From: shirlock Date: Mon, 17 Jan 00 14:48:31 +0800 Subject: Still sore (1/1) by Shirlock Source: direct Title: Still sore (1/1) Author: Shirlock Rating: Still G Category: MSR humour/ FLUFF Summary: Mulder is up to his old tricks. Mulder's POV. Disclaimer: Still Mr. Chris Carter's. Feedback: shirlock@pacific.net.sg Completed: 17 Jan 2000 Distribution: OK to Gossamer and Spookys. Dedication: To Miss Gillian Anderson--the reason for such inspiration. And to Scullyists all over the world. ***** Somewhere along route 242 at a gas station / 7-11. 4:19pm <> *Blaaaaam!* <<-brella.>> I finish. The car door rattles on its hinges like it's gonna fall off. Yessiree. I know she's way past sore now. She's angry. She's forgotten her purse tucked in the side pocket of the door and she didn't take the umbrella. She's more like steam-emitting, eyes-blazing, neck- throttling, purse-forgetting angry. Oh, and let's not forget door- slamming. I gingerly reach over to the handle and test the mechanism. Luckily for the insurance company, the car still has four squeaky doors attached. Luckily for me, I still have both arms attached. I play with the quarter in my hand for a second before returning it to the coinbox to start the countdown-- 5-4-3-2-1. Bingo. She comes out of the 7-11 ten feet away and walks sure- footedly toward me and this tin-can of a Toyota. Truth be told, I wouldn't have felt safe even if I was inside a Leopard 1A3 tank. She snatches the handle and swoops her purse up in one swift move. She doesn't look at me, but I'm staring at her cheeks, the rising colour a tantalising pink. Ten seconds later, she's back in the mini-mart. Sans umbrella again. Yep. Definitely waaaay past sore. I sit in the front passenger seat, toying with the seat belt until it seemed stupid to be buckled up in a stationary car. So I unfasten it. I pull the confining area around my crotch when nobody's watching. Damn jeans are so constricting sometimes. Scully had insisted on driving, and for what altruistic reason? That my eyes were failing. I had missed the exit to Interstate 395 and the narrow sideroad to Route 242, my sunflower cracking habits nearly put us into an open storm drain three miles and eighteen potholes back. That would be the first time a car ever ditched us. Fortunately Scully yanked the wheel fast enough to steer us back on to the asphalt and took over driving duty. It was either she drives, or we go home. And I didn't want to go home. I wanted to bring her to Pohick Bay Regional Park.It was supposed to be a two hours' drive but bad weather, bad planning and bad habits die hard. We were now officially 3.5 hours on the road and the Scully barometer showed thunderstorms. The ones with crackling lightning that strikes where nebbish nimrods lie. As least the sun's coming out a bit. Shouldn't I already know when to stop pressing her wrong buttons? I've known her for a long time now and I just can't help myself. Pissing her off so that she can give me hell. If you can't piss off a redhead, who can you piss off? When she gets angry, the colour just glows off her head. It's as close to seeing flame coloured hair boiled in blood. Okay, that didn't come out right. What I meant was, when Scully gets angry, her whole face becomes animated. It didn't always used to be like this, but in the past four or five years, I've noticed these small changes. Scully's learned to be more expressive. And damn, that just puts the fizz in my jizz. I pull at the crotch again just as a car draws up alongside our car. A Ford Explorer revs up its engine just as it's about to brake into the lot clearly meant for compact cars. I shake my head wondering what boneheads do that? Stomp on the gas pedal just as you're parking. A young man with spiky brown hair leaps off the thresh hold like a cowboy dismounting his steed. Drainpipe jeans and a wrinkled tartan shirt. He's tall and gangly, with a rougish kind of sway, but gentlemanly in the way he smooths out his hair and opens the other side of the car door for his girlfriend. And a fine specimen of a redhead too. Her hair is too short to be called cropped, but too long to be called bobbed. Actually it was kind of messy, like it's been windswept or air-combed. I look at the behemoth of a vehicle and conclude the obvious. Sunroof's opened. Starbuck's spill-proof mugs sitting atop the dashboard. Cockel Spaniel with hanging tongue in the back seat pawing at the headrests for attention or nunchions hidden in her hand. Looks like I still have it. Spooky Mulder--Profiler and investigator extraordinaire-- in spite of what Scully says I am. What does she say I am? Ah yes, muddy Mulder. Of course she says that with a fairly wide grin so that I wouldn't misunderstand her. Aah, after all this time, she still thinks I need such reassurances. Scully's shade of red must be Scottish. Descended from Braveheart himself, with equal portions of courage and loyalty to her clan. That red has always been the marker for me. In a lab, that's the red I look for in a roomful of doctors. At the OPR, that's the redhead I point to clear of all wrongdoing. In the field, that's the red I secretly pray would not be sprawled on the floor. Covered in another different kind of sticky red. They rarely haunt me nowadays. Those days of yore. I look over to the young woman who has decided to stay by the vehicle near . Why do people give such preposterous names to their pets? Whatever possessed her to call it after a dumpling? My stomach rumbles from the conjured image. I'm eating the mutt because he's a giant meat-filled pot sticker. Unlike naming a pet I suppose wryly. I've always thought Scully took him in because Bruckman left it for her, but it wasn't until much later I discovered why Scully kept the Pome- ranian. She had been lonely then. I had stopped by her apartment one evening to find her opening her door with the pooch snuggled inside her bathrobe. Nestled warmly between her breasts. Even though she had been wearing pyjamas, I wanted to yank that furball out of her bosom. Pluck it out and throw it away like a stray lint ball. A giant stray lint ball. I watch the young woman interact with Gyoza with that kind of shameless pride all owners possess and wonder if Mr. Tartan Shirt ever gets jealous of her giving the dog so much attention. I am drawn to the way she lets it lick her hand. She has a nice smile that she clearly isn't afraid of using freely. Her nose is straight and her freckles on her cheeks betray her youth. She's small sized and her clothes hug her comfortably enough for me to see a womanly, if not slightly buxomy figure. She reminds me of Scully in her younger days. Healthy, vibrant, vivacious, all brimstone and hellfire. I traded my theories for her scientific proof. My beliefs for her trust. My friendship for hers. I notice everything that happens behind the screen of her blue eyes. And Scully has the most amazing blue eyes. Sure, there are lots of people with blue eyes. My own mother, for one. But she had the light blues like the arid blues of the Nordic sky. Troubled by the winds of change, yet unmoved by the sands of time. Scully's eyes are a sapphire blue. A priceless gem or a bottom less reflecting pool. How many times have I seen myself swimming in the warmth of her gaze or drowning in the sorrows of unchecked tears which fall off blinking eyes? And once upon a time, falling off the rims of her eyes to meet mine. And to bathe me afresh with a benediction of health, renewal, and revival. I woke up from a dreamy state of conscious yearning and since then, knew without a doubt that my life never belonged to anyone else but Dana Scully. I smile privately to myself as the young man comes out with hot dogs and a huge slurpee. He sees me. I see him. I see him lean towards the woman and kiss her passionately on the lips while pushing Gyoza's nose away from food, drink and the woman. I blink to show guilt, since I had been staring. His gaze comes back to me to claim possession of his woman. Yeah, she's cute as a button, but I've got my own redhead, thank you very much. My own redhead. Funny how I had been so schmaltzy the first time she told me she loved me. That's Scully. Always unpredictable. Guess she always has been. It was in my apartment years ago when she told me to take her. Foolishly, my response to that had been <> Holding my hands, she placed them where Queequeg once snuggled. Scully whispered, <> And take them there I did. There, and everywhere she led me to that night. I guess she had always been the driver in our relation- ship. *Wrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeaak!* Scully comes in a whirlwind of cadmium and maroon, handing me a paper bag before scooting into the driver's seat. Gotta oil that door when we get back to DC, I remind myself. She purses her lips before setting her sights on the couple still locked in a passionate embrace as the fine drizzle begins to fall in earnest. She drops her purse back into the side pocket and turns on the ignition and the heat. And I don't mean 'warm air'. I'm not sure if I had taken my jiggery-pokery too far. I take the bag she had offered and ask, <> <> I look at her, the slightly matted red of her hair framing the smooth pink flesh of her cheeks and the sapphire of her eyes gleaming back. <> I return smugly, <> She squints fiendishly to take in my mischief, claiming superior knowledge of my getting-under-her-skin methods and keeping silent about it. <> <> <> <> I sneer at the ridiculousness of her inquiry, <> <> She says skeptically. I smile at her before pressing the button to bring down the win- dow. I reach into the paperbag and break open the box right at the bottom under two bags of sunflower seeds. Great, she got the extra fine ones with ribs. Scully likes ribs. <>I holler, catching both their attention and Gyoza's. <> I launch the gift and Mr. Tartan Shirt catches it neatly in his hand, surprised by the thin silver foil. <> I say, giving my best smirk. I don't wait for the thanks but I see it in their grins. I raise the glass before turning back to Scully who is smiling at me like she was never happier to be seen with me. Like she has always enjoyed me, loved me and understood me. Like I've always known she has. I am grateful to this woman for staying by me, for entertaining my ludicrous thoughts, for going along with my harebrained schemes. Like my idea of driving 140 miles into Virginia for a picnic and a walk in the woods on her birthday. I could feel the prickle of tears starting to well in my eyes as I lean over to hug her. <> No, I think, but of course, I am. <> I say before choking out, <> I've said I love her everyday for the past fifteen years since we married, but it still sounds like the first time. <> She murmurs into my ear, then pauses. I wait to hear what I know she is going to say. I reserve the right to see the minute changes in her expression as she intimates these subtle nuances. From pissed, to poopsied with about four Scullys sandwiched in between. <>, she warns to my pie-face, <> The embarrassed schoolgirl, the scold- ing partner, the longsuffering woman, the loving wife. Yep, all there. And I chuckle out loud into her tight embrace.She is still breathtakingly beautiful at fifty, still Scully, and still, a sore loser. End. Author's notes: They didn't need no condoms, but my story did. Thanks for reading.