From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: 22 Dec 2001 20:38:34 -0000 Subject: Three Men and a Baby (1/1) by shirlock Source: direct Reply To: shirlock67@shaw.ca Title: Three men and a baby (1/1) Author: Shirlock Rating: G Category: V/HUMOUR/ MSR/ Third person POV Disclaimer: Please turn the page over for disclaimers. Timeline: This happens one year after Edgar Sharp, photographer extraordinaire first runs into Mulder and Scully in my universe. Photographer's POV. This is actually Shooting Dana (part 2). You don't need to read that story to understand all of this, but you might enjoy knowing the history behind their first encounter. Read it here: http://krycek.gossamer.org/gossamer /cgi-bin/story.cgi.txt?st/ShootingDana.Shirlock All my stories are archived at Gossamer. Archive: OK Gossy, OK Spookys. Anyone else please ask: shirlock67@shaw.ca Completed December 21, 2001 Summary: What a photographer studying what a person in love looks like. Merry Christmas everyone! ********** Summer, 2001 Washington DC. I step out into the mercurial sunshine. DC may be beautiful in summer but it is hotter than forty hells. I suck in a lungful of Potomac basin air discovering only it smelt neither like the Potomac nor the basin. Instead it smells like an odd mixture of stale algae, humid underarm odour and scorched rubber. The occasional whiff of freshly emitted carbon monoxide interming- ling with the aforementioned frumunda is on the stink scale of 1-10, a modest 89. But of course, compared to what I had to endure this morning, this is practically Chanel 5. Thirty-eight babies. Twenty-nine changes of baby diapers. Gawd knows how many bottles of milk and exposed mammary glands and tiny bums. Strange how breasts can feed my fantasies but attach a baby to the nipple and it's just another feed. My assistant Mark laughed out loud when one of the fathers referred it as "boobsie-joose" but when the freckled little sprog upchucked some of it on Mark as "baby ricotta", we could hear the sonic boom as he sprinted for the bathroom. Heck. The sun don't shine on the same dog's ass everyday. It's bound by the law of averages- one must have a snafu after a few uneventful days. But to be fair, you can't compare a photoshoot of a 1956 Plymouth to a Pampers ad seeing that it doesn't squeal or fidget. I should have insisted we fly out to California to do this shoot. At least in California there's a chance I could snap the next big star while he or she is still in diapers sucking a thumb or foot or both. And I still think it was a monumental waste of advertising dollars spending this much time taking a picture of a nonexistant perfect little baby who would sit and smile and look like he's content. A baby is just a baby, but a fifties Mopar is a good roll. Heheheheh. Nerts to the bigwig diaper fractory. Speaking of rolls, I had used up all thirteen rolls of film. Thirteen. The last time I used that many was snapping Ned Willaughby, aged 100 doing the tango with Betty Thomas, aged 98, both from Chicago Heights, Illinois. For some reason, I was half afraid that they wouldn't be able to make the next dip without fracturing a hip or having a coronary the way they spun and stomped at the senior's ball. But then again, at least I got at least two good shots of a dip and a twirl. But this morning's? I was certain I didn't get even one decent shot of any one baby doing what they were supposed to do. "...So your suspect landed tits-up, but the report stated that he was blind?" Contrary to popular fiction that our nation's capital is full of pedigreed biffs or propeller heads, I'm actually seeing quite a few normal families in Dominant Park. They must all be tourists. The Old Clock Tower has a truly amazing facade, one I had always failed to appreciate since I often walked with my eyes on people rather than on architecture, no matter how impressive or dignified the design. However, after restoration, it is now a new beehive of activity of shops and restaurants. A complex labyrinthe of federal cultural offices now make their home on this block. The perfect place to people gaze. "...er, someone's evesdropping." People gazing is really a bonefide hobby of mine. Once in a long while, I get to see someone with the X factor. That secret photogenic gene that only a handful of people have. An amazing and sometimes chilling look of love on a rare and beautiful face. I'llbe honest- a meteor shower is more frequent than the combination of style, personal strength and a naked expression of love that could fit on one face. I chance to look at a tiny little tot with the biggest blue eyes and the curliest fergie cowlick this side of the Atlantic and smile. He smiles briefly at me and I wonder if I could get him to smile in front of a camera. He's got a mischievious look. He wouldn't be half bad if I could convince his parents to let me use him in the Pampers ad. "Come on, she's not here yet." I pop a chicklet and sit back, placing the other dozen new rolls of film next to me. My eyes don't focus very well since I'm wrecked from squinting into an eyepiece the last four hours but my ears hear 20/20. There are three men and a very cute baby sitting in his stroller sucking his thumb not six feet from where I'm sitting. Two of them are wearing sunshades and look about as Government as having the words "Federal Employee" tattoed on their foreheads. The other one could pass off as the baby's grandfather. Um. Maybe not. "Melvin, you know I'm not supposed to talk about the case. And you shouldn't be using language like that around the kid." Sure enough, big blue innocent eyes are watching, completely absorbed in their conversation. A balding man reaches over to cover those tiny evesdroppers while his chubby, little hands swat him off. The adult starts cooing and clucking about his charge and I'm shocked that kind of sound could come out of him. "Hey Willie, you wanna go for a walkie-walk with unkie Walt?" It's like hearing Stone Cold Steve Austin sing the theme song from Sesame Street. He's one tough toffee. The other two men obviously do not hear this tone of voice often because they are agog, aghast, then amused. "Unkie Walt?" They both say simultaneously. "Whaaat?" He replies, before putting what I could easily mistake for the Intimidating Boss look. Or the let's-go-get-an-ice-cream and-leave- these-monkeys-alone-look. "C'mon William. Let's go get an ice-cream cone before mommy gets back." I smile to myself. This guy's too easy. "Melvin-" "Agent Doggett, call me Frohike. F-r-o-h-i-k-e. Didn't you get anything from Chuck Burkes? I thought she called him in-" "-I've got bubkis. This is even out of Chuck's normal realm of abnormality. She's doing all the scudwork. Every one of these so-called X-Files from all over generica always has a dead body and little else. All I do is wait while she fills up autopsy reports. She should get a freakin' medal for all the work." The older man narrows his intense gaze at him, his smile broadening as he and I work out the implications behind that comment. "You've got a crush on her," he says accusingly. "A crush?" Oh boy. He can't even flat out deny it. He's been gotten by the goolies. Frohike tosses his head back and laughs outright, "Yeah, you've got it bad for her. Agent Doggett, if you could figure out her feelings in less than seven years, I'll give you a friggin' medal." To my surprise, Doggett mumbles with as much implication, "a crush...yeah, you and me both." They stare across the park and I look up to find Unkie Walt pushing his charge with a smut-eating-grin, a small-sized woman walking beside him and licking what is a sodden mess of a cone clearly belonging to William with the smeared face and the squealing laugh and I think, yeah- Crush? Them and him three. She is dressed in a summer jacket and a long skirt that tugs and pulls at her hips, she is doing a catwalk on the green in as natural as the way she loops her hair around her ear. Oh. My. It's Muse Number Seven. Breathe in. Out. Dana Scully. Frohike shrugs. "If she had a clue how undercharming she tries to be is really twice as endearing, she wouldn't play so hard to get." Baldy ploughs right into their picnic spot and she lowers herself onto the blanket the only way a woman in skirt can. Camels, dromedaries and women have this gift. Dressed in a steel grey jacket which looks extremely modish for her small frame, she peels it off to reveal a V-necked cream coloured sleeveless top. It's sheer and gossamer light so that the tiny breeze actually makes the material plaster on her chest, outlining the shape and smooth cup of her bra. She is wearing a pair of sunglasses with dark oval frames, her pale skin a canvas to the extraordinary red staining on her lips that's from the dessert. She is holding a folder and a cheshire grin full of secrets which undoubtedly has a sunny saturday afternoon effect on all three men. "Are we having a meeting out here?" She says with a small smile. I suck in half a lungful of air and my heart palpitates just that bit faster. "Ask Walter. He called for it. But it sure beats the basement, right? Agent Scully eating an ice-cream. Anyone got a camera?" Agent Doggett says drily. I squealch the insane desire to rip off the lens cap and shoot her right there. "It isn't ice-cream, Agent Doggett. It's gelato." She is smugly polite, holding the strawberry vesuvius and licking some from her finger. It looked like someone had grabbed the cone from the wrong end. Hmmmptft. Like *that* matters?! I look at her gorgeous face again, and loving the gentle slopes of her cheeks as she sucks at the leaky ball of cream. My muse is a mom, eating an ice-cream only the mother of the child who made that could. The little boy is watching her, lodging his protests through squealing and pummelling the air at the injustice of his pilfered treat. His face is ridiculously sticky with cream and crumbs yet she leans into his face and kisses his forehead, only he doesn't want any kisses. He wants that sticky sweet cold thing so he makes a grab for it. In his effort to reach for his prize, he topples the cream onto her chest, into the vee of the neckline. There is a God and He has a sense of humour. Three men and a baby stare at her as she pulls out her neatly tucked blouse, then quick as flash Gordon, they start patting pockets. Doggett fished out his handkerchief first and was handing it to her. Unkie Walt held out a tissue from his breast pocket and Frohike kept digging into the baby bag to get at the Wet Ones. She merely looks up at the helpful musketeers, smirking even as she accepts Frohike's babywipe, but looking at the balding man, "Never figured you out for a tissue kinda guy, Sir." I can see the blood vessels on her neck surge like an overheated thermometer. All the while, she's calm. Annoyingly collected. I'd pay money to hear her laugh but I'm realistic- I'd settle just to see her smile again. My fingers start to itch and I'm checking to see if my camera is loaded. She folds the hem back and the gelato drops unceremoniously onto the grass. The three men offer their backs as she unbuttons the top of her blouse, wiping the stickiness that must have run a trail down her chest. She gratefully accepts Agent Doggett's handkerchief and dabs her mouth once, twice, before returning it. Unkie Walt is about to pocket his rejected 2-ply when she reaches for it and wipes her son's mouth with it. I am dying to laugh out loud but owing to a sense of deportment and common courteousy, feel like the snort from my nose will have to do. Lady Scully has accepted Sir Walt's kerchief. She starts to coo and fuss over her son, pulling out a fruit roll up and handing it to him while opening the folder on the picnic mat. She starts translating the medical jargon into an intelligible coroner's report on the cause of death and a few related cases back in the 70's reportedly in an X-File buried in some deep dungeon office in the FBI. I can't believe I'm actually enjoying her autopsy report. "He is an alector, Agent Doggett." She pronounces her verdict in very precise tones. "An alector, Agent Scully." He mimics in the same martini dry tone. His hands wave about in very much the same way I think his mind is blindly flailing. I can almost see the cartoony crooked halo Frohike has around his head. He obviously knows what the hell she's talking about. He chuckles appreciatively. "Mr. Suresh Bhagiv suffered from ergesis, a severe form of agrypnia, or intense wakefulness." She explains, leaving a ocean trench WFO for Agent Doggett to fill with a theory. If he flounders anymore, he'd be choking on seaweed. "So...?" So this Agent not the sharpest crayon in the box. She's picking up a crudite and crunching on it as her eyes bore into him. I squint at her and her features come to one collective place- her lips. She reaches for a chiquita banana from the fruit basket and absentmindedly starts peeling its skin. "Can a person die from being awake too long?" He asks at last. She beams at him. There's hope yet. I can smell the banana from here. Thank God my sense of smell has returned. "According to several leading sleep experts in the University of Pennsylvania and the Sleep Disorders Center in Maryland, yes. It's rare but not out of the realm of extreme possiblity. It's likely that he is somehow involved in the Chisholm case, but his death has opened new studies into this disease." "So it's a disease." Unkie Walt presses, hopes for prosecution falling by the wayside. "It's not unheard of. Just rarely heard of." She says tentatively, watching Frohike as he shrugs unconvinced. She bites into the creamy flesh of her boomerang fruit, "I know what you're going to say, Frohike. It isn't what you think it is." "What do you think I think it is?" "Voodoo, Hanumanism, Hayagrivan lore, the cult of Varuna, or any of the possessions of Vasishtha, Indian folklore, siddhi mysticisms or occults of Andirambahomanana-" "Ah my dear Agent Scully," Frohike interjects with the slightest hint of adoration, "once again, you outdo yourself." She bestows her most mysterious smile- the grin that is, or isn't. Her son mimics her antics. My camera says I have maybe eight exposures left. I wonder if her partner Agent Mulder is nearby. "Isn't Mr. Suresh Bhagiv from Madagascar?" Unkie Walt queries. All eyes are on him and he backpaddles, "hey, I'm not suggesting there's a connection." Impatiently, Agent Doggett gets up and brushes the non-existant crumbs off his jacket. "Well, Agents," then nodding to Frohike, quietly addresses, "The lone Lone Gunman. I need to get back to the office to finish up the paperwork." Lone lone gunman? Maybe I should find another vantage point to shoot the baby and the mother. Come to think of it, he does look like a hitman with those cut off leather gloves and jacket. "So do I," the balding Agent tells no one in particular. He gives William a friendly pat on his fuzzy head before leaving and sweeps around the park with his eyes. Boy, are they paranoid or what? "So, are you going to be okay with William for a while?" She asks, wiping her son down with new baby wipes as his baby blue eyes flutter tiredly. "Hey, I spent the whole morning with William before Skinner and Doggett interrupted our gameplan. "The elderly man suddenly drops his eyes to meet hers afresh, "how are you holding up?" Her mood turns sombre quickly. Her lack of words and inability to answer with any kind of eye contact shows a vulnerability that is startling. I prick up my ears more. "I didn't mean to pry, but-" She looks sympathetic yet her own sadness is overwhelming. She tousles her son's hair as he suckles his pacifier with renewed gusto. He toys with her index finger and looks intently at her. Such a gaze of intense love. "All we have are old photographs, and-" She stops suddenly. "That's not enough." He sighs. "I'm sure Mulder feels the same way." "Have you heard from him?" Her eyes dare to hope briefly only to fall away when her companion shakes his head. "All I know is he's safe and he knows what he is doing." She purses her lips as if agreeing. "I *know* Mulder, Dana. He's probably wishing he could be sitting exactly in this spot right now. If he could, I'll bet he'll be replaying every single moment here with you, Dana. Mulder loves you. He has, for a long time." She chuffs slightly to release the breadth she was holding. "Frohike, sometimes, I wish I could know for sure." She takes off her sunglasses and looks all around the park. She has such a look of long-suffering love upon her, it's mesmerizing. From where I'm sitting, I can tell her partner Fox Mulder is most likely the father of this baby. Something about their separation gnaws at me. I believe she didn't have much of a choice in this matter. They are such an odd couple, Mulder and Scully. I recall the short dialogue I had with Agent Mulder last year when he had caught me trying to take a picture of his partner. His possessiveness and his attempts to wheedle me into giving him an extra copy should I succeed stayed with me weeks after that print was developed and sent to their office. I glance around the surrounding buildings, and relocate the facade of the Old Clock Tower. I check my camera bag to find my spare Canon nestled next to the red filters. It only had a 400mm zoom but I had to take the chance that it's going to be enough. I sling the lot over my shoulder and barrel my way across the green to the glass elevators that zipped me 270 ft to get to the observation tower. A few raptorial tourists are perched at the edge overlooking the park. A stocky blond man peers at me before putting his arm back around his main squeeze as they point to several well known monuments. The best vantage point to take that shot is occupied by a dark- haired man leaning over the ramparts. He is brandishing a rather new VR-Zoom Nikkor, aiming at a small cluster of people immediately below. Maybe I should wait till he's done as I lock the new lens in place. I look down at the park to see that my subjects were already standing, possibly exchanging parting words. The continuous sound of the whirring shutters is bone jarringly loud. I point my camera at the source and look through the viewfinder at the dark-haired man to see a rather familiar profile. I nearly choke on the co-incidentality of it all. Fox Mulder, with a powerful 600mm long lens on a new tripod aiming at the same source of our addiction. I saw two different types of love today. The three men's infatuated look, nursing a crush from a love unreciprocated. Then there's the mother and son's mutual look of adoration. But what I see in front of me takes my breath away. A man. In love. Undoubtedly and utterly. She is his whole life. He's advertising his love for her much like the way Times Square billboards the latest Broadway musicals. It couldn't be more absurd since he's up here photographing her instead of sitting next to her and their son. This is a man who is fueled by his deep affections. A man with that kind of longing doesn't realise there are others around him. Doesn't remember what day it is or if he's shaved this morning. Still, what little I remember about the nature of their work calls to mind the possibility that he's not by her side by choice. I didn't hesitate anymore as I snapped one perfect shot of him with his unmistakable profile and his long lens camera an inch from his face. Then I aimed the lens at the trio on the picnic grounds and snapped a couple of shots of her giving her son one final kiss. He was so immersed in what he was doing I could've hoisted my underwear up the flagpole and he wouldn't know it. Somehow capturing the shot of him for myself seemed wrong. The trilling sound from his pocket isn't enough to pull him away from the eyepiece. He puts the celphone to his ear and mumbles, "yeah, thanks Walter. I owe you one." Their earlier conversation echoes back into my head. "If he could, I'll bet he'll be replaying every single moment here with you, Dana. Mulder loves you. He has, for a long time. Frohike, sometimes, I wish I could know for sure." I pack the camera back into my bag, leaving the Dana-absorbed Fox to capture the last few frames of her walking towards the FBI building. I had to stop myself from going up to him to demand an explanation. It isn't my business, I tell myself. Epilogue: I am careful to keep the gloves on after I was done mixing the photochemicals as I developed my prized shot. I faked a short note saying I was a friend hired by Frohike, hoping she would just accept this photograph as well as what Agent Mulder had been shooting, as a gift from someone who wanted to let her know for sure. End. Thanks for reading. Feedback is chicken soup to my soul.