From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 23 Mar 2002 23:57:11 -0000
Subject: The Talented Tongue of Fox W. Mulder by Samantha L. Caldwell
Source: direct

Reply To: sister_spooky@hotmail.com


Title: The Talented Tongue of Fox W. Mulder (1/1)
Author: Samantha L. Caldwell
Rating: PG
Category: SRH
Keywords: MSR, fluff
Spoilers: Brand X, teeny tiny one for Biogenesis/The Sixth
Extinction

Summary: A boring meeting in a cold room leads to warm coffee
and... tongue exercises.

Disclaimer: Their biological father was abusive, so I'm adopting
them.                                       

Feedback: will be worshiped. A little encouragement would be
*so* very appreciated! sister_spooky@hotmail.com

Archive: Sure, wherever, just please keep my name and e-mail,
and it'd be nice if you'd let me know.

Author's Notes: This story was written for a challenge given to
me by the always delightful Tara (who is also handicapped in the
ways of the tongue). She wanted to read a story in which one of
the agents reveal that they can't curl their tongue. It's not
Shakespeare, people, but I do hope you enjoy these few pages of
fluffy goodness.
I'm aware that the Scully characterization here may be a little off-
base, but I was actually trying to capture and expand upon the
ease and lightheartedness she'd displayed near the end of season
seven.


The Talented Tongue of Agent Fox W. Mulder

I think this is the longest meeting I've ever been to. Or maybe...
maybe it just feels that way. But God, it's like we've been sitting
here for days. 
     
The room's freezing cold. This is were my discomfort starts. It
feels like they have the air conditioner going full blast  and it's
the middle of January.  I'm trying my darndest to keep my teeth
from chattering audibly. I shouldn't have worn a skirt. My
pantyhose are thin and I'm starting to wonder if my lips are as
blue as they feel. The only heat I feel is the tiny patch of warmth
where my knee is pressed against Mulder's. I'm sitting close
beside him  real close, any closer and I'd be in his lap. He hasn't
said anything about this yet, and I'm thanking God for that; the
small amount of heat he's giving off is the only thing keeping me
from hypothermia. My fingers are like icicles clenched in my lap,
and I can't help staring at Mulder's hands; playing with his pen as
he pretends to take notes. I'm imagining how wonderfully warm
his large, gentle hands would be, how luxuriously cozy mine
would feel tucked between them. Please God, let this meeting be
over soon.

The second uncomfortable element of this is that I can't see a
damn thing. Skinner is sitting directly in front of me  all I can see
is the back of his shiny bald head. I should have asked Mulder to
switch with me.

Not that I really need to see anything, anyway. This has got to be
the most boring, inessential, meaningless meeting I've ever been
to. Its not even a meeting, really, more of a seminar. I'm not even
completely sure what they're talking about up there now... the
proper way to fill out expense reports, I think. Ha. I've done
enough of those to know exactly how to fill them out.

I shiver, a fleet of chills running up my back and making the hairs
on my neck stand up. Mulder notices my tiny convulsion and
looks up from his notepad, concern drawn on his features.

"You okay, Scully?" His voice is a whisper, but still Skinner hears
and turns to glare at us like a condescending schoolteacher.

I paint on my best 'stern-face' and bring my index finger to my
lips to remind him to be quiet. Then I feel bad  he was only
concerned for me, so I mouth the word 'cold', and rub my arms
through my suit jacket for emphasis.

Mulder nods a bit, then reaches over and takes both of my hands
into one of his, and  oh  jesus that feels better... his hands are
warm and soft just like I knew they'd be... I'm suddenly warmer
than I've been all day and I can't help letting my eyelids drift shut
at the warm relief.

Realizing where we are and how this must look, my eyes pop
open and I quicky scan the room to see if anyone has noticed. But
they all seem completely engrossed in whatever the agent at the
front with the big pointer and the bad comb-over is saying. And
suddenly I see them starting to flip their notebooks closed and
tuck their pencils behind their ears and Mulder lets go of my
hands and I realize that it's over and I'm free, I'm free, I'm free!

My partner stands and stretches, then reaches down with one
hand, offering to help me up. I must look as stunned as I feel. I
can't believe it's finally over...

"You ready to blow this joint, Scully?" 

"Yes!" Whoa. That came out with a little more enthusiasm than I
wanted. I can feel the blush start to creep up my cheeks at my
breach of composure, but Mulder's chuckling, and everyone else
has already filed out the door.

"Wanna get a coffee?" He asks as we leave the hall. It's a
Saturday (I *hate* Saturday meetings) and all I really want to do
is go home and get into my sweats and curl up in my warm bed
with my dog-eared copy of Sense and Sensibility. But this is
Mulder asking me for coffee, and I know if I decline without
offering a good excuse he's going to be offended and he'll be
sulking on Monday. SulkyMulder is not something to start off the
week with. It'll be a lot easier just to go for coffee with him.
Besides, he's not really bad company.

"Yeah, sure," I nod, following him into the elevator and watching
as he presses the button that'll bring us to the parking garage.
"I'd go for just about anything warm right now."

"You still cold?" There's it is again, that sweet look of worry that
flashes across his face. His constant concern with my health
started after my cancer, almost four years ago. Sometimes I find it
suffocating and irritating... but sometimes, like now, it's kind of
touching.

I manage a smile, as my teeth have sufficiently stopped chattering.
"Getting better, but yeah."
"Maybe you're coming down with something... there's a flu going
around..."

I catch his hand and lace my fingers with his with a small chuckle
before he can reach my forehead. "Mulder, I'm fine. You sound
like my mother."

He grins sheepishly. "Sorry. I just... don't want you getting sick. I
need you to do the paperwork."

"Oh is *that* all you need me for?" I tip my head in mock anger,
grateful for his light mood. I guess he didn't find the seminar
quite as unbearable as I did. The elevator doors open with a
cheery "ding" and we walk out into the parking garage.

"Starbucks on the corner of Maple and Buckingham?" He asks as
we approach our cars.

"Sure, I'll meet you there," I nod my agreement and get into the
car. As I make my way out of the parking garage and onto the
street I wonder why we never say goodbye to each other. It
probably has something to do with the fact that we've both been
on the brink of death a ridiculous number of times. Every time I
find Mulder lying near-death on a hospital bed after a run in with
a suspect's bullet, or a mysterious brain illness, or a lung
infestation of tobacco beetles, I find myself preparing to say
goodbye. I work out exactly what I'm going to say to him  how I
feel about him, what he means to me, how I'll promise to
continue his quest once he's gone. I've never had to use those
speeches, and I thank God every day for that. I guess we're faced
with goodbyes so often in our job that saying it casually at the
end of a conversation would be strange and... kind of
meaningless. Or maybe it would remind us of all the other
goodbyes we've had to say.

I see the 'Starbucks' sign as I approach the little coffee shop and
pull into the parking lot. Mulder's already there, sitting in his car
waiting for me. He gets out when he sees me pull up.

"Hey," he smiles at me, dimples flashing, as I step out of the car. 

"Hey," I smile back and he suddenly slips his arm around my
shoulders and I'm once again confronted with his wonderful
warmth. We've been touching a lot more since New Year's eve...
since that kiss. Our relationship has always been relatively tactile 
Mulder likes the contact, I think  but since then it's been
different. Less guarded, more open. I can't say I don't like it.
He's so beautifully warm...

"Grande double late with extra cream and caramel shots," Mulder
orders when we get to the cash. I laugh and order my usual decaf
with skim milk and no sugar.

"Oh come on, Scully, live a little! That stuff can't taste any
good."

I glance at him, and, feeling very naughty, tell the kid behind the
cash "I'll have what he's having," and Mulder looks surprised.
Pleased, and surprised.

We're given our drinks, and I look around for a table. One left in
the smoking section. I squint through the haze of repulsive grey
smoke and shake my head. "Let's drink these outside."

"I thought you were cold," he contests lightly.

"S'ok. The coffee'll warm me up."


Downtown D.C. in January isn't the most scenic place in the
world. The streets are full of dirty sludge, the sky is grey, the air
smells like road salt. We walk a little and manage to find a bench
at a small playground. I pull my coat tightly around myself, wrap
my hands around my coffee cup and wiggle in next to Mulder, as
close together as we were at the meeting. I have to say, I'm a hell
of a lot warmer now.

He smells like Christmas  crisp and spicy and exciting. The feel of
his coat against me is nice too, warm and soft and comforting. I
sip my double-cream-late-whatever-it-is slowly, savouring the
creamy heat of it on my tongue.

I glance over at Mulder. He's doing the strangest thing with his
coffee... he's got the top off and is slurping up the bits of caramel
and cream from the surface of the drink with the curled tip of his
tongue. I can't help chuckling.

"Don't laugh, Scully. This is the *only* way to drink this stuff."

"Whatever you say, Mulder. I just wanted to let you know how
dignified you look." 

"Come on, try it."

"What, and look like you?" I laugh.

"Try iiiit..." he urges, a goofy grin plastered on his face.

"I can't, Mulder."

"Yes you can. Come on, just curl the tip of your tongue and..."

"I can't."

"Can't what? Curl your tongue?" He looks shocked.

"Yes. Being able to curl your tongue is a dominant genetic trait.
But... neither of my parents can do it, and I ended up with the
same recessive trait. I can't do it." Not for lack of trying, but I
certainly won't be telling him how I used to stand in front of the
mirror for hours trying to roll my tongue.

"I just... never picture you with that particular handicap..."

"I hardly consider it a handicap."

"What do you mean? Just look at what you're missing..." He does
his tongue-curl-coffee-sippy thing again.

I huff, mocking offense, and in one of those moments of complete
and utter goofiness that occasionally cross my path, I uncover my
coffee, dip my face over it, and try with all my might to replicate
my partner's trick. 
He's howling with laughter when a good portion of it dribbles
down my chin. "Why Agent Scully, you're so refined."

"It doesn't work if you don't curl your tongue," I pout, holding
back a giggle.

"Look, I'll teach you how to do it." He curls his tongue as if he
were showing me how.

"Mulder," I shake my head. "It's not something you can learn to
do. I was not born with the ability to curl my tongue. Get over it
already."

"Scully, you can do anything you put your mind to."

"It's impossible. I've tried."

"How many impossible things have we seen verified in our 7
years on the X-files, Scully?" He doesn't wait for me to answer.
"Surely one little twirl of the tongue is nothing compared to the
existence of a flukeman.... or a brain-eating fast food jockey, or a
150 year old liver-eating mutant... or..."

"Okay, okay, okay. What do I do?" As if this is really going to
work. You cannot train your body to do something it isn't
genetically programed to do.

"Dusth look at whath Ahm doingg with by tongue," he's trying to
talk around his curled tongue. God almighty. "And conthentrate
on the thides of your own tongue. You hath to will it to happen."

"I'm willing it, Multher. Ith ithn't going." I can't believe I'm
sitting in a public park with my tongue hanging out of my mouth
and I don't care. I don't care one bit.

"Twy harder, Thcully! If you can envision it, you can do it!"

"Multher! You thound like Billy Graham!" I can't hold my tongue
like this any longer and I'm laughing, really laughing, sloshing my
cooling coffee all over myself and Mulder and the bench, and then
all of a sudden he's kissing me. My lips part instinctively when I
feel his soft, wet tongue against them, and then he's in my mouth,
infusing me with his warmth, his hands in my hair. And then I feel
it. His tongue swirling around mine, lifting the edges into a
perfect little 'u' shape, and.... ah, he tastes like coffee... and...
hey! I did it! I curled my tongue! And... and I'm kissing Mulder.

He pulls away from me, his lips leaving mine with a soft, wet
slurp. He grins, placing one last kiss on my nose before standing
up and taking my hand and pulling me up.

"Told ya you could do it," he boasts proudly as we make our way
back to our cars hand-in-hand.

"I guess anything *is* possible," I shrug lightly, not thinking
about flukemen or tobacco beetles or goodbyes or even curling
tongues. Nah, I'm too busy delighting in the feeling of warmth
flowing through my body and the lingering taste of sweet coffee
in my mouth. A.D. Skinner, bring on the seminars, cuz I don't
think I'll ever be cold again!
                                   

Finis

~*~*~*~*~

 
Did ya like it? Even a little? Should I stick to angst? Lemme
know at sister_spooky@hotmail.com