Surveillance Series 02
Title: Friends in Low Places

Author: BamaX

Feedback: Happily slurped up and regurgitated back at: BamaX@msn.com

Classification:MSR, V, little angst

Rating: Nice solid R

Keywords: Third party pov

Archive: Anywhere is fine. Drop me a note if you could

Spoilers: Hmm..tough call. You'll need to be familiar with One Son, 
Arcadia, Milegro, The Unnatural, and maybe TFWID

Timeline: Pre-FieldTrip, Post everything else.

Disclaimer: Scully and Mulder are the property of the 1013 government, 
President Carter, and the John Gilnitz congress. The other 
fellow...well, he's a citizen of Bamaland where shippiness is 
celebrated daily.

Summary: Late at night, and all alone, or so she thinks, Dana Scully 
sleeps.

Author notes: This is the second in a series of third person pov 
stories I'm writing that deal indirectly with the MSR. The first was 
'The Spy Who Loved Them'. All are stand-alones. Just thought I'd try 
something different to entertain myself a bit this summer. If every 
Tom, Dick and Holman is allowed to observe and comment on the state of 
the MSR in season 6, shouldn't those with the closest views have a say 
so? I know this 'view' isn't what many of you would be expecting. *g* 
Just go with me on it O.K? Geez... My thanks to all the wonderful 
fanfic writers who do such a super job getting to the heart and soul 
of the most wonderful fictitious relationship to ever exist. What 
would our heroes do with out you?

A couple more author notes follow the story.

"Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna 
get." Forrest Gump


She talks in her sleep.

A lot.

She also snores.

Softly.

Which is exactly why I'm totally awake in the middle of the night.

No, that's not entirely true. I was a bit hungry. Just because the 
missus of the manor is curled up in a ball getting her beauty rest 
doesn't mean the rest of us can slack. We creatures of the night have 
to maintain our strength if we don't want to be taken down in the war 
going on around us.

See, that's why the beautiful Agent Scully is my hero. That's why 
instead of being cocky and spending all my time seeing just how many 
enemies I can take down in my present form, I sorta sit back until 
late into the night and watch her be herself while enjoying the view 
I'm afforded. And right now, with her soft hair spread out over her 
pillow and a soft, creamy breast rising from the top of her partially 
open mauve silk jammies, it's a pretty damn good one.

I've never been around such an impressive human being. As an old 
veteran of battle, I appreciate the courage and shrewd intellect I 
sense in the missus. When she comes home, I watch her closely to gauge 
what kind of day she's had, to see if she's happy or sad or melancholy 
or angry. When you live with someone for a while, you begin to sense 
their moods. For a while, she was angry with life it seemed. She'd 
come in slamming doors while jerking things up and tossing them back 
down for no explicable reason I could see. That's when she'd really 
talk to herself.

"Mulder, you're a jerk." she'd say one time.

When she was really angry, she'd tell him to go to hell.

And then one night, she came in, threw her suitcase across the bed, 
took a ring off her finger and slammed it down on her dresser 
grumbling something about somebody named Rob. But it was Mulder she 
told to go fuck himself.

That one made me smile...well, as best I can.

But most of the time...most of the time, I was really sad for her. And 
I *really* wanted him to go fuck himself. Yeah, I know all about 
*him*... 'Mulder'. I think he's a jerk sometimes too. Just because he 
makes the missus mad. It's enough for me. Did I mention how much I 
adore her? Idiot. He oughta be worshipping the ground she walks on, 
sending her candy and flowers everyday. Yeah, flowers...I really like 
yellow roses...that's what she deserves. Not some idiotic piece of 
clothing. I look over at it folded so neatly across her highback maple 
chair, it's resting place for several weeks now. What the hell was he 
thinkin with that one?

The shiny, embroidery on the clothing reflects the moonlight that 
falls through the crack in the blinds. The missus had traced it with 
her finger slowly several times tonight, almost in a trance just 
before she had carefully folded it and put it aside. I guess I 
shouldn't be pissed at Mulder for the clothing instead of flowers. I 
mean, it does seem to make the missus happy and I like the missus 
happy.

For weeks, she'd been really unhappy with him. I think she was hurt 
deeply because of something that happened between them, though she 
always tries to hide it, even from her mom and the few others that 
drop by. That's just the missus. Stubborn, that's what she is. But she 
can't hide that hurt from me. And she can't hide it from herself. Some 
nights, she'd come in and eat a bite. Sometimes, she'd turn the tube 
on and listen to the news. Some nights, she'd call her mom. Every 
night, she buried herself in her work. And every night, she had to 
sleep.

She'd always come into her bedroom with a tired sigh and undo her 
buttoned blouse or her skirt, just leaving them dangling and then 
she'd go over to her window and stare out into the starlit sky and 
mutter those wonderful threats and angry questions to him for a 
while... and then...she became very still and very quiet...every 
night. Just when I'd think she'd fallen asleep standing up, she'd turn 
away, finish undressing, careful to hang her suit up with precision 
care and then walk over to her full length mirror where she'd look at 
herself, just look...for the longest moment... and then...then...she'd 
cry.

That's when I knew she hurt. So many nights, so many tears. The words 
in those moments were always hard for me to make out as she would 
defeatedly drop to her bed, cover her face and let harsh tears flow. 
The whispered words that fell from her lips always spoke of 
trust...and of love...and still...of 'Mulder.' Always Mulder.

Then one night, not so very long ago...it all changed. The missus came 
in late. I mean, she always came in late, but this was really late. I 
mean, so late that'd I'd already had to get up and find myself a 
snack. She didn't stop in the living room either, didn't go to the 
kitchen, didn't turn any lights on, just came straight to the bedroom 
and fell across her bed as if exhausted. That's when I realized that 
she wasn't alone.

*He* appeared in the door. You know, *him*... the jerk.

He'd just stood there like a statue looking at her profile for the 
longest. I wanted him to get lost before he made the missus cry again. 
He'd had other ideas.

"Scully, let me get that blouse off of you. You can't sleep in it." He 
started over towards her.

"It's...it's fine Mulder. Thanks for bringing me home. You didn't have 
to come in. I'll be..fi..o.k....really."

Yeah, sure she would. What had that idiotic sorry excuse for a man 
done to her now? Not only is she bloody as all hell, she's been crying 
her eyes out. I oughta...

"Scully, please...let me help you."

What? Jerkboy was begging? I was wrong. There *is* a just God.

He sat down beside her on the bed and lifted her to a sitting 
position. She seemed too tired to offer any protest. Gently, he begin 
to open each button of her soiled shirt. I noticed that he didn't look 
at his hands but at her eyes as he did so. What amazed me was that she 
let him. Her eyes held his as he did the task, neither blinking, each 
of them breathing slowly as if it were an action that meant life or 
death.

Agent Scully?

Finally, when all of the buttons were undone, he ever so gently pushed 
the sticky, sickening garment off of her arms and into the floor. She 
was now before him in nothing but that small black lace bra that held 
her creamy slope so beautifully. Both sat deadly still on her bed, 
staring into each other's eyes, just breathing... for a full 
twenty-two seconds. I counted.

"Mulder, I.."

Agent Scully had broken the spell first with a whisper of his name 
that sounded heartwrenchingly like a plea.

"Shhh...." He brought his finger to her lip.

"Just let me listen to your heartbeat."

And then, he brought his head down in front of her, nudged the soft 
lace with his nose, and laid his face against her bare breast.

I don't know how long they sat like that, enclasped with silent tears 
running down both their faces. All I know is that I was mesmerized. 
Totally.

That almost made me cry, might have if I were able to do such a thing. 
But hell, I don't cry. Never have. But, I certainly stared into the 
dark night sky for a while listening as they breathed. Pondering...

She loved him. Here I thought that she wanted to rip his nuts off or 
something and she loved him the entire time. Shows how bright I am. 
Will I never learn to understand human nature? Is it my destiny to 
always make mistakes in matters of judgement? I'd been watching her, 
reading her, learning to respect her for months, but I really didn't 
know her at all. He...jerkboy...Mulder...whatever... must love her too 
or he wouldn't care for her like this, wouldn't act like this. Would 
he? When I looked back at them, they had fallen across her bed in the 
same position, his cheek still on her chest, her hands grasping his 
back to hold him to her. Her breathing was steady...a peaceful rise 
and fall. She didn't talk in her sleep that night.

I kept my eyes open wide the entire night...watching Mulder just in 
case he made her cry again. I've respected Mulder a little more since 
that night. When morning came, he did what he should have done. He 
quietly got up, pulled the afgan from the end of her bed, and without 
disturbing her much needed rest, covered her. Standing above her, he 
bent to pick up the once white blouse she owned and tucked it away 
under his arm. Walking to the doorway, he turned to stare at her for 
what seemed like hours, but in fact was only minutes, and then, he 
left...

Good to know I'm not the only gentleman left in this world.

Things got better after that night. The missus would come home after 
work, turn the stereo on and sing along a bit while she cooked or 
cleaned...and man, does she sing bad. Or, if she did work, she often 
called Mulder on the phone. He even came by several times. There was 
never a mention that I heard of that night in the bedroom ,but she 
talked with him about cases, and about her family and even laughed 
with him a few times. When he'd leave, she still often would go to the 
window and stand. I almost expected to hear her curse him like in the 
old days, or tell him to go fuck himself, but she never did. I must 
say that I did miss her little voice calling him names just a bit. She 
was so damn good at it. But, I wouldn't trade her peacefulness for the 
all the top-notch swearin in the world. Not for anything. As a matter 
of fact, she never even got angry much anymore, and she certainly 
didn't cry again, well until that night a few weeks back. The night he 
gave her the present.

I'd been busy working when she came in and she caught me off guard. I 
had to do a double take to believe my eyes. She had this huge, stupid 
grin on her face. I mean, she was really grinning. And my missus 
doesn't *grin*. Period. And in her hand, she held this crazy looking 
colorful bag with The Jetson's logo on it and a picture of George, 
Elroy and that stupid dog in a spaceship. She kept that grin in place 
and promptly deposited the bag on the end of the bed behind her.

She walked over to her dresser and took her earrings out. What was 
that she was humming? Happy Birthday? I noted her reflection in the 
full length mirror as she slipped out of her brown suede jacket that 
she and her mom had hauled in earlier in the day. Underneath it, she 
had just a black sleeveless shell which I noticed appeared wet from 
perspiration. Wisps of auburn hair, darkened by sweat clung to her 
forehead too. What *had* she been doing?

In one quick movement, she jerked the shell over her head and let it 
hit the floor. She continued to stare at herself in the full length 
mirror and devested herself of her black slacks, smiling as they slid 
down her legs. She kicked them aside to join her shell on the floor. 
Since when did she not hang every garment up immediately? I was 
getting a little worried.

Facing the mirror now in just her normal black bra and matching 
panties, she stood for the longest as if trying to decide what to do 
next. Very deliberately, she then reached around behind her and 
unclasped the lacy bra. It slid down her arms slowly and she watched 
her reflection as it did, bringing her hands up to catch it and drop 
it to her feet. Surprisingly, she raised one eyebrow and looped her 
fingers inside her panties and slid them down to rest beside the bra. 
Instead of reaching into her drawer for pajamas as I expected her to, 
she reached behind her into the ridiculous bag and pulled a grey 
jersey from it. She studied it for a long moment, turning it over and 
looking at the back where SCULLY was written in huge letters along 
with a number. Thirty-five. She traced it ever so slowly with shaking 
fingers. I wondered what significance it must hold for her.

For ever so long, she stood just smiling and looking down at the 
jersey. Finally, she unbuttoned it and drew the large sleeves over her 
small bare arms. The tail of it fell to just the bottom of her 
buttocks completely covering only if she stood still, which she did 
not. Turning slightly to her side, she let the unbuttoned jersey flap 
open as she looked back at her reflection over her shoulder. Sighing, 
she let her lids close slowly across her bright eyes. Bringing her 
hand up, she silently caressed her own slightly pink cheek.

I felt every bit the voyeur as she, with eyes completely sealed shut, 
brought her hand down her body ever so gracefully. Down her neck, she 
slowed and turned her fingers to graze both sides. She paused briefly 
over her heart and flattened her palm out across it. Moving again, she 
smoothed the hand over her left breast, just barely touching the 
nipple that now stood out prominently. Picking up it's weight in small 
fingers, she moved only her thumb. Crossing the breadth of the nipple, 
she flicked it gently with the pad and inhaled sharply.

Not satisfied, she made her fingers into a web and moved them across 
her stomach, smoothing them back and forth slowly, her strong back 
arching gently. Daring now, she steadily stroked ever lower, coming to 
a stop at her hip, just inches from her most intimate place. Her head 
raised, and she brought her eyes wide open to reveal them as blue and 
bright as I had never seen, crystal clear and shining as she 
determinedly met her own reflection in the mirror once more. Her eyes 
fell sensuously to her already open lips and she brought out a small 
pink tongue to lick first the top, and then the bottom, before 
speaking. One, ever so tender word, was all she breathed. It didn't 
surprise me to hear it.

"Mulder..."

With that, she plunged into herself with a cry that only a woman such 
as Dana Scully could make.

It was a cry of release, of strength, a cry of joy, of hope and most 
of all, a cry of love. And it was all for him. What a lucky, lucky 
man.

Nowadays, every night that she's home, the missus puts on that damn 
jersey and sometimes even sleeps in it. I don't know why she would 
like it better than flowers but she does. I don't question her. I have 
no right to. But I do care about her which is funny considering we 
haven't and can't ever meet if I value my pathetic life which, because 
of her, doesn't seem quite so rotten anymore.

Sometimes, she cries now,but I don't worry about her as much anymore. 
I wasn't born yesterday ya know. I know that she's found a place of 
happiness in the dark before the cries and that it is just a matter of 
time before I'll have to share my courageous hero and our dark secret 
places with *him*...you know...the jerk.

Have I mentioned how much I adore her? It doesn't hurt that she's 
really good with a flyswatter either. That nice fat juicy one she 
swatted this morning is still on the windowsill and if I'm lucky, I 
can probably get a good view of the stars while I'm up there. Hey, 
it's not my old life but when you screw up as badly as I did, you take 
what you can get.

Skittering across the carpet ever so quietly, I cast one last glance 
upwards at her sleeping form just to make sure I'm not bothering her.

Nah...she's snoring.

Softly.

And I've got webs to spin before I sleep.


Finis. Feedback at BamaX@msn.com


Author's final note: No, I am not a hinduist nor do I believe in 
another life my husband was a pig. But hey, if a serpent can be reborn 
as a dark-haired female FBI agent, then I figure sometimes, it can 
work the other way around too. * )