From o-cha@universe.digex.net Tue Apr 15 06:46:14 1997 Subject: "Small Details" [1/1] From: "G. Harbowy" -------- Small Details [1/1] by G. Harbowy grh@teatime.com Rating: PG Category: S Summary: an alternate plot-line for the 'Small Potatoes' trailer. Okay to archive & ATXC, I guess, but I don't know why you'd want to. Disclaimer: these characters belong to CC, 1013, and lots of other people who aren't me. No infringement or profit-making intended. time frame: 4th season through 'small potatoes' trailer. note: As a non-shipper, this is my first experiment with this genre. As a Scullyist, it's even more of a challenge. But this idea grew from a conversation with a friend right after the trailer aired. She suggested this alternate storyline, and I told her I'd write it. This was done in a day, so it doesn't have any of my usual polish, but it's just for fun. ------- He sat at her bedside, watching her every movement. The doctors had announced an up-turn in her condition, but he was wary. So much death had sensitized him to grief, and he wasn't sure he could handle another one so soon. The door to the room opened, and Scully entered. He smiled tightly at her as she sat next to him, placed her hand on his shoulder. She looked tired, but not nearly as tired as he felt. He'd gotten the message from the doctor on his machine, and sped here straight from his run, not bothering to shower. She didn't seem to mind, or even notice his scent. They sat silently, studying the sleeping form together. "How is she?" Scully finally asked. "Improved, they say, considering the severity of her relapse," he answered flatly. "She's been sleeping since I got here, so it remains to be seen. She'd come down to see me -- I didn't even know she was in town until I got the call." Scully reached out for the patient's wrist, shifted the bracelet out of the way, and felt for the pulsebeat beneath the skin. Mulder knew that she could see the heartbeat spiking clearly on the monitor next to the bed, but she wanted to satisfy herself with the feel of Elizabeth Mulder's life force, just as he had when he'd entered the room not long before. "How long ago was she sedated?" she asked her partner. "About an hour ago." "Then she'll be out cold for a while. Come on, let's get something to eat." - - - - - He watched the restaurants whip by. She didn't seem to show any intention of slowing. He sat quietly and waited as signs for fast food, pizza, and steak danced tauntingly outside his window. Only now, smelling the cooking grease through the open air vents, did he realize how hungry he truly was. "Where are we going, Scully?" "Your apartment," she answered, eyes still on the road. "I offered you dinner. I plan on cooking something fairly healthy, since I don't know when you'll be bothered to eat again. For some reason, it's come down to me to look after you, and that's what I'm going to do." The way she said it wasn't harsh. It was more resigned. He felt uncomfortable with that. Harsh, at least, he could handle. He shifted restlessly against the seat. "I'm sorry I'm such a burden, Scully." He said it softly, honestly, without a hint of his usual sarcasm. "You're not a burden, Mulder. It's no bother." "Can we go to your place instead?" he interjected, seeing the turn approaching. "I don't actually have anything to eat in the house. And it's a mess." She shrugged. "Sure, I guess." He waited until she was securely on the road to her apartment instead of his. Then he continued his confession. "Nothing good ever happens when I ditch you. You'd think I'd have learned by now that you're the only person capable of saving my ass. I'm just lucky you're as proficient at it as you are." "I've had lots of practice," she answered warmly. Her right hand left the steering wheel and slid over to his where it rested on the seat. "I wouldn't trust anyone else with the job." The small fingers tightened around his, and he gave her an answering squeeze. Then she let go to make the turn onto her street. She so rarely drove, he reflected, that he could easily remember the last time. She was as sure of herself on the road as she was everywhere else. He wondered why he didn't let her take the wheel more often. He felt out of control as a passenger, sure, but the company of a skilled driver was a good opportunity to treat himself to a little habituation therapy. Put a lab rat in the passenger seat, he thought, and after every trip reward him with a dinner at Scully's. He'll be looking forward to car rides in no time. She was carrying a couple of bags, so he wordlessly beat her to the door and unlocked it. The apartment was clean and neat. The only thing keeping it from the pages of an Ikea catalog was his jacket, draped over the back of the kitchen chair like a blemish on the landscape. He was more comfortable in his own place, where he could just throw things down and not worry about how they would look where they landed. He kept meaning to use the coat rack by his front door, but somehow it was easier to keep walking into the room than to stop at the entryway. Maybe he'd move it to the living room, see if he used it there. Scully emerged from the bedroom, now attired in jeans and a cashmere sweater. Still more formal than his t-shirt and sweats, but probably more comfortable than the suit and heels she'd worn to the hospital. She pulled out the chair across from his, but didn't sit. Her hands rested loosely on the chair back as she fixed him with an even gaze. "What are you in the mood for?" she asked. "Whatcha got?" he countered. She sighed. "Not much. Salad. Maybe some soup." "At this point, Scully, I'd eat your shoes." "My shoes," she repeated, one eyebrow raised in amusement. "Well, maybe not the pair that the alien goo burned a hole in, but any of your other shoes." He leaned back with a smirk, waiting for her retort. She only grimaced and turned her attention to the fridge. It had been a long day for both of them, he guessed, and she didn't want to play. "I've got homemade pasta sauce," she said, "if you're interested. I should warn you, it's got veggies in it." "Where did this myth about me hating healthy food come from?" he asked, bewildered. "Just because I can't be bothered doesn't mean I don't like it." She turned to him, container in hand, and shrugged. "As a scientist, I must extrapolate from the empirical evidence before me." He grinned, and she smiled with him. He watched her graceful movements as she set out a pot of water to boil, and poured the sauce into a smaller pot on the next burner. Dinner pending, she finally sat in the seat she'd pulled out, collapsing into it with a sigh. "What did you do today?" he asked. "You look worn out." "Errands," she answered with a dismissing gesture. "Laundry, post office. . . the exciting life of a special agent, right?" He nodded. "Pairing my socks is the highlight of my week." She grinned a dangerous grin. "I thought seeing me was the highlight of your week." He swallowed hard. Where had that come from? "I mean," she continued, "when I show up from out of nowhere on my white horse to save your ass." He relaxed. That was more like it. "Don't flirt, Scully. It scares me." She looked confused. "Is this some kind of standard I wasn't aware of? That you can drop innuendos to me as often as you want, but I have to keep my mouth shut?" "It's just that I'm not used to it. I enjoy your predictability. I enjoy our routine. I say something rude and you roll your eyes. I'm not very good at rolling my eyes, but if you want to make the remarks, I guess I can learn." "Predictability?" she asked. "Don't you agree that our banter has its rules? A set format or script that we adhere to?" "I agree that it does. I don't agree that it should." That dangerous sparkle was still in her eyes as she got up to stir the sauce. - - - - - Two dishes of excellent pasta and half a bottle of red wine later, they moved to the sofa. He couldn't remember the two of them actually ever sitting on it together. Usually, one or the other of them was in one of the overstuffed chairs, giving them their accustomed physical space. But now, tonight, it seemed that all the rules had changed. She was close enough that he could put his arm up and around her if he wanted to. Did she want him to? He couldn't tell. Sure, they'd touched plenty, but this was different. "What are you thinking about?" she asked. He could almost feel her breath on his ear. He shivered. "Rules. Scripts. Human interaction. How different our interaction is tonight." "It's kind of nice," she supplied, resting her head on his shoulder. He swallowed a gulp of wine, then put the glass aside and took her hands in his. "I want to do something for you, Scully. Something completely selfless. You've done so much for me, and I've never properly thanked you for it. What can I do to repay all that you've given me?" He hoped that he hadn't gone too far, but the tone of the whole evening suggested that she wanted recognition for the things she had done, the things she had lost, while cleaning up his messes. "This is a side of you I've never seen," she answered, her voice slowed by wonder. "I never thought you noticed. I work so hard to be your equal, to live up to your expectations. . . I think knowing that you see it is enough." "No," he insisted, raising his hand to stroke her hair. "It's not enough. After all you've been through, how can it be enough?" He began to lean toward her. Hesitant as a schoolboy, and just as eager, yet waiting for a sign of consent before closing the distance. She sighed sofly, parted her lips, and said yes. - - - - - They kissed for what seemed like hours to him. He lost all track of time, content to feel her lips against his and to run his fingers through her hair like he'd always wanted to. His hand slipped around to her back, sneaking up under her sweater and pulling her close. Her skin under the soft fabric was smooth, unblemished; as even to his questing fingertips as a pane of glass. He was so intent on breathing in her scent, on memorizing the sensations, that even though he heard the key in the lock, it didn't register until the door opened and a figure moved into the edge of his vision. "Mulder?" He jumped backward from Scully's soft, heavenly lips, and looked up at -- Scully. In a quick lunge, he caught the woman he'd been kissing, pinning her hands behind her back. "Scully," he yelled to the standing figure, "get your handcuffs!" A frenzy of motion ensued. The sweatered Scully snarled, pushed away, kicked, screamed. But finally their training allowed them to subdue her enough to trap her wrists. Scully, the real Scully, stood over the figure with an intense scowl on her face. She kicked the writhing body in the stomach, seeming to take great pleasure in doing so. "Who are you?!" she yelled, raising her foot as if to strike again. Mulder could only stand in silence and watch her. She obviously had the situation in hand. Or foot. "Stop, please," the Scully on the floor whimpered. "Who are you?" his partner repeated, upping her voice a notch. She'd pulled out her gun and had it trained on the intruder. "I'll tell you everything, just don't shoot me!" The voice was panicky now, knowing that his Scully wouldn't hesitate to shoot. She raised the weapon and clicked the safety on. "You, my dear," she said, "have a lot of explaining to do." The body writhed in what seemed like pain. . .and then it began to change. Growing, morphing, expanding. Until a six-foot-tall man lay cuffed on Scully's carpet. They both stood in shock as the figure struggled to his feet. Belatedly, Mulder moved to apprehend him, but with the height had come solid muscle, and he shouldered Mulder out of the way without effort. Mulder tripped, caught on his own feet, and went down. The figure was out the door and into the night before the agent could right himself. Scully was at his side. "Mulder, are you okay?" He shook his head to clear it. "Yeah, Scully. I'm fine. How are you?" She fixed him with a stern glance. "Mulder, what the hell happened here?" She helped him to his feet, and he sat heavily beside her on the couch. The couch where not long before -- "I think that's one of those men. Like Jeremiah Smith. They can change their appearance. Their entire aspect. I don't know why he did that to me, but I can only assume that it was to keep me out of the way while something else was happening. Either that or he planned to kill me when he got the chance." "But my apartment. How?" "I unlocked the door. I had the key, and her -- *his* arms were full. We had dinner, and wine, and then she seduced me." "And at this point, did you still think it was me?" she asked pointedly. Her face hovered between amusement and anger. He wasn't sure which response would swing her the right way. He bit his lip and answered so softly he didn't know if she'd hear the words. "I hoped, Scully. I had my doubts, but I hoped." Neither the smile nor the frown deepened. Instead, she closed her eyes, leaning back. "So how did you know which one was me?" "Your tattoo. He didn't actually *become* you, he just mimicked what he saw of you. He didn't know about your back. I'm lucky that I did." He paused, reading the expression on her face. Had she seen them kissing? Had she known how desperately he had wanted it to be her? On the one hand, he felt awful about having "used" her like that. On the other, though, he knew it was as close as he'd probably ever get to kissing Dana Scully, and was glad that he'd gotten the thrill out of his system without jeopardizing the partnership they worked so hard to maintain. "I'm glad you're such a good detective, then." She opened her eyes, saw the way he was staring at her. He realized he'd become so wrapped up in the tactile memories that he'd forgotten what he just said. He merely nodded instead. Then he remembered the thread of conversation. "Maybe you'd better show me any other distinguishing marks you have, Scully. You know, just in case." She hit him with a throw pillow. [end] -- g. harbowy grh@teatime.com specializing in reverse psychology -- please don't visit my web page at http://www.teatime.com/grh/