From: CantWaltz@aol.com Date: 9 Jul 1999 21:02:57 -0700 Subject: xfc NEW: Refreshment (1 of 2) From: CantWaltz@aol.com TITLE: Refreshment AUTHOR: Liz Owens E-MAIL ADDRESS: cantwaltz@aol.com FEEDBACK: Proudly hung on the refrigerator by cantwaltz@aol.com DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere, as long as my name and such remain attached and you tell me where it's going. SPOILER WARNING: Up through "The Unnatural." Minor one for "Redux/ReduxII." CLASSIFICATION: PG KEYWORDS: M, S; M&S UST DISCLAIMER: No, these characters aren't mine, but I want to have a heart-to-heart with Mulder and tell him not to be such a *guy.* They belong to CC, the fine folks at Fox, and 1013 Productions. "Never for money, always for love...." SUMMARY: Friday night, a good game on ESPN, and a particularly challenging expense report. Refreshment "There is no spectacle on earth more appealing than that of a beautiful woman in the act of cooking dinner for someone she loves." - Thomas Wolfe "So, Scully, any big plans for the weekend?" *Slap.* "Hmm?" *Slap. Slap.* "I said, any plans for the weekend?" *Slap. Slap. Thump!* Dana Scully looked up from the blue glow of her laptop just in time to see her partner disappear under his desk. "Mulder, what *is* that noise? And what are you doing?" One hand appeared from under the desk, waggling a grayish baseball. Then the rest of Fox Mulder came into view. His full mouth quirked sheepishly. "Sorry, Scully. Didn't mean to distract you," he said. "That's OK. I was just about finished." She peered at him through her reading glasses. "As for my weekend plans, I imagine they're pretty much like yours, Mulder." He said nothing. "All right," she conceded, "I imagine they are pretty much like most *other* people's: laundry, grocery shopping, a little dusting, a little work." "Work. Right. We have to finish our report on the case in Massachusetts." He flipped the battered ball from hand to hand, enjoying the slap of the sphere against his palms. "So, what do you think we should tell Skinner about the rental car?" Scully grimaced. "I suppose we should tell him the truth. After all, he is going to see the receipt. The *itemized* receipt." She looked at him over her reading glasses. "And it's *your* turn to do the expense report, Mulder." He dropped the baseball onto the desk and held up contorted hands. "I think my arthritis is flaring up. Old football injury." "Very funny." She typed a few more words into her report and saved the file. "I suppose we should get our story straight. At least about the feathers." He flinched at the memory. "The feathers. Damn." Scully suppressed a smile, unable to resist a tiny dig. "And after all that, it wasn't even an X-File." He leaned forward across his desk and gestured with the hand holding the ball. "The creativity of the rural American teenager is vastly underrated, Scully. In terms of profiling, it was an interesting exercise." She closed her laptop and stuffed it into its case. "Interesting? I lost a brand-new suit, Mulder. It was destroyed with me in it. And I will never forget the joy of walking half a mile back to the car in those shoes." He held up his hands in surrender. "Hey, they'll be on the expense report. And I still think any reputable dry cleaner could have gotten the molasses out of your clothes. And maybe the soybean oil." She just looked at him. He fought an impulse to duck. "Wow, Scully. I think I've discovered the origin of spontaneous human combustion." They began the Friday ritual of putting away and straightening up. Mulder looked at Scully's area and was, as usual, envious of the small, neat stacks. He made an effort to brush as many sunflower seed shells as he could off his own desk and shoved a haphazard pile of pencils into an empty coffee mug. He picked up the baseball and rasped his thumb across the sweet spot. "Good ball game on tonight, Scully. Cubs and Padres." "Too bad about the Cubs' pitching rotation this year." His head jerked back in surprise and he grinned in appreciation. "Explain the infield fly rule and I'm yours, Scully." She shrugged as she put some files in her computer bag. "Between you and my brother Bill, I am constantly reminded of my sports ignorance. And, besides, I--" She hunted for the right word. "--enjoyed--" "--gained an appreciation for the game recently." She waited for him to make another snide comment, but he just kept smiling at her. "What?" "Nothing. So," he rose from his chair and grabbed his laptop case, "what do you say to getting a little work done tonight? I can help you with the field report and you can help me with the expense report, we can watch a little baseball, have a little dinner...." Expecting an excuse, he was surprised when she said, "Fine with me, Mulder. Do you want to work at your place or mine?" "I guess that depends on your feelings about air conditioning, because mine died last night." Recalling the meager and undoubtedly post-expiration-date contents of his refrigerator, he added, "And we'd have to get some takeout." She shook her head slightly. "I can't face another meal eaten out of Styrofoam. I guess it's my place, then. I have to stop by the grocery store, Mulder. Why don't you just meet me at my apartment in, say, an hour and a half?" He somehow managed not to look ashamed. "Uh, Scully, my car is in the shop. I was wondering...." She faced him with hands on her hips. "Mulder, is working tonight an elaborate ploy to get me to make you dinner in an air cooled environment and then give you a ride home?" He gave a vaguely apologetic grin. "In my own defense, I didn't mention that my cable went out two days ago, did I?" With an exasperated sigh, she turned to leave the office. "I have only two words for you, Mulder: you're cooking." Alarmed, he scrambled after her. * * * * * * * * * * Forty minutes later, Scully found herself pushing a cart up the cereal aisle of the Georgetown Giant supermarket. Mulder was half an aisle length ahead of her, scanning the shelves with a feverish intensity. A moment later, he triumphantly held aloft a box of Count Chocula. "Hey, Scully, remind you of anyone? Just add some buck teeth...." Refusing to take the bait, she maneuvered the cart up beside him and took the box from his hand, shoving it back on the shelf. "Dinner, Mulder. Think *dinner*." He shoved his hands into his pants pockets. "I think I should warn you that I am not much of a cook." "So go for simple." He repeated, "I think I should warn you that *I am not much of a cook*." Scully tucked a stray strand of red hair behind one ear. "I hate to ask this, but how much of a cook aren't you, Mulder?" "Uh, how do you feel about sandwiches?" "Ah." She turned the cart around and went toward the meat section. "You're beautiful when you're mad, Scully." "Chicken." He blinked. "Actually, I thought I was being fairly open about my inability--" "For dinner. Something with chicken." "Oh. Sounds great." He tagged along behind her. "Um, can I do anything?" She sighed. "Just stay out of trouble, Mulder." He touched two fingers to his forehead. "Scout's honor." Three aisles later, she turned to ask him a question and discovered him surreptitiously exchanging items in two carts. "Mulder!" she hissed. His head snapped up and he loped over to her side. "Like my deer in the headlights imitation?" he murmured. "After you hand me that bottle of olive oil on the top shelf--no, the one on the right--you can explain to me what you were doing." He ignored her outstretched hand and placed the bottle in the cart. "Playing the grocery game. There are actually two versions. In one, you switch an item from one cart to another. It is most effective if you make an exchange like capers for ice cream." "As I am sure you can attest to. And the other?" "Now, Agent Scully, that is a *real* exercise in behavioral profiling." He pointed to a cart up the aisle. "See that guy? Single. Wants to make an attempt at being healthy but has a weakness for the finer--and more fattening--things. He has someone coming for dinner and he wants to impress her. Take a look when he walks by." Mulder's voice got quieter as the man pushed his cart past. "Filets, portabello mushrooms, Tostitos, Cheez Whiz and about 15 Lean Cuisines. I'd have to agree with your estimation." As they moved through the store, he kept up a running commentary about the people they passed. "If you ever leave the FBI, Mulder, this could be developed into a lounge act," she said as she selected several cartons of yogurt. "So, now that you have analyzed a number of Georgetown residents, what conclusions have you drawn?" "That there are a disproportionate number of single people in this supermarket," he said, admiring a tall blonde. "Of course; it's Friday night." At his blank look, she continued, "This is a famous pick-up spot, Mulder. You didn't know that?" He stared at a woman in a tank top and a pair of tiny shorts. "No, but I am reevaluating my decision not to cook." He leaned back and observed the obvious mating rituals going on around them for a moment. "Scully, you have I have been all over the planet. Alaska, Antarctica, Comity." He paused. "We have seen things and done things that would drive most people insane." "And your point, Mulder?" "I truly believe that this is the most frightening place we have ever been." Scully allowed herself the luxury of a chuckle. "I have to say that I agree with you." He smiled back, but his expression suddenly turned serious and he continued to look at her with solemn eyes. "What?" she asked, fighting the urge to reach for her compact. "It's nice to hear you laugh, Scully. Especially when you are not laughing at me." She dropped the cartons of yogurt into the grocery cart, surprised at how much that stung. "I don't laugh at you, Mulder. I just don't always agree with you." He took control of the cart. "Where to, Scully?" She blinked, not understanding his shift of mood. "We skipped produce in your race for the cereals." "Produce it is." That section was surprisingly crowded. The mating ritual was intensified here; Scully fancied she could smell testosterone mingled with the sweet and earthy odors of the fruits and vegetables. She handed Mulder a plastic bag and began selecting apples. "I thought apples are to doctors as garlic is to vampires." "We get shots for that now." She slipped a couple of Red Delicious into the bag and handed him a third as she looked for the twist ties. "Tempting me, Scully?" She bit back the ready retort at the gleam in his hazel eyes. Instead she asked sweetly, "I don't know, Mulder. Can you be tempted?" She moved to a display of peaches, her back to him. As she examined the fruit for bruises, a long arm reached around her and picked up one of the fruits, long fingers caressing the velvety skin. He spoke softly in her ear, his breath warm. "We're all human, Scully. We can all be tempted. And we all want what we think we can't have." He moved away, whistling. It took her a moment to complete a mental inventory and decide she could safely walk without her knees collapsing. Angry with herself, she crossed to a display of asparagus and jammed a crisp bunch into a bag. She looked around for her partner and found him talking to a leggy, large-breasted brunette over the tomatoes. The other woman seemed fascinated by whatever he was saying. Scully had to fight an impulse to walk out of the store and not look back. Instead, she gathered the remaining items she needed and then tapped him on the shoulder. He didn't look pleased to see her, but he didn't seem displeased, either. "Oh, hi, Scully. Amber here was telling me about the benefits of vitamin E." Scully nodded, trying to look like she didn't care. "I've got everything, Mulder. Ready to go?" He flicked his eyes toward the tall brunette and back to Scully. "I'll meet you in the checkout line." "OK." She gave a half smile to the other woman and walked off. She was surprised when he appeared at her side after only a couple of minutes. "That was quick," was all she said. "She needed to get home and feed the kids before she goes on duty." He loosened his tie. "She's D.C. police. I met her on a case about seven, eight years ago. I run into her from time to time. She and her husband both work out at my gym." "You don't have to explain anything to me, Mulder." There was only one person in front of her in line, so she began putting items on the conveyor belt. He edged around the cart and toward the door. "Hey, Scully, I'll go get the car and meet you out front, OK? Keys?" She dug them out of her skirt pocket and tossed them to him. "Always have to drive, don't you?" she grumbled, watching him sprint across the lot as she automatically emptied the cart. Then she looked at the items spread across the conveyor belt and groaned. Mixed in with the nonfat yogurt and romaine lettuce were Jiffy Pop popcorn, a bag of sunflower seeds and a box of Dove Bars. "You sneak, Mulder," she said when she met him at the curb, but there was no real heat in her words and they both knew it. He hefted a bag out of the cart and put it into the trunk. "Hey, I didn't adjust the driver's seat. You have to give me credit for that." She handed him another bag. "Mulder, so far you have tricked me into feeding you dinner, buying you junk food and driving you home. I don't believe giving you credit was what I had in mind." "Tricked?" He put a hand to his chest. "You wound me, Scully." "Maneuvered, then. Just get in the car. And I am driving." She closed the trunk hard enough that her palm stung. *********** Disclaimers in Part 1 ************** When they arrived at her apartment, she made him carry the groceries. He didn't mind because he got to follow her. He always thought that there was something so intrinsically feminine about a woman in a suit and pumps. He wasn't sure if it was the unconscious sway of her hips or the click of her heels on the floor or just being in the wake of her perfume, but the combination was delicious. She unlocked the door and gestured for him to enter. "I'm going to change. Better put your ice cream bars in the freezer." "Sure. Want me to help with anything?" "You could set the table. Be back in a minute. Help yourself to something to drink. I think there's some iced tea in the fridge." "OK." He put the groceries down on the table, then shrugged out of his jacket and removed his tie. As he did, he watched her move around the room in what was obviously an evening ritual. She adjusted the thermostat, then crossed the room to listen to her answering machine messages. While she listened, she slipped off her earrings and her shoes, sighing as she arched her feet. After she pressed rewind on the machine, she picked up her pumps and disappeared into the bedroom. "Could you fix me a glass of ice water?" she called, her voice slightly muffled. "Sure." He rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands, then cracked ice into glasses and filled them. After a swig of iced tea, he began emptying the grocery bags. He heard water running in the bathroom and tried not to think of her. It was impossible. She appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, her face scrubbed clean. She had changed out of her blue suit into a simple pair of gray slacks and a matching gray twin set. "Bathroom's all yours if you want to freshen up, Mulder." "Thanks. I can't wait to get out of these pantyhose." When he returned from splashing water on his face, Scully had already begun gathering utensils and ingredients. "Need a hand?" he asked. "If you can set the table, I can handle this." She deftly crushed a clove of garlic with her chef's knife. "I think you know where everything is." "A real meal off real plates at a real table. This *is* a treat." He rummaged in a drawer for silverware. "No pink spoons from Baskin- Robbins, either." "No, but I think I have some sporks from KFC if that'll make you feel more at home." "Still wrapped or recycled?" "Just set the table, Mulder." When he had finished, he leaned against the counter next to her. "What next?" "Sit down and relax for a change. Have a glass of wine, turn on CNN. Just don't hover." "I never hover." He lifted a shred of freshly grated ginger from the cutting board to his nose. "You know, according to ancient Chinese--" Scully turned to face him, gesturing with her knife. "Mulder, you have crossed the line from hovering to invading my space. I just sharpened these knives and I would like to finish this meal without cutting myself or anyone else." His mouth quirked. "I'll get us *both* a glass of wine." He didn't stop moving around the kitchen, but he did give her enough space to finish preparing the meal. He would be the first to admit that he was not built for routine. But there was something about arriving home with a woman, watching her little rituals and being part of the mundane gathering and preparing of food. Something that made him ache just a little and wonder what his life would have been if he had been able to choose a different path. Scully sat down and gestured for him to join her. "30 minutes until dinner. Do you want to go over the expense report? Mulder?" He shook his head to clear it. "Sorry. Just practicing my remote viewing." He walked over to the table and rummaged in his computer bag. "Let me get my notes." When the timer chimed, they were buried in papers. "I'll get the food," she said, stretching. "Let me help you." He started to rise but she gestured for him to sit. "Just relax for a minute, Mulder. Stress is murder on the digestive tract." He refilled their wine glasses then turned to watch her taste and re- season. He admired her unconscious grace and smiled as she had to stand on tiptoe to fumble in a cabinet. In a flash, he was behind her. "What do you need?" She drew in a deep, steadying breath as she felt his body heat against her back. "Besides for you not to sneak up on me? The lemon pepper." He offered the jar and she took it from his hand with more force than necessary. "Thank you." He could not help but think that there was another word she wanted to substitute for "thank." "You can sit down now, Mulder. If I have another tall person job, I'll let you know." "Sure, Scully. My reach is your reach." He settled back into his chair and continued to watch her. "That smells wonderful," he said. She sliced thick Italian bread. "It's not hard. You just make it up as you go along. And if you don't feel comfortable faking it, there's this exciting invention called a cookbook that actually gives instructions." "And all these years I was just using Betty Crocker as a fantasy object." She looked at him as if to judge how much he was kidding, then turned her attention back to the counter. "Well, now I know what to get you for Christmas." She put a salad bowl and a basket of bread on the table , then took butter and salad dressing from the refrigerator. "The chicken needs another few minutes. This ought to hold you until then." He dug into the bowl and heaped crisp leaves on his plate. "How'd you know I was hungry?" "Wipe the drool off your chin and I'll tell you." He took time to serve her and then began to munch on the greens, refilling his plate when it was empty. She was amazed, as she always was, at how much a man could eat. He looked up from his plate and met her eyes. "What? Dressing on my chin?" She shook her head, a smile softening her mouth. "Just thinking about Thanksgiving. How much my brothers and father could eat. For a couple of years, Bill was stationed on the same base as my father and we were close enough to Tara's family that they actually had two dinners. Tara would pick at some turkey, but Bill would have an entire second meal, like he hadn't eaten three hours before." Mulder was quiet for a minute, his long fingers shredding a piece of bread. "I envy those memories, Scully," he said finally. "You're very lucky." His lips twitched in a vague grin. "Although on the day Bill finally caves in and punches me in the face, I will not feel you are so fortunate." It was all too easy for her to picture it. "My brother is a bit-- passionate--about those he loves." He recalled their second meeting, in the hallway outside Scully's hospital room when she was dying of cancer. Bill had called him a sorry son of a bitch, and Mulder had accepted that those words were true. After all this time, they still rankled. "I'll agree with that," was all he had said. The timer went off again and she went to the oven. "If you could clear the salad plates--if you're done--I will get this." When he came back to his place after rinsing the plates, he found that she had served him a steaming helping of baked chicken and vegetables. He picked up a fork eagerly. "It's hot," she warned. He blew on the first forkful but still burned his tongue slightly. The subtle flavors impressed him. "Wow. Scully, this is terrific." She took a bite herself and looked pleased. "It is pretty good, isn't it?" "Is this a Scully original?" "Uh hmm," she mumbled around a mouthful of chicken. "I'll have to remember this one." "When I start on my standup career, I'll rely on you for takeout." He took another piece of bread. "You're on." When they had finished, Mulder cleared the table automatically. "You cooked, I'll clean," he said. "It's the least I can do." She leaned back and sipped her wine. "I am not going to complain, Mulder." There was something about a man up to his elbows in soapy water, she mused as she watched him do the dishes and wipe down the counter. A domesticated Fox Mulder should have been amusing, but he went about the chore with his usual concentration and intensity and that kept his dignity about him. When the last dish was carefully stacked in the drainer, he turned back to her. "I suppose we have to get back to work now," he said with regret. She shifted to another chair and took up her pen. "That was the plan." With a sigh, he sat down and flipped open a file. An hour later, he put down his pen and stretched. "OK, Scully. One more time about the rental car." She rolled her eyes. "Mulder, I am not going to tell Skinner any story involving a small tornado and a chicken coop. All it needs is a pair of red shoes and some Munchkins to make it complete." "Well, your version isn't much better. A runaway tractor and a poorly constructed storage tank? I saw that on Showtime: 'Speed 3: The Revenge of John Deere.'" She sipped her wine. "I suppose we have to tell him two of the Bureau's finest were bested by three sixteen year olds." "Not bested. Just--just--" "Admit it. You bought that ghost train story hook, line and sinker." He had the grace to look chagrined. "Hook and line, maybe, but not sinker." She sighed. "Since act of God and mechanical failure are not options, what do you suggest?" He stood up and took her hand, tugging her to her feet. "That we watch a ball game." She followed him to the living room. "How is *that* supposed to help?" He lowered himself onto the couch and propped his feet up on the coffee table. "I could bore you with a lot of psychological doubletalk, but it all boils down to one thing: we don't have to come up with an answer until the game is over." She put her hands on her hips. "Just don't ask me to get you a beer and a ham sandwich and you have a deal." "What about a hot dog?" She handed him the remote and curled up in the opposite corner of the overstuffed sofa. "How about this: if San Diego is winning after five innings, you go to the concession stand. If the Cubs are, then I will." He clicked on the TV. "And loser buys the beer." Three innings and one spectacular triple play later, he looked over at her and found her diligently writing on a legal pad. At some point she had slipped on her reading glasses and tucked her hair behind her ears. She looked all of 18. He cleared his suddenly clogged throat. "Scully, you need to pay attention." "Hmm?" She looked up. "You missed a fantastic play. Here, they're going to show it again." She took off her glasses and watched the replay. "Impressive." He shook his head. "I thought we had gotten past this mental block of yours. In fact, I'm surprised you can't appreciate the physics of the game." "I always appreciate physics," she said defensively. "And I *was* paying attention. I just wanted to jot down some things I wanted to accomplish this weekend." He took the paper and pen from her unresisting hands and tossed them onto the coffee table. "It's Friday night, Scully. It's spring. Live a little." She stood up with a sigh. "I'm going to get a glass of water. Would you like some more wine?" He held out his glass. "Please. You're not joining me, Scully?" "I'm the designated driver, remember?" "Aw, Scully, you don't have to drive me home. I can get a cab." At her hesitation, he urged, "Come on. You keep telling me to relax. It seems to me you aren't listening to your own advice." "All right." She went into the kitchen. "This bottle is empty. More of the same or do you want something else?" "Whatever you're drinking, Scully," he called, turning back to the game. A minute later she placed his glass in front of him. "Here you go." "Hmm. What?" He was glued to the television. "I said, here's your wine." "Oh. Oh, OK. Thanks." He didn't move. She shook her head and settled back down onto the couch. Two innings later he poked her arm in triumph. "Cubs 4, Padres 2. Time for that hot dog, Scully." "You can't possibly be hungry, Mulder." He shrugged. "A baseball game can also be considered a nine course meal, and if you count the bread, we've only had 3 courses. *If* you count the bread." She uncurled her feet from their tucked position. "All right. What do you want?" "Popcorn." With a sigh, she went in search of the package of Jiffy Pop she'd seen earlier. Seconds after the first kernel exploded, he appeared at her side. "Mmm. I can hardly wait." "Can you content yourself with getting a bowl?" A clatter of crockery, then one appeared next to the stove. "This is nice," he said. She shook the popper vigorously. "What's nice?" He gestured broadly. "This. It reminds me of simpler times. When Samantha was still with us, when we were a family. Friday nights and baseball and popcorn." For the first time that evening, he looked relaxed. "Those were good times, Scully. I let myself forget that there *were* good times." She didn't know what to say, so she said nothing. The clatter in the popper faded to silence and she shut off the burner. "Well, then, I think you should do the honors." She offered him the now puffy foil container. He took it and ripped open the shiny dome and dumped the fluffy kernels into the bowl. He chewed one consideringly. "Tastes the same," he mused. "Taste and scent memories are supposed to be the strongest, you know." He offered her the bowl. "Here--have a memory." She ate a piece and flashed back to similar Friday nights in her own childhood home. "Still too salty. But not burned--Melissa always burned it." She smiled lopsidedly. "You know, to this day, I'm partial to burnt popcorn?" "Guilty pleasures can be the best ones, Scully." He took her hand and pulled her back into the living room. "So, care to continue the bet? Seventh inning stretch. Winner hits the concession stand." "All right," she agreed. This time she sat closer to him so they could share the popcorn. They both tried not to think about the times when their hands bumped or tangled as they occasionally reached at the same time. Mulder caught Scully surreptitiously licking salt off her fingers and he wanted--so much--to do the job himself. Instead he leaned forward and tried to concentrate harder on the game. "5 to 4," Scully said triumphantly at the end of the seventh. "Your turn to buy the beer, Mulder." He groaned. "I don't know how that happened." "I believe it's called 'a three-run homer.'" "Don't gloat, Scully. It's not becoming." He stood up. "What do you want? Pizza, a burger? I hear this ball park has excellent food." She stood herself. "Surprise me. I'm going to wash my hands." When she returned, he was looking pleased with himself. "What?" she asked. "Scully, for someone who eats plain yogurt and actually likes tofu in all its many forms, you have an interesting stash in your cupboard. Behind the rice cakes I found this." He held up a bag of Ruffles. "For my nephews," she explained. "They're coming for lunch tomorrow." "That would also explain the Spaghetti-O's." He ripped the bag open and tilted it toward her. She took a chip. "No, those are mine." She laughed out loud at the expression on his face. "Come on, Mulder, I'm not a saint." She sat down. "I won't even comment on the amount of sodium we've consumed tonight." He munched contentedly. "I have my own personal physician. She'll take care of anything that breaks." "I appreciate the confidence." He gestured at the set with a chip. "Sosa's up, Scully. Just watch this. The game's not over yet. Loser buys dessert." The game went into extra innings. Scully tried to keep an interest in it, but she found her thoughts wandering back to the grocery store. She kept rearranging her ideas, but she could still make no sense of them. Mulder looked over at her and noticed her absorption, but before he could ask her what she was thinking about, the Padres scored and the game was over. "Dammit! Well, I guess dessert is on me, Scully. Scully?" She blinked and focused. "Sorry, Mulder. Just thinking. Who won?" "San Diego," he said patiently. "Ready for dessert?" "Mm." Taking that for a yes, he headed into the kitchen, returning with the wine bottle and two Dove bars. He handed her one of the bars and refilled their glasses. "So, what are you thinking that's making your face knot up like you just bit a lemon?" he asked. She sipped her wine. "I was thinking about the grocery store, actually." "Why? Did you forget something?" "No, that's not it. I just don't understand the pickup scene going on in there, Mulder. What is there about a supermarket--a brightly lit, industrial-shelved retail space--that would induce romance?" She slowly unwrapped the ice cream and took a bite. "Oh, my God. This is wonderful." He was captivated by her dreamy expression and wished he had put it on her face. "It's not the place, Scully, or the furnishings. It's the food." "Are you talking about aphrodisiacs, Mulder? Because there is nothing proven...." "Just hear me out, Scully. These ideas go back thousands of years. Certain plants and their derivations--such as wine--have been used for centuries. Also some animal products, like the blood of bats and snakes. More mundane foods such as pine nuts, onions and asparagus are thought by many to have special libido-enhancing powers. Even recently, there was a scent study that found that men are turned on by a combination of the odor of pumpkin pie and lavender." She took another bite. "What turned women on?" "I don't know. I was too busy buying pies to finish the article." He winced at her expression. "Anyway, I don't necessarily buy these claims. What I think is more likely is that the *sharing* of food is the experience people are after. It's a very human idea to make a meal more than just something that will allow us to continue living. We have warm memories built around the preparation and sharing of food. And many foods undoubtedly have sensual properties. Like peaches." "Like peaches," she echoed softly. He caressed her chin with one finger. "And chocolate-covered ice cream." He showed her the crumb of chocolate he'd taken. And deliberately placed his finger in his mouth, letting the soft sweetness melt on his tongue. Their eyes met for one slow, appraising moment. Then she looked away, feeling her cheeks go pink. "So, what do we tell Skinner about the rental car?" she asked finally, when her ice cream was gone. "The truth, I guess. He'll figure it out eventually anyway." He licked the short stick clean. "Although I still don't know what to say about the feathers." She smiled shakily, both sorry and glad that the moment had passed. "The feathers. Damn."