From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Sat,  8 Nov 2008 00:35:28 -0600 (CST)
Subject: Then Comes Marriage (1/1) by bellefleur
Source: direct

Reply To: bellefleur1013@yahoo.com


TITLE: THEN COMES MARRIAGE
AUTHOR: bellefleur
EMAIL ADDRESS: bellefleur1013@yahoo.com
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: sure
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: V
DISCLAIMER: Not mine; they belong to CC, FOX, etc.
SUMMARY: What happens in Vegas doesn't always stay in 
Vegas.

Notes: This story is intended as a prequel to "First 
Comes Love," although both stories can stand on their 
own.  This isn't the first time this scenario has been 
written, although I don't recall seeing it written 
exactly this way.

* * * * *
* * * * *

When Melville described Hell as an idea first born on a 
undigested apple dumpling, he'd obviously never been to 
Las Vegas.  Hell must have been conceived during an 
interminable layover in the Las Vegas airport.   I'm sure 
I'll be hearing the dinging of slot machines in my sleep 
tonight--that is, if I can ever get home to sleep.

Mulder and I are trapped here in this living nightmare 
because of weather delays.  Never mind the fact that it 
was perfectly clear, and perfectly hot, all day long as 
we drove around the Nevada wilderness, and that there's 
not a storm system in sight for at least 100 miles in any 
direction.  No, the reason we're sitting here subjected 
to the incredibly repetitive dinging and flashing is 
because of a thunderstorm in Chicago.  Where our plane is 
currently sitting, waiting to take off.  While I sit here 
in Las Vegas listening to the cacophony of slot machines, 
ringing, and pinging, and dinging...  

I suppose it would be frowned upon for a federal agent to 
whip out her gun and put a few of those poor machines out 
of their misery.

And just when I think the evening can't get any worse, it 
happens--our flight status on the board is suddenly 
changed from "delayed" to "canceled."

Closing my eyes, I throw my head back against the seat 
and groan.

"Hey, cheer up, Scully," Mulder says, annoyingly 
enthusiastic.  "The night is still young.  What's the fun 
of being in Vegas if you don't get to enjoy the 
nightlife?"

I'm not sure I want to know what kind of nightlife Mulder 
is interested in enjoying.  Somehow I don't think that 
lights are the only thing he wants to see flashing.

"Let's just get a room--"

"Ooh, Scully, I like the way you think."

I open my eyes and sit up straight to glare at him.  
"That's not what meant.  Mulder, I'm tired, I have a 
headache, and I just want to find a quiet place to get 
some sleep."

"C'mon, Scully, it'll be fun.  The lights, the magic.  
There's no other place like it on earth."  

Oh, no.  He's whining, cajoling.  Somehow he's going to 
talk me into this.  I can already feel it.  I have to be 
sure to hold out long enough that I get a good deal out 
of the situation.  I cross my arms and settle further 
into my seat.

"All-you-can-eat buffet?" he tries.  "I know you're 
hungry, and that Taco Bell over there isn't going to do 
it for you."

I remain silent and, I hope, poker-faced.

"I'll spring for some chips, and we'll wow them at the 
craps table."

I raise an eyebrow to up the ante.

"I'll even buy you a drink.  It'll ease the headache and 
help you relax."

It's time for me to cash in.  "Make it two and you've got 
a deal."

"Hey, I'll make it three.  I'm feeling generous tonight."

What the hell.  I'm tired, I'm cranky, and we're stuck 
here until tomorrow morning.  What happens in Vegas, 
stays in Vegas, right?  If we're lucky, maybe we'll see 
Elvis.

* * *

*Ring*

I was right--I can still hear those damn slot machines 
even in my sleep.

*Ring*

I slowly surface to reality, and the sound becomes more 
recognizable.  That isn't a slot machine.  But the 
headache from last night is back full force, and that 
ringing isn't helping.

"Make it stop."  Or at least, that's what I think I 
mumbled.

There's an answering moan just inches from my ear, 
startling me fully awake.  I open my eyes to take in my 
surroundings.  Light seeps through behind a curtain, 
dimly illuminating a hotel room.  The air conditioner is 
blowing at full blast, chilling my exposed skin--and *a 
lot* of it is exposed.  My pants are gone, my blouse is 
unbuttoned and hanging open.  At least I'm still wearing 
my bra and underwear.  But I notice that one part of my 
body is reasonably warm: the part of my abdomen and chest 
where a very male arm lies draped across my body.  A 
*bare* male arm, with a hand cupping my breast.  I close 
my eyes again, not sure I want to know how clothed the 
rest of him is.

Only as the ringing starts up again do I realize it had 
briefly stopped.  It's a cell phone, somewhere on the 
other side of the room.  I hear the moan again, clearly a 
sound of frustration, and emitted by a very familiar 
voice.  His fingers reflexively grasp at me slightly 
before his arm lifts from me entirely.  I close my shirt 
to fend off the resulting chill.

"Mulder," he rasps.  His voice sounds turned away from 
me, so I venture a glance in his direction.  My partner 
is seated on the edge of the bed, his bare back to me, 
the phone to his ear.  And, to my relief, he's still 
wearing his boxers.

I tune out his conversation and try to piece together the 
details of how we got here.  Receiving the hotel voucher 
at the airport, I remember.  And dinner.  And a couple of 
drinks.  But maybe it was more than just a couple, 
because I don't remember much after that.

Mulder ends the calls and grunts in my direction, 
"Skinner.  He wants us in California."

"A new case?"  A stupid question, I realize, but he 
doesn't seem to notice.

"Missing persons.  Lights in the sky.  You know, the 
usual.  He wants us on it as soon as possible."

As he finishes speaking, he turns and looks at me.  His 
eyes widen as he takes in my attire.  Then he looks down 
at himself and frowns.  Don't ask me, Mulder; I don't 
have any more of a clue than you seem to.

Self-consciously, I button up my blouse and try to avoid 
the obvious conversation.  "I'll go take a shower.  Why 
don't you call the airline and change our flight?"

Without sparing him another glance, I head for my 
suitcase that I see just inside the doorway, and I pull 
out my toiletry bag and fresh change of clothes.  I'm 
almost to the bathroom when I hear Mulder's strained 
voice behind me.

"Scully?  I think you should take a look at this."

Mulder is standing by the table across the room, clearly 
distressed by the piece of paper lying in front of him.  
I cross to him quickly, concerned what it is that has 
caused this level of anxiety.

But nothing can prepare me for what I see: 

Certificate of Marriage.  Fox William Mulder...Dana 
Katherine Scully...yesterday's date...both of our 
signatures.  And a very official looking stamp by the 
State of Nevada.

Out of habit, I look up at my partner, who is staring at 
me in shock.  Apparently, I'm not the only one who had 
too much to drink last night.  And I can see in his eyes, 
he wants answers that I'm not ready to uncover.   So I do 
the most sensible thing I can, under the circumstances--I 
avoid him.

I grab up the clothes that have fallen from my hand and 
head for the bathroom.

"Scully?"  His voice is full of confusion, and perhaps a 
hint of desperation.

"Later, Mulder," I reply over my shoulder.  "We have work 
to do."

When the bathroom door latches behind me, I slump against 
it and admit to myself the very truth I'm trying to deny: 

I just got drunk and married my partner.

* * *

I set down the watering can and check my watch again.  
Watering my houseplants only managed to kill five 
minutes.  I have another ten at least before Mulder 
arrives.  I scan my apartment again, looking for 
something to distract me.  I already went through the 
mail.  My grocery list is done.  I dusted yesterday.

So I do the only other thing I can think of--I return to 
pacing.

This nervous energy has been plaguing me all day, 
although I'm not entirely sure what to make of it.  Am I 
happy that Mulder is bringing by the annulment papers 
from his lawyer?  Relieved that this embarrassing farce 
will soon be over?  Or is that a twinge of disappointment 
or dread that I'm feeling?  I'm not certain that I want 
to know.

It's been almost a week since we returned from 
California.  It was easy enough to put Las Vegas behind 
us when he had a case to focus on.  Yes, there was some 
tension, a few awkward silences, but we were 
professional, we were partners, and we didn't let a 
personal matter get in the way of our work.  Since then, 
we've done our best to avoid the subject.  Or, at least, 
I thought we had, until yesterday.  

As casually as he would say, "I'm stopping by the dry 
cleaners," or "I have a dentist appointment," Mulder 
said, "I'll drop by my lawyer's tomorrow and have him 
draw up the annulment papers."

Just like that.  What happened in Vegas will stay in 
Vegas.  As though it never happened at all.

That's a good thing, right?

I check my watch again.  Mulder called almost half an 
hour ago to see if I was home and said he was on the way 
over.  Taking into account traffic this time of day, and 
distance...

A familiar knock saves me from doing the math again.  I 
take a deep breath and open the door.

"Hey," Mulder says, giving me a sheepish smile.

"Hi," I return, stepping aside to let him enter.  Why do 
I feel as nervous as he looks?

I close the door and turn to see him facing me, grasping 
a large manila envelope in his hand.  There it is.  The 
papers.  We sign them, and our moment of impulsiveness 
will be erased forever.

"Scully, why don't you have a seat?"

The way he said that doesn't help put me at ease.  I sit 
down on the couch, but he doesn't follow his own 
suggestion.

"I talked to my lawyer and, well...it seems that getting 
an annulment isn't as easy as I thought it would be."  He 
starts to pace around my living room, shifting the 
envelope between his hands.  "You see, there's a very 
specific list of conditions under which you can request 
an annulment--"

"Isn't inebriation one of them?  We were drunk, Mulder!  
We didn't know what we were doing!"

He stops and looks at me.  "You didn't actually look at 
the paperwork from the wedding chapel, did you?"

I look away guiltily.  No, I hadn't.  Out of sight, out 
of mind, as they say.  Or at least, that's what I was 
trying for.

"No," I admit quietly.

He pulls out a photocopied page from the manila envelope 
and hands it to me.  While I look at the paper, he 
explains, "Before the ceremony, we signed an affidavit 
that we were sober and in our right minds.  This place 
has enough of a history that they've learned to cover 
their bases for potential lawsuits." 

I would be more than happy to call up the owners of this 
fine establishment and tell them just what I think of 
them allowing quite obviously intoxicated people to sign 
such a statement, let alone make life-long vows, but 
first things first.

I hand back the page.  "Surely there must be some other 
condition that we meet."

Mulder grimaces.  "Unless you can prove that we're blood 
relatives, I'm afraid not."

"What are you saying, Mulder?"  I see where he's headed, 
but I'm not going to believe it unless he says the words.

"We'll have to get a divorce."

The breath leaves my lungs like I've been punched in the 
gut.  How can I be divorced when I've never really been 
married?  I don't know which part bothers me the most 
about it.  It's not a Catholic thing, since our marriage 
was never recognized by the Church.  But it's a social 
stigma.  A demerit.  Like getting an F on an exam because 
I forgot to show up for class that day.  I want to plead 
ignorance and beg the teacher for another chance.

Mulder sets the envelope in front of me on the coffee 
table.  After a moment of hesitation, he finally sits 
next to me on the couch.  I stare at the envelope, 
unwilling to examine its contents.

"Scully," he says at last, breaking our silence, "there's 
something I'd like you to consider first."

I look over at him, eager for whatever ray of hope he's 
about to offer.

"Divorce--it's...an admission of failure.  And I hate the 
idea of admitting failure for something that we never 
even gave a chance."

I raise my eyebrows.  Is he proposing what I think he is?  
"Mulder..."

"Scully," he interrupts, lifting my hand from my lap and 
holding it in both of his.  To my relief, he doesn't drop 
down on one knee.  He seems to weigh his words, then 
continues.  "I know we didn't go about this the right 
way, but...we obviously care about each other, right?"

I nod dumbly.  

He absently strokes my palm with his thumb.  "And we're 
already committed to taking care of each other, at least 
on some level.  We've been doing it for years."

"Yeah," I manage to squeak out.

"And you're already like family to me.  Closer, even.  We 
spend a number of holidays together.  Evenings, weekends.  
It's no wonder people are always mistaking us for a 
couple."

"Uh huh."  I'm still nodding.

"So, what do you say?"

"Yes?"  I realize a moment too late--I meant that as a 
question, not an answer.  He was leading me there, and I 
simply said the next logical statement in the train of 
thought.  He must understand this, because he looks 
uncertain.

"Yes?" he asks.

"No!" I blurt out.  "I mean, I don't know.  I'm not sure 
yet.  I need to think about this."

"Okay, take your time," he offers.

I need space.  I get up and walk to the kitchen.  Bracing 
my arms against the counter, I try to calm the thoughts 
racing through my head.

Married.  To Mulder.

There are worse fates, I suppose.  He's correct, we 
didn't go about this the right way.  He's not asking me 
to marry him; he's asking me not to divorce him.  I can't 
help but laugh.  It's crazy, and unconventional--but why 
should I expect anything less where the two of us are 
concerned?

My chuckle dies down, and I turn and look back at my 
partner.  He is smiling ruefully, sharing my mirth at our 
own expense, even without me saying a word of 
explanation.  Even so, there's a spark of hope in his 
eyes.  

If I'm going to divorce him, it might as well be for a 
good reason, right?  I should at least give him a chance 
to piss me off or create irreconcilable differences.  Why 
kick him to the curb so soon?  

It's crazy.

I push away from the counter and return to the living 
room.

It's unconventional.

I open the manila envelope and pull out the divorce 
papers.  Then I tear them in half.

It's us.

I drop the papers onto the coffee table and turn to my 
partner--my *husband*--who looks positively giddy.

"On one condition," I say.

His smile wavers slightly.  "Anything."

"I want a ring."

His smile broadens, and he nods.

Well, to be honest, I want a lot of things, but a ring's 
a good place to start.

It'll make this easier to explain to my mother.

* * * * *
* * * * *

Author's notes: The beauty of writing a prequel: those of 
you who would request a sequel? It's already written!

Visit my stories at: www.geocities.com/bellefleur1013

Send feedback to: bellefleur1013@yahoo.com