thank God, he'd been wrong. A madman with a knife named Riggs had forced Mulder to confess his feelings to Scully. He had done it reluctantly, mournfully, knowing that once he'd opened Pandora's box there would be no going back. He fully expected to lose the best partner he could ever hope for, and the best friend he had ever known. It confounded him, still, every second of every minute of every day, that she'd come to his apartment two weeks later, made shattering love to him on that beat-up leather couch of his, and told him, simply, quietly, "I love you, too, Mulder." It amazed him, still, that she said it, again and again, with every touch, every look, every smile. She loved him. Who knew? It was strange. It was wonderful. Naturally, it scared the hell out of him. But it was a good kind of scared, an exhilarating, exciting, tingling kind of scared. He couldn't get enough of it. He checked his watch again. 6:38. Frohike had said 6:00. What was going on? Tonight, finally, finally, after six long weeks, they were meeting at his place. She would come straight from her 1 p.m. court appearance, making sure she wasn't followed. She'd let herself in. She'd feed the fish. She'd pick up the fast food boxes and the empty cans. To kill time she'd probably - another grin - clean out his fridge. "Mulder, it's just plain *wrong* to grow biological weapons in a Frigidaire," she'd complained after the last time. She'd stack up the old magazines and newspapers. She might get really bored and dust. He said he would join her as soon as he could. He promised to bring home pizza. They wouldn't even *think* about eating it until it was stone cold. He smiled again. 6:45. He couldn't imagine Frohike wouldn't show. Mulder wondered if he should be concerned. He wondered if he should get up and casually stroll around, take a look. He wondered how much more work he'd have to do before he could go to court on the Nicholson Case. He wondered if he should get vegetarian or Hawaiian. Was there anything to drink at home? And what about ice cream? After a strenuous session of lovemaking, Scully liked, - what was it called? Tin Roof Peanut Butter Crunch? - some people will eat anything. He wondered how much longer he could sit on that bench without his entire backside going permanently numb. "Agent Mulder?" Frohike approached from his left. "You're late, Double-Oh-Seven," Mulder deadpanned, neither asking nor accusing. "Complications," Frohike dismissed with a wave of his hand. "I apologize." "Accepted. What's up, Frohike? You look like you've seen a ghost." "That's more your area of expertise, I believe," he answered. But it was true. No one was about to accuse the Lone Gunman, - any of them - of being wacky, good time, party boys. For all their quirky theories, their paranoia, their unorthodox methods, these were serious men seriously involved in serious matters. "We don't chase B.E.M.'s for a living, Mulder," Frohike had once informed him, implying, of course, that Mulder did. But now, Frohike looked more than just serious. His expression was controlled, flat, neutral. So neutral, in fact, that it was obvious to Mulder that he was fighting some deep emotions. But which? Fear? Hate? Anger? Something else? Frohike removed the Washington Post from his jacket. He unfolded it carefully, removing small a manila envelope. Without a word, without a change in expression, he handed it to Mulder. "What's this?" Mulder asked. He hated surprises. Still, the steady gaze, the flat tone. "You tell me." He opened the flap, squeezing the sides. Photos, a stack about three-quarters of an inch thick. A couple hundred slightly off-colour remarks crossed Mulder's mind, followed closely by a couple hundred of their really off-colour siblings. But something in Frohike's manner told him to let it pass. He removed the pictures from the package. On top was a picture of Dana. She was wearing a long loose skirt, a white shirt with a rounded collar. It looked like she was standing in an airport baggage claim area, a claim ticket or some other small slip of paper in one hand, a broad brimmed sun hat in the other. She was standing in full profile, arms folded across her chest, looking bored. The next eight photos were more or less the same, with only slight changes in stance or expression. "Frohike," Mulder took on a scolding tone, "You know Agent Scully doesn't like it when you play *Candid Camera* without asking." Frohike didn't rise to the bait. He shook his head "no", remained silent, looking straight ahead. Mulder flipped to the next picture. She was still in the same outfit, leaning into a cab. Behind her he could see a church steeple in the distance, an indistinct haze of people and cars and buildings in the middle ground, and part of a sign hanging overhead. He couldn't make out what it said. He flipped to the next. Same pose. Only he could see more of the sign now. Part of a crescent moon. Carefully controlling his expression, he read "..gentine" , he told himself, The next picture: Dana in Ray-Bans, light shorts and a dark T-shirt standing in front of a shop window. Then: Dana in Ray-Bans, light shorts and a dark T-shirt looking back at the shop door. And: Dana in Ray-Bans, light shorts and a dark T-shirt looking at her watch. And: Dana in Ray-Bans, light shorts and a dark T-shirt eating an ice cream cone. Holding hands. With Mulder. Oh damn. "Obviously fakes," Mulder lied. "Obviously," Frohike lied back. Oh damn. What next? Dana in the courtyard of the Maison de la Lune Argentine, wearing the black halter dress that had almost given him a heart attack. Dana in the lobby with Mulder and Bill, the history professor/ innkeeper. Mulder with his arm around Dana, walking. Mulder and Dana holding hands, again. Mulder kissing Dana's wrist as they waited at the curb for the light to change. Mulder and Dana eating sea food. Mulder and Dana walking back to the inn, arm in arm. Mulder and Dana locked in a passionate embrace against a side-street wall, her arms twined around his neck, left leg looped around him, one of his hands lost in the folds of her bodice, the other lost beneath her skirt. "Oh, yes, very nice," he thought. "We'll put *this* one on the Christmas cards." He'd seen enough to know what the rest of the pictures would show. he reminded himself. "How did you come into possession of these...fakes," he asked, straining to keep his tone level, his eyes focused. "By a rather circuitous route," Frohike began, still looking off into the distance. "The negatives were handed over to some associates of mine in Tacoma. They were apparently intercepted during an investigation into the disappearance of some weapons in West Virginia. The gentleman carrying the photos met with an untimely end. No one had..." Mulder stopped hearing him then. It hardly mattered where the photos came from. They were so clear, so detailed, so well-composed, he and Scully might as well have posed in a studio for them. Even with high-powered lenses and digital enhancing and God only knew what other technological doo-dads, it would have been nearly impossible to get this many good pictures of trained federal agents who were trying to avoid undue attention. This wouldn't have happened if he and Dana had had their guard up. The worst part was, they'd thought they had. Damn. He tuned back into Frohike "... knew I'd had the odd dealing with you, had...," a slight catch in his voice, "...a high opinion of your abilities. He passed them along to me to see if they were of any...value. As far as we can tell, this isn't the work of any of the groups we'd normally expect. We have been completely unable to establish who is behind this." He turned to look Mulder squarely in the eye, his tone now less formal, less stiff, as if to assure Mulder that he should have no doubt, as uncomfortable as this was for both of them, Frohike was on his side, on their side. "And, believe me, Mulder, I have done everything, *everything* in my power to find out." They sat in silence, Mulder restacking the photos and returning them to the envelope. Apparently, he needn't have worried about the rental car. Apparently, whoever had arranged for this little photographic safari was onto them long before they had even left D.C. Apparently. Mulder placed the envelope on the bench between them. He rested his elbows on his thighs and cradled his head in his hands, thumbs beneath his cheekbones, fingertips pressed to his forehead. He closed his eyes, exhaled sharply. Did it again. Frohike broke the silence after a minute or so. "It's all there, Mulder. All the negatives and prints are there, just the way it came to me. But with the way digital technology is..." he let the sentence trail off. Mulder nodded his head. "I know, Frohike. It doesn't mean a damn thing, I know." He ran his fingers through his hair. At least a thousand different notions raced through his head just then, yet he couldn't string any two or three into a single coherent thought. He felt as if the weight of the world had been dropped onto his shoulders from a great height, and he'd been told to run. Fast. Uphill. He could honestly say he had no idea what to do next. "Of course, Mulder, I'll...*we'll* keep looking. But the trail is already pretty cold. Still..." "I'd appreciate that, Frohike," he answered, "I'd appreciate that, and I know, um,..." God, this was awkward, "...I know Scully will, too." A few more minutes of silence. Frohike got up as if to leave. "It's none of my business, Muld..." "No, no it isn't," Mulder cut him off, still looking at the ground. Frohike shrugged, turned again to leave. He took three or four quick steps, stopped, and returned. "It *is* none of my business, Mulder," he stated firmly, "but this may be just what *they* want, have wanted, all along." "How so?" Mulder looked up, his head spinning, his stomach tied in knots. "Well, a woman like Agent Scully," he sounded wistful, "she could throw any man off his game." He gestured to the envelope still resting on the bench. "In your case, it would seem," another small shrug, "she already has." Mulder could barely stand the thought he was thinking. He reviewed the four years they'd worked together, the months they'd been lovers, looking for a clue. Every look, every glance, every word seemed important, suddenly. Could he have been so thoroughly deceived? A saboteur might have argued with him incessantly, refuted his theories, badgered him about procedure, gone behind his back to their superiors, all of which she'd done from time to time. Hell, she'd even shot him. But there was no way someone planted to discredit him would disinfect his fish tank, rearrange his linen, clean the grout between the tiles in his bathroom. No one was that "into" their cover story. It took him only seconds to dismiss it. "No Frohike," Mulder shook his head. "No. I am sure of very, very few things in my life. Very few. Dana is one of them." Frohike looked surprised, then confused. The light dawned. "No, Mulder, no. I didn't mean to suggest...I just meant... if Agent Scully was a plant, you'd have known it long before today." He straightened himself, looked off to his left, as if embarrassed to have to say what was coming. "I just meant that, well, if you locked two lonely people in a small enough office long enough, the problem would probably take care of itself." Frohike fell silent, waiting for Mulder's reaction. Mulder nodded, smiled wryly, a small dry chuckle escpaing his lips. "Yeah, Frohike, I guess it probably would." Silence again. It hung between them like a rock suspended from a rotten rope. "Thank you," Mulder finally said. "You're welcome, Mulder. Good night." Frohike was gone. Mulder sat staring at nothing in particular between his feet. He checked his watch. 6:58 "Amazing," he thought, "absolutely goddam amazing." In under 15 minutes, his universe had been utterly, thoroughly, completely destroyed. "New world's record," he thought dryly. What now, what next? He knew if he left Scully alone in his apartment much longer she'd begin alphabetizing his canned goods, what few of them there were. He wondered if she were safe, if she were in any immediate danger. He wondered if he could call a few favours, pull a few strings, find out who was behind this. He wondered how badly he'd jeopardized his work. He wondered if Cancerman was involved, wondered how Cancerman could *not* be involved. He wondered if he should make a pre-emptive strike and tell Skinner. He wondered if it was already too late for that. Oh God, oh God, oh God, what *was* he going to tell Scully? He could picture her, right now, sitting on that couch, her legs curled up beneath her, channel- surfing, naked, as she liked to tease him, under all her clothes. Could he go to her now, make love to her as if nothing had happened, nothing had changed? Should he? Would she ever forgive him if she found out? "You don't need to protect me," she was constantly reminding him. "I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself." He picked up the envelope, tossed it distractedly from hand to hand a couple of times. he thought again, He told her he would join her as soon as he could. He promised to bring home pizza. She'd be expecting him. She'd be glancing at her watch from time to time, wondering why he wasn't rushing to be with her. Wondering if something was wrong, if he was hurt, tossed in a ditch somewhere, if he needed her. Wondering if these six weeks apart had changed things forever between them. Wondering if he'd had a change of heart. Wondering if it was over. Wondering why? What now, what next? the phrase kept repeating in his mind. He promised to bring pizza home. He told her he would join her as soon as he could. Right now, he couldn't. Just couldn't. He had to gather his thoughts, form some kind of plan, pick a direction and move in it. Figure out how th protect her. How to protect himself. He'd wait just a few more minutes. On the bench. Alone. Thinking. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. -The End- P.S. Nothing going on between Mulder and Scully? Hellooo??!!?? Which T.V. series have *you* been watching?