"Base Secrets" By XFBandit drambo@sonic.net Rating: PG Classification: MSR, V Spoilers: "Squeeze" Feedback: Sure. Archive: Anywhere, as long as my name and addy stay attached. Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be. No money changed hands, and no characters were hurt in the creation of this fanfic. Note- First post. Be gentle. Basement, 1432 Hours In the basement, all secrets reside. Steel cabinets, almost twenty of them, line the walls around my desk. Once, in the beginning, it was a jumble of information, files piled haphazardly into the drawers, yanked from mildew-stained cardboard boxes that had been stashed in dark, dusty corners for decades, forgotten, shunned. After the horror of BSU, it was a relief to come to this cool, distant office, an almost-pleasure to sit in the half-light and thumb through the files. As a witness to the worst horror that man could come up with it was a revelation to read about things that most people considered beyond the pale of existence and logic. What is it about the basement that makes people hide the ugly truths and the forgotten trinkets of their lives there? I remember how many basements I investigated during my profiling years. So many monsters preferred the basement, the dank, cool air, the protection it afforded against the screams of their victims being overheard by the casual passerby. One of them, a plastic surgeon turned monster, had a complete ventilation and drainage system installed, the better to dispose of his grisly leftovers. But this basement is not ugly or dank anymore. It is still cool, and still has the faintest odor of decay and rot. But that is to be expected; it is an odor that will never be completely banished, a sense of dread and slight unease that no amount of Lysol or Chanel Number Five could ever erase entirely. I hear the click of heels outside my door. Mentally, I correct myself; not heels, but flats. She rarely wears heels, unlike some of the other female agents that feel some odd, strange need to parade around headquarters like models on the runway in Milan. Her shoes, like her clothes, like the entirety of her, is a studied exercise in practicality. You can't chase a suspect in heels, she once pointed out to me. I hear the shuffle of a person shifting their load as the knob rattles. I glance at the clock and notice that it's late, close to quitting time. She's back from Quantico, back from yet another autopsy of a victim that died a mysterious death, a death that she was determined to explain, to explore, to reveal. The door swings open. "Hey," she says softly, noticing that I'm at work. My glasses are on, sleeves rolled up, feet on my desk, a file open in my lap. She eyes it warily, wondering if my perusing of it is going to cause yet another trip to some small town thousands of miles away where the natives are undoubtedly performing some odd ritual or ceremony, something that is just as evil and dark and dangerous as the rest of the cases we take. I close the file and toss it into my OUT box, telling her without words not to worry, that it was more a search for information than fishing for more frequent-flier miles. She visibly relaxes and moves to her desk. It's a table without drawers, a compromise in these times of tight budgets. It took me forever and a day to talk the original owner of the table into giving it to me. That, and two bottles of 12-year-old Scotch. But it was worth it; she has a place now, in this office, just as she has a place in my heart. I ask with my eyes how it went. She shrugs and then nods, letting me know without words that it was not an entirely lost cause, but that not all the secrets had been answered. I cock my head, an eyebrow lifting slightly, asking silently if its something we need to look into, together. She shakes her head, wrinkling her nose. No, she replies wordlessly, and I understand. Now its a mystery for the boys and girls with microscopes and centrifuges. They'll dissect the tiniest portions of the victim's essence, finding the answer to the secret in things too small to be seen by the naked eye. She dives into the report, cracking her laptop like a silicon clam and pounding away on the keyboard. I sigh and open another file, skimming it quickly, realizing in a heartbeat that it's not an X-file, that the original investigators were just too lazy to see the obvious. I scrawl a note in the margin and toss it into my OUT box, moving on to yet another file. Hours pass. Then it's time to quit, time to go home. Me to my apartment, another night on a lonely leather couch, using the silent, dim television as a soothsayer to ease my frazzled nerves, waiting for sleep to take me so that I might dream again. I'm not looking forward to it. She stands to go, closing her laptop with a prim little "snap!" She walks to my desk and stands in front of it, hands on trim little hips. She catches my eye. I ask, smiling softly. She nods. And then leaves. It has always been like that, since the second week of our partnership. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, my heart sings and my soul soars higher than any bird, higher than any rocket or spaceship. The first time it happened was when she gave me the key. After Tooms. The day after, as a matter of fact. I'd been at my desk for most of the day, filing the paperwork, taking more than a little smug satisfaction in the fact that I'd been right, that the wiry little bastard had turned out to have all the flexability of a comic- book superhero. He'd almost gotten to her, something I wasn't completely unaware of, but something that I was still struggling to discover how to handle with her. I'd sensed almost from the first moment that I'd met her that she didn't want me protecting her. Over the years I'd forgotten that from time to time, and ended up paying the price. But then, that first time, she knew what had to be done. I was at my desk, looking at the next case, or what might be the next case, or what might end up being circularly filed. The soft clank of brass against the felt of my desk blotter brought my eyes up from the file. I caught the key; saw the neat, precise handwriting on the tiny white label. "Scully," the key read. Her apartment key. My eyes rose to hers again. She nodded at the key and then lifted one perfect corner of an even more-perfect mouth. I opened my mouth to speak and saw her eyes darken. No words, they seemed to say. And so I said nothing. Driving over, later, I thought I understood. I couldn't put it into words, exactly, but I understood. That first night-- divine. And the invitation to a second night took almost a year. At first, I'd thought that I hadn't measured up, that I hadn't passesd muster. But I only later realized that it wasn't that -- not at all. It was the simple fact that she didn't want to get used to it, to the convienence of it, the appeal of the possible and the promise of the undeliverable. A relationship was out of the question. But comfort could be given. It would have to be asked for, by one or the other. It would not be expected, and it would not be offered. If one needed it, they would ask, the silent directive both obvious and painful: Don't get too comfortable. It was like she was behind glass stenciled "EMERGENCY USE ONLY." Twelve times; I could count them, remember them all. And now number thirteen. Unlucky? I hoped not. =+-> <-+= 1933 Hours I let myself in with the key. She was waiting in the bedroom. Not wearing something slinky and silky, spread out on the bed like some teenager's fantasy. In the bed, yes, reading the latest bestselling novel, glasses perched primly on the end of her perfect nose. No words. Never any words. She smiled at me though, glad to see that I'd accepted the invitation. My hands moved to my jacket, shedding it and tossing it on the chair by the bed. She moved to me then, eager to make me naked for her. She made short work of my clothes, and a minute had barely passed before I was nude for her. Then it was my turn. I made equally short work of her clothes. Naked, together, we fell on the bed. The first time, it had been quick and hasty and needy and hot and slick and sweaty. Now we knew each other better. I knew where to touch and where to stroke and how to kiss and how to make her cringe with anticipation and mewl with satisfaction; just as she knew how to do the same for me. It wasn't loving...exactly. We did love each other. And I was convinced that we were more than half in love with each other, but I couldn't confirm that because of the unspoken rules. No words were to be said; no names cried out in the throes of passion. Nothing that could be used against us if we were being taped. It took almost two hours. Sated, I kissed her one last time and rose to go. It was always this way between us; comfort exchanged, passion explored, and then I would leave. The one time she had come to my apartment at my specific request she had left just as quickly, just as hastily. I often wondered why she didn't want to wake up next to me, and in a way, I understood. When the sunlight came again, when it was tomrrow and not tonight, the reality of it would have to be explored; just as the basement hides the secrets of a lifetime, the darkness of night can cover the secrets of the heart and the lies of the body. As long as it was dark outside, it didn't count -- it wasn't real in the same way that other things were real. And then she broke the rule. "Stay," she said softly. I hesitated, one foot on the floor, the other in the bed. She nodded, holding her hand out to me, begging me with her eyes to take it, to join her. "Are you sure?" I asked. She nodded again, the desire clear and painful in her eyes. This will change everything, I thought. She nodded, as if capturing that thought from the air between us. Yes, her face, her eyes said -- I know. I want it to. I didn't know if I wanted it to, but I got back into the bed with her. Secrets were made to be kept in the basement. Not in the bedroom. ----- FINI!