From: Amory20@aol.com
Date: Tue, 13 Jul 1999 18:21:50 EDT
Subject: New: Perceptions by JLB

TITLE: Perceptions (1/1)
AUTHOR: JLB (amory20@aol.com)
CLASSIFICATION:  V, A, UST
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: up through US6, i think just up to "the Unnatural"
ARCHIVE:  sure, just let me know where. :) amory20@aol.com
FEEDBACK:  you bet!  i love the stuff.  amory20@aol.com
SUMMARY: Scully learns how Mulder sees things.
DISCLAIMER: oh no, not mine.  CC and 1013 have the honors.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: big thanks to the fabulous michelle for her wonderful beta 
reading, and all that "brutal" honesty. :)  aside from that, please enjoy! 


Perceptions by JLB

It's a cool night -- breezy, a little misty -- for mid-July.  She closes her 
eyes as a soft wind flits through her hair, reminding her of the days when 
she had long hair that she could toss over her shoulder in flirty moments.  A 
memory.  Like most things in her life these days, it's just a memory.  

Mulder was the one who wanted to eat in this outdoor cafe.  Someone at the 
local PD had told him they had an excellent shrimp scampi, and he'd been 
bugging her about it all day.  So at ten-thiry on this perfectly beautiful 
Saturday night in summer, they're sitting outside for a late supper as they 
study the case file, or, more precisely, as he studies the case file and she 
studies him studying it.  He's so consumed that he doesn't notice when the 
waiter approaches to take their order.  She decides on a Caesar salad, and 
quietly waits for Mulder.  He finally looks up, sheepishly, and orders his 
shrimp.  A shy smile crosses his face as he finishes and shrugs his shoulders.

The tables around them are all full.  Couples.  Pairs.  All engaged in quiet, 
intimate dinners, the mood perfectly set with candles and soft piano music 
and fire flies that float just outside the awning in tiny electric waves.  
There's even a faint hint of roses in the air, blending in an almost 
intoxicating way with the scent of wine and Cajun spices and chocolate cake.  

Mulder's so engrossed with the file that he hasn't noticed they're eating in 
an establishment clearly known for its romantic atmosphere.  He hasn't 
noticed that the couple to their right are chatting nervously but intensely, 
their tight smiles screaming "first date."  Or that the couple behind him is 
in the midst of some anniversary celebration, as they sip expensive champagne 
and feed each other spoonfuls of chocolate mousse.  Scully almost laughs at 
the couple to their right, who have their chairs pushed so closely together 
she imagines they really only need one chair, their hands intertwined as they 
gaze into each other's eyes.  

"I think we need to go see Michael Gibbs again.  Something about his story 
doesn't add up," Mulder says suddenly, without looking up from his papers.  
She watches as he wrinkles his brow, and bites his lower lip.  

It's absurd, she decides.  They are sitting in this charming cafe, surrounded 
by so much love and lust it's almost dizzying, and they're discussing a 
murder case -- all blood and bones and missing body organs.  It's beyond 
absurd.  It's wrong.

"Mulder, are you sure you want to eat here?" she asks, swirling the ice 
around in her water rhythmically.

"You don't?" He looks around, finally, but all too briefly.  "The food smells 
great.  What's wrong?"

"Yeah, the food's fine.  It's just... Do you think this is the best place to 
get work done?  We could just get some take-out, go back to the hotel.  I'm 
feeling a little distracted here."  She's proud that her voice doesn't waver 
at all.  She sounds perfectly calm, reasonable.  Unaffected.

"I thought you'd like it.  The night air and candles and the music.  Isn't 
this normal?  And you're a big fan of normal, right?" He smiles playfully.  

She shivers slightly, caught off guard by the sudden change in her feelings.  
She doesn't even know what to call it, what it is she's feeling.  She should 
play this as she would anything else.  Relaxed, confident.

"Normal for whom?"  Scully sips her water, her mouth dry after forcing the 
words out.

He shrugs his shoulders.  "People.  I don't know," he says quickly, turning 
his attention back to the manila folder in front of him. 

"I guess," she says, watching a couple a few tables over kiss sweetly, 
chastely.  Scully almost forgot that there are people who are affectionate in 
public, people who share quiet dinners and conversation that doesn't involve 
aliens or conspiracies or autopsy results.  

"I think you should take a look at the body.  I know it's been autopsied 
already but they might have missed something.  No one's got your sharp eye," 
he smiles at her almost reverently before grabbing a piece of bread from the 
basket on the table.  
 
She feels herself blush; it's so silly, but her face colors at his remark.  
She knows that in the faint light Mulder won't be able to tell, but he will 
see her shy smile, her shining eyes.  

"Okay.  Tomorrow morning I'll go over to the corner's office.  And you can go 
see Mr. Gibbs again.  You seem to have a knack for getting witnesses to talk. 
 Must be all that Mulder charm."  She leans her chin on her hand, and watches 
the evolution of his smile -- the corners of his mouth slowly rising, his 
teeth glittering in the candle light, his eyes softening.  

"Damn right.  I got you to come here with me, didn't I?  All because I wanted 
some shrimp scampi," he drawls, his voice thick, almost sleepy.  She gets the 
impression that he's trying to tell her something more, something that's 
going right over her head.

"Speaking of which," she says quietly as the waiter appears with their food.  

Mulder's eyes light up as he spots the large bowl of shrimp headed his way.  
It's a Mulder sized meal, Scully decides, enough to please his rather large 
appetite.  Her simple salad seems meager next to the steaming bowl of shell 
fish and pasta.  

"I see you eyeing my dinner.  You should have ordered something more than 
that rabbit food.  You'll waste away to nothing, Scully," he tells her as he 
stirs the contents of his plate with a fork.  

"Gotta stay thin to keep up with you, Mulder."  

He nods emphatically, a strand of pasta hanging across his lower lip.  A 
small spot of sauce adorns his lip, and she watches, mesmerized, as he raises 
his napkin to dab at his mouth.  In the dim light, amidst the demure tune of 
the piano, Mulder's actions take on an elegance she's never recognized 
before.  Almost like dancing -- slow, deliberate, graceful.

Before she has a chance to truly appreciate his movements, he's turned back 
to the file.  She watches as he thumbs through the eye witness accounts 
methodically, relentlessly.  She's embarrassed to realize that she barely 
read them through the first time.  Something about the cool summer weather 
has had her in a daze since they arrived this morning.  Almost like she's 
swimming under water, her head feels weightless, light.  Maybe it's more like 
being drunk, she thinks, the dizziness, the delayed reactions.

As she finally begins to pick at her salad, the couple to her right, who only 
moments before were tied together like some intricate bow, are arguing.  
Their voices rise and fall like waves over the soft music.  Scully fights to 
keep her eyes off of them but she's drawn to the scene in some strange way.  
The woman shakes her head, almost as if it's not attached to her body, and 
shouts something about not being taken seriously.  Her partner sneers, and 
stares off into the distance.

Mulder doesn't notice.  He's still dividing his time between his food and the 
third witness' report.  He doesn't even flinch when the woman screeches, 
"Dennis, is there someone else?"

Scully finally turns back to her food, pushing the croutons around with her 
fork as if they're specimens she's studying, something strange and new she's 
never seen before.  Unease eats at her slowly, and her thoughts are clouded, 
reduced almost entirely to what she sees, hears, and smells.  The murder case 
is now just another memory.

"You know I just remembered something," Mulder says quickly, between bites of 
his dinner.  "I've got a report back at the office of a murder in New York 
where the body was desecrated after death in the same manner.  Missing eye, 
hand. The tongue cut out.  I didn't make the connection originally because I 
assumed that one was just a Mob hit but--"

"Shhh," she cuts him off, looking around to see if anyone is watching them.  
Her face reddens, and she can't hide her discomfort, embarrassment.

"What?"  Mulder looks almost hurt as he searches her face for an indication 
of what brought this on.

"It's just... Mulder, these people," she gestures with her hand at the 
surrounding tables, "are here to have nice quiet, romantic dinners.  I don't 
think they want to hear about Mob hits and missing tongues."  Her voice is 
soft but sharp.  

He looks confused for a moment, then he studies the other diners with a 
careful eye.  Scully wonders what he sees, what he thinks.

"Well, I came here to have a nice, quiet working dinner with my partner.  I 
sure as hell didn't want to hear about her suspicions that Dennis is having 
an affair." He discreetly indicates the fighting couple to their right, who 
have made up and are once again engaged in a bout of intense cuddling.  

"Some people go to dinner and talk about the weather or politics or how 
beautiful the person they're eating with is.  We go to dinner and talk about 
corpses and cults.  To each his own.  Live and let live," he says quietly but 
adamantly. It's the same tone he takes when he's trying to convince her of 
his latest theory, convince her that he saved her from aliens in Antarctica.

She's stunned for a moment.  That he noticed the argument.  That he'd protest 
so vehemently that their dinner conversation is normal, acceptable.  She 
shivers and forces her eyes back to her salad.  She doesn't know what to say, 
and Mulder's looking at her so intently, so earnestly that she can't even 
think.

"How about this," he whispers, leaning across the table as he slides his 
folder and papers to the floor, "From now until the bill comes, no more shop 
talk.  Just you and me.  Normal."

She looks up to find him smiling at her in that adorably charming way he has. 
 Any attempt at keeping her guard up falls flat, and she grins back widely, 
in a way she can only remember doing a handful of times .

Mulder brings a forkful of his shrimp across the table and offers it to her.  
"Here, have a bite.  You've wanted some since the waiter put it down."  

Hesitantly, she takes the bite off his fork and savors the flavor.  Perfectly 
light and spicy.  She closes her eyes in bliss, only to feel Mulder's warm 
fingers slide across her lip.  Her eyes snap open, and meet his hesitant 
hazel eyes dead on.

"You had a little..." he explains sheepishly, as he points to the corner of 
her mouth.  

"Thanks.  That's really good."  She licks her lip without thinking, and 
notices that Mulder's still watching. He's stopped his fork midway to his 
mouth to watch her.  Though she's never wanted to admit it before, even to 
herself, there's something about having all of Mulder's attention, energy 
focused on her that thrills Scully.

He finally turns away, chewing his food, staring off beyond her shoulder at 
the street.  The music has stopped for the moment, and all she can is hear 
are soft voices, the clinking of dishes and glasses, the quiet chirping of 
crickets.  And yet if she closes her eyes, she feels Mulder.  Above all the 
noise, she feels him.

"I think I know what the problem is," Mulder interrupts her thoughts gently, 
his eyes still focused on something in the distance. "I've always thought of 
this as normal.  I've always thought of us, the way we are together, as 
normal.  And I guess I thought you did too.  I never wanted to think that 
you..."

Something in his eyes softens, liquefies almost, and Scully stares back in 
disbelief.  Mulder looks down at his almost empty plate, and swirls his fork 
around in the pasta.  Scully knows he hasn't finished speaking, that he's 
simply trying to tie his thoughts together.

"Last summer, I told you to leave.  I told you to go back to medicine.  And 
when you said that you were staying with me, I assumed that meant that you 
were happy with all this.  Or at least, not unhappy."  His voice is low and 
steady, so controlled that Scully wonders for a moment if he's practiced this 
speech before.  She imagines him standing in front of a mirror, perfecting 
the tone, pitch, pleading with his own image to listen.  

She shakes her head, overwhelmed by what she feels rattling around inside 
her.  "It's not that, Mulder.  It's not that I'm unhappy.  I just--"

"I see you sometimes, Scully.  Just these random moments when you don't know 
I'm looking, and I see it.  You look lost.   Empty almost.  And I don't know 
what to say to make that go away. I don't know what to do anymore."  He sighs 
the words as if it's taken all his strength to say them.

"Mulder, why do you think you have to do something?  Isn't it my 
responsibility to--"

"Scully, I know what the boundaries are.  I'm not trying to cross any lines." 
 His voice is bland, a perfect monotone that betrays none of the anger she 
knows he's feeling.

She looks at him for several seconds, trying to figure out what is going on 
exactly.  Her water glass is empty, so she takes an ice cube in her mouth, 
and closes her eyes as it melts, fade away.  Before she can say anything, the 
waiter appears to collect the dishes.  He does his work quickly but 
efficiently, and disappears as suddenly as he appeared.  Now the couple to 
their right is rising to leave -- the man pulling out the woman's chair, 
placing a hand on her shoulder as they move past Mulder and Scully's table.

"Have a good night," the woman says to Mulder and Scully, a little drunkenly, 
breathlessly.  

Scully smiles in response, and Mulder simply nods his head.  She misses his 
smile now, and attempts to will it back, though she knows it's futile.  She 
remembers something then -- all her life feeling like a long, interconnected 
memory of something that happened long ago to someone else, something she 
read in a book or saw in a movie -- and feels herself relax as the memory 
plays itself.

"Baseball is normal, Mulder.  I felt normal when you taught me how to play.  
And happy," she says quietly, "you did that.  That was all you."  

"Was it?"  He smiles sadly, as if he doesn't believe her.

"Yes.  I never would have--" The waiter arrives with the check and cuts her 
off.  Her unfinished sentences hangs in the air for several seconds, until 
she feels the unsaid words float away.  She knows they're lost forever.

"We should go," Mulder says, checking his watch.  "It's late and we've got a 
lot to do tomorrow."  

She nods, and rises from her chair slowly.  She feels shaky on her feet, 
almost as if she's been drinking. His hand on the small of her back is 
Scully's anchor, and she leans into it until she feels steady.  

"This was nice," she says with little conviction.  Anything to fill the 
silence.

He nods, and guides her with his hand to the sidewalk.  Abruptly, he stops, 
and she turns to find him staring at her with heavy lidded eyes.

"Scully, I want you to have that life, you know.  And if I could do something 
to give it to you, I'd..."  His voice is soft, and blends with the harmony of 
the piano, fading into the night.

"Mul-derr," she sighs, more huskily than she intended, and swats his arm 
affectionately. Under the faint glow of the street lights, his eyes are 
brimming with something -- hope, regret, guilt -- she's not certain which 
exactly.  When she realizes she can't identify it, Scully shies away from him 
instantly. She forces herself to whisper, "Let's go get some sleep."  

He stares at her for a moment, almost waiting for her to say something else, 
something more.  Expecting it, she thinks.

They walk off towards the car, side by side, shoulders almost touching, and 
Scully wonders if there is something else she should say.  

"So you liked baseball, huh?"  Mulder asks, and she can hear the smile in his 
voice.  "One of these days, I'm going to talk you into a little one-on-one, 
Scully.  Wait'll you see all my moves."

She smiles at him as he opens her car door, but doesn't respond.  

She's wondering how she'll feel tomorrow morning.  Wondering how this memory 
will fit in with the others.   

the end.
feedback always welcomed at amory20@aol.com
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