From: MSR XFiles <msrxfiles@aol.com>
Date: 10 May 1999 18:57:45 GMT
Subject: NEW:  Whisky Remorse 1/1

As I explained to some friends, I've been kicking around some
thoughts about the last couple of eps, but I hadn't really given any
thought to writing anything.  Then, I was listening to my favorite
band(Del Amitri), and one song just leapt out at me and said,
"Here's the setting for a fanfic."  Go to
http://del-amitri.linex.com/bsides/whiskey_remorse.html to see
what I mean.  If you want to hear the song, I can email you a .mp3
of it . . . hey, it's a great song.  :-)

Oh, and in case you were wondering when you reach that part, a
sporran is the "purse" that hangs over the front of a kilt.  

Rating:  PG, I guess.  Category:  VA.    Spoilers for all eps after
Arcadia, so you've been warned.

And of course, Mulder, Scully, and the X-Files don't belong to me. 
If they did, I wouldn't let my stars boss me around and move the
show to L.A.  So, no copyright infringement is intended.


Whisky Remorse
By Melissa Rabey(dettiot@udel.edu)

He laid his head on the bar, to the side of the glass that was almost
empty of its contents, trying to ignore the way he felt.  The bar he
was in wasn't one that he usually went to; it was called Scottie's,
not after the owner, but because it was a Scottish bar.  He had
passed the place as he was driving aimlessly, and figured it was as
good a place as any.  Usually, he could only stand so much plaid
before he wanted to strangle someone-preferably himself, right
now-with a sporran.

He ignored the music that was playing, which was some kind of
jangly acoustic melodies fronted by a faintly American-sounding
singer, although the bartender/owner had insisted that it was a
Scottish band, when he had called her on it earlier in the evening.  

Earlier. When he was still marginally alive.  

Earlier, when he was on that baseball field, with his arms wrapped
around Scully, teaching her how to hit a baseball.  It made sense
that she didn't seem to know much about baseball; based on the size
of her brothers, he guessed that football was the Scully family
game.  

With effort, Mulder pushed himself up from the bar's counter,
trying to think and remain upright.  Of course, with the amount of
whisky that was percolating inside him, this was quite a task. 
Somehow, he managed to stay up and not fall off his stool.  Once
he managed that, he propped his head in his hands, his elbows
resting on the bar.  In that semi-comfortable position, he decided to
start the thinking that he had been avoiding all night.  Namely, what
the hell he was doing.

He knew that things were getting out of hand between Scully and
himself.  The moment he had learned that they were going
undercover as a married couple, he had felt alternating currents of
pleasure and disappointment.  Pleasure, because he was getting the
chance to spend twenty-four hours a day with Scully, and he could
think of many, many people that would be worse to do this
assignment with.  But disappointed, because he knew that it was
just pretend.  

<Should have known that eventually they'd do the sitcom thing, and
make us go undercover as man and wife,> he mused to himself. 
<Shit, it only took them six years.>

He picked up his glass, and drained the last two sips that were left. 
Even though he'd been here for hours, the whisky still burned a
little going down.  But it burned in a smooth, glowing fashion; like
tiny little sparks going down his throat.  He didn't normally drink
whisky, so he couldn't explain why he had chosen it.  Maybe
simply to avoid the cliche of ordering Scotch in a Scottish bar.

He returned to his musings, letting the whisky do its thing.  His
emotions had been all topsy-turvy lately, no thanks to their cases. 
First the case at Arcadia, where he had been able to almost get his
fill of Scully, and had enjoyed himself immensely by teasing her.  He
had felt incredibly connected to her by the end of the case; he felt
like a couple, not just partners.  That feeling had propelled him
during the case involving Trevor Rawls; they had never worked
together better.  

Of course, fate decided to make fun of him and dump Philip
Padgett on him.  He hadn't liked the guy from the moment he saw
him.  And once he realized the writer's intentions towards Scully, he
hadn't been able to stop himself.  Didn't help, either, that the guy
had then said the words that had struck fear into his heart:  "Agent
Scully is already in love."

In love?  Scully?  Who?  How?  Him?

<Too damn many questions,> he realized as he let his eyes slip shut. 
It was because of Padgett that he had let himself go off after Arthur
Dales and investigate the case of Josh Exley.  Because he needed
some time away from her.  Not that this didn't stop him from
stealing her "ice cream" cone, getting her to giggle, and then,
wrapping his arms around her from behind, and helping her swing a
bat and send baseballs into the heavens.  

<I'm thinking too much,> he recognized, and he made a slight wave
to the bartender, who was down at the other end of the bar.  She
came down to him too slowly for Mulder.  "Another one?" he said,
managing not to slur his speech that much.

The bartender shook her head, which made her long black hair
swish around her face.  "Nope, no more for you.  You're not
making any trouble, but at this point, you don't need more liquor.  I
don't suppose you'd mind telling me why you've drunk more
whiskey than an Irishman on St. Patrick's Day, would you?"

Mulder frowned.  "Hips then hands," he muttered.  He looked up at
the bartender, who hadn't caught what he said and therefore had a
slightly befuddled look on her face.  He smiled a little at her.  "Too
long to explain.  You gonna kick me out?"

She smiled back at him.  "Nah . . . like I said, you're not making any
trouble.  Besides, I don't have any place to go.  Being the owner, I
naturally go home last.  And there's still another customer here."

"Really?" he asked.  "Where's he?"

The bartender smiled again.  "She's in the back booth.  Just to let
you know, she's kept her eyes on you all night."

Mulder cocked his head to one side in confusion.  The bartender
gestured behind him, indicating the row of booths that lined the
wall to his left.  He turned around on his stool slowly, not really
wanting to meet the floor with his face.  And he stopped in surprise.

Sitting in the back booth, facing the front of the bar, was Scully.  

He saw her start slightly in surprise, but she didn't reveal anything
else, as he rose from his stool and made his way over to her. 
Without any formalities, he dropped into the seat across from her
and said, "How did you follow me?  I was driving aimlessly."

Scully wrapped her hands around her glass, and stared at the
tabletop.  "It wasn't that aimless, Mulder.  I could tell that you were
headed for your apartment, but then you made a detour, to here." 
She looked up at him, with a slight smile on her face.  "You're
getting predictable, Mulder."

He ignored what that line of thought might mean, and instead
focused on one of the ideas that had swirled through his mind
during the night.  "So tell me why you've never played baseball
before."

She looked a bit taken aback by his question.  She took a sip of her
drink before she replied.  "I guess because I just didn't like it-it was
too slow, and besides, it's hard to play baseball without a bunch of
people.  Football or basketball, you could play by yourself, or with
which ever brothers or sisters you were getting along with at the
moment."  

He nodded.  "I just thought it was because your brothers were so
big that football was more appropriate."

Scully smiled at him, a real smile with teeth that made his insides do
a little twitch.  "Yeah, that too," she said.  

Mulder leaned back in the booth, pleased that his answer hadn't
been too far off track.  "See, on the Vineyard, in the summer,
baseball was the game.  All the kids played-I spent five years in
Little League.  And watching the games was even better than
playing.  You'd watch a game on TV in the afternoon, after you had
spent the morning down at the beach.  You'd be sleepy, but you'd
manage to stay awake during the game."  He stopped suddenly,
realizing that he was babbling.  He sat up straight, trying to move
away from this topic.  "So, Scully, tell me . . . why did you follow
me here?"

She sighed-not an unhappy sigh, but he didn't know how to definte
it, especially with the way he was feeling.  Although the alcohol
was clearing out of his system, he wasn't close to being fully
functional.  

"You tell me why you came here, Mulder.  This isn't one of your
usual places."

He couldn't help but smile at her words.  Trust Scully to never
make anything easy, especially not now.  He looked at her, at how
she looked tired, but also with a slight glow that spoke of
happiness.  Maybe not singing-from-the-rooftops happy, but
satisfied, content.  He decided to jump right in at the beginning.

"Like you said, I was just driving around, heading towards my
apartment.  I was thinking about you . . . about how it felt to teach
you to hit, about how much I had enjoyed that.  And I realized that
it was something I wanted to do more.  I knew that I wanted to
spend more time with you.  I've been wanting to do that for
months."

He paused, and looked at Scully.  She kept her face neutral, but he
could sense other emotions at work within her.  He forged on
ahead, knowing that he was in too far to stop now.

"Anyway, I started getting mad, because I was thinking about these
last couple of cases, and I knew that these had been some of the
best work we've done together.  It hit home for me, how well we
work together.  How good we are, when we're together.  And I
was mad as hell, because I've never told you that.  And that I've
never done anything to let you know that I want more.  That I want
to spend more time with you.  That . . . "

He suddenly stopped.  He realized what he said.  He chanced a look
at Scully.  <At least she doesn't look upset.> he said to himself.

He watched in amazement as she reached out and took the hand
that was closest to her.  She rubbed her thumb over the back of his
hand, and he felt her touch burn every hair that it came in contact
with.  

"You know, Mulder," she said, her voice dropping down a notch in
pitch, "I feel the same way at times, too.  We've been able to run on
all cylinders on these past cases, haven't we?"

He nodded.  "I've been able to keep up with you," he
acknowledged, and watched as she blushed a bit.  She continued
on.  

"You know that we have a distinct relationship, Mulder.  We're so
close, that I sometimes think that we're part of each other.  But if
tomorrow was your birthday, I'd be racking my brains, trying to
decide, present or no present?  Serious gift, or funny?  Book or
CD?  I know so much yet so little about you, Mulder."

He sighed at her words.  "Scully, it's that way for me, too.  But
you've never seemed to want to open up to me.  For Christ's sake,
we've been partners for six years, and this was the first year we
exchanged Christmas gifts.  And you hated what I got you."  He
saw how she was trying to protest.  "Admit it, you hated it."

She frowned at him.  "Mulder, even if I did, I was happy to have
gotten something from you.  And it's not just that 'the thought is
more important than the gift.'  It meant that we had reached another
point in our friendship.  Because I think we are friends.  But we're
friends who were originally just acquaintances from work.  So
we've never really sat around, discussing the first grade or where
the best pizza place in D.C. is.  But that gift was a sign that we
were getting there."

He sucked in a breath, a bit surprised at her analysis.  "Scully . . . "

"Mulder, I want to find out what things you like, and how you
spent your summers."  She shrugged her shoulders.  "There just
never seemed to be a time we could just sit around and talk.  After
all," she noted, with a touch of sarcasm, "the only time you showed
up at my door, asking to 'talk,' it wasn't you, after all."

Mulder grimaced at the still-sore mention of Eddie Van Blundht. 
"It's not my fault that men who look like me just gravitate towards
you, Scully."

That got a small laugh from Scully.  "True, I guess."  She dropped
his hand, which she had been holding during the whole
conversation.  She slid out of the booth, and held her hand out to
him.  "Come on, Mulder, I'm giving you a lift home.  The nice
bartender wants to go home."  

Mulder wiggled his way out of the booth, discovering that although
his mental coordination was doing fine, his physical coordination
left something to be desired.  He wrapped his arm around Scully's
shoulders, and she looped her arm around his waist, helping to
support him.  He looked down at Scully, and said, "You know,
Scully, let's talk some more . . ."

"Sure thing, Mulder . . . but let's wait till you've sobered up some,"
she muttered as she moved towards the door of the bar.  She called
out her thanks to the bartender, and Mulder managed to wiggle a
little and look at the bartender.  He waved at her again, and the
bartender just smiled as she kept washing glasses.  

Mulder looked down at his partner again, and as she dragged him
towards her car, he couldn't help but think that they weren't
finished.  But as soon as the night air hit him, he realized that it
could wait.

But not much longer.

The End. 




Melissa         msrxfiles@aol.com, dettiot@udel.edu
  "Nobody's helpless, although I've never felt this 
                    helpless before. . ."
                         Del Amitri
                http://udel.edu/~dettiot