"Carnac Obsessions" XFBandit Rating: PG-13 Classification: VRH Disclaimer: Not mine. Bad Lawyer! No Fee! Go away! Feedback: I'd gladly pay you Wednesday for some feedback today! Email: drambo@sonic.net Summary: Ah...the first paragraph pretty much covers it. -1- There are some things you don't do with your partner under any circumstances, no matter how dire the situation, no matter what the threat to life, limb or liberty. And kissing him is about six of them. -2- The question had never been if, only when. In the past five years, I can only remember a single period when the idea of Mulder touching me that way would have caused me to draw my pistol and add a matching bullet hole in his right shoulder. But I had cancer then. I may be a saint, as some people have remarked, but even a saint has her limits. And to be honest, the last year or two hasn't seen my feelings for my partner growing all warm and gooey. Quite the opposite, in fact. Lately, it seems like I'm angrier at him than I've ever been. And I'm not quite sure why. I think my patience is wearing thin. How many times am I going to allow myself to be relegated to the back of the metaphorical bus before I put my foot down? Before, when he ran off on his own, chasing down his leads, he would call and ask if I minded feeding his fish, or getting his mail. Now he expects it. I get a voice mail. "Scully, on the road. Call you later." From those seven words, I'm supposed to know to feed his fish, collect his mail, pick up his dry cleaning... No, that last one was just me being upset. He's never asked me to pick it up. I have, though. Damn it. Twice, I found the little slip in his top desk drawer, right next to this month's issue of Adult Video News. The first time, I figured I'd be a nice gal and help him out. His reaction to that was such that I figured I could do it, if I had nothing better to do, AND I was going that way, AND I happened to have an extra $10 bill in my pocket. Self-delusion. Madness. Insanity. To think that he would ever overtly thank me for anything is insane. Of course, if you ask him, he'd chalk it up to that unspoken communication thing he loves so much. I call it him expecting me to read that horror-novel he calls a mind. I guess what I'm trying to say is that...well, when he kissed me, that was the final straw. Like I said...it wasn't a matter of if, but when. We've always felt that pull. It's strong. Very strong. Very, very strong. How strong? There have been times on both our parts when the desire to corner the other and do things to them you wouldn't do to a farm animal have been close to impossible to resist. But, as with all things having to do with he and I, those times when the urge has struck the both of us at the same time are rare indeed. And when they do occur, there are usually bullets flying around, or local cops asking pointed questions about things that defy answers. Or we're in some ratty motel room that does everything in its inanimate power to...well, kill the mood. No overwhelming romantic I, but the idea of consummating five years of slowly brewing passion on a rat-gnawed mattress in Twisted Ankle, Arkansas is not exactly...appealing. Again, not a matter of if, but when. And, in an odd way, how. Sure. Anyone that knows us has thought about it. I'm sure my own sainted and blessed mother has devoted some mental energy to that eternal question. I'm sure it crosses Skinner's mind. I'm sure Frohike has written a short story about it and posted it alt.sex.stories.trolls or some equally oily newsgroup of nerds that read with one hand on the keyboard. In the office? Hard and fast, against a filing cabinet, my skirt hiked up to my waist, pantyhose lying in a torn, twisted pile at our feet, Mulder's pants around his ankles? Nah. Too much like a Penthouse story. Or one of his damn videos. Romantic? He shows up at my apartment with a bottle of wine, a goofy smile, wearing those black jeans that make his... Nevermind. Been there, done that. Or maybe I take the lead, show up at his apartment and we do the wild thing on his couch. As if. I'll tell you a secret. Promise not to tell anyone? I always wanted to do it on a stakeout. I mean, not for real. Not on a real stakeout. But, locked in those cars with Mulder over the past five years, from time to time the wicked thought has crossed my mind. What if I enticed him into the back seat and we fogged these windows like a pair of teenagers? After all, when I was a teenager any boy that came over to the Scully-residence-of-the-moment was more interested in Missy than her short, dorky, braces-wearing, bookworm of a sister. Now that genetics, good diet, constant exercise (in the guise of chasing my errant partner to hell and gone,) and Mother Nature have finally caught up with me, I don't have to wince when I look in the mirror. Sure, the disease wreaked havoc with my body for a few ugly months. But that's over. Long over. I'm babbling. The point is...we both knew it was going to happen. We both knew that at some point one of us was going to be weak at the same moment the other was, and an offer of partnerlike comfort was going to grow and change shape into something else, something more, something hotter and hungrier and needier and then it was going to happen, one of us would reach for the other, a hand curling around the nape of a neck, fingers teasing the small, fine hairs there, drawing the faces closer and closer until... Too many romance novels before bed. I'm a thirty-three year old woman. Truth be told, I want him and he wants me. But we controlled it. We dealt with it. When we partnered up, I was 28. I had a boyfriend. Ethan. Gag me with a spoon, to quote my high school peers. Nice enough guy. About as exciting was watching paint grow. Mulder's exciting. Infuriating, actually. Annoying. Maddening. The descriptions go on and on and on and on. For good or bad, no one makes me feel like Mulder does. There are times this is a good thing. Most of the time...not so much. But...that first day. Walking into his office, seeing him turn towards me, that little *smirk* plastered on his face, a wry, twisted little grin that made me want to reach for a scalpel. Every Bad Boy in my past flew right out the window. Every leather-clad, jeans-wearing wannabe- hardcase from high school vanished in a heartbeat. Those were Pretenders, pardon the expression. This, I knew, was real Trouble with a capital "T." I won't say he captured my heart. That's trite. Adolescent. I'm a grown woman. I control my own destiny. I make my own choices. Right. That's why I follow this...dork...to the four corners of the world and back. That's why one simple kiss in the office today has sent me spinning out of control. It always existed, that kiss. It was. It existed. It had form, substance, reality. It just hadn't happened yet. Until this morning. It was waiting in the wings, waiting to be called out for its debut performance. Once, when I was younger, before the Dark Time when I was taken, I thought that if we found his sister (Earthbound, I was sure at the time,) Mulder and I might have some kind of "After." We might manage to have that kiss as we strolled hand-in-hand... God, I'm making myself sick. Ok, to be truthful about it, I thought that if and when Mulder finished his Quest, we might find some time together, alone, just he and I, without the constraints of Them watching over our shoulder, all the Bureau bullshit that would happen if it was discovered that partners were knocking boots in our spare time, all that stuff. Not romantic. Realistic. Down to earth. Three words that should be tattooed across my forehead. Ok...you're right...let's not get into tattoos. Tender (har!har!) subject. So, where was I? Oh, right. The kiss. The kiss, you see, or as I thought of it, The Kiss, was waiting to happen. Never the right time. Or, when it was the right time, it was totally the wrong time. Like when Modell had a doughnut-sized chunk of brain excised from his skull at 1200 feet per second courtesy of a .357 caliber slug. Can't think of a better time to go home and express to Mulder how much I appreciated him not shooting me. Bad time/Good time. You know? Back from Russia. Hugging in front of the Senate, God and Skinner. (Yes, it goes in THAT order.) On that damn bench in Home, PA. Talking about having children. Hearing Mulder describe my ultimate man and realizing that he did mean himself, but in typical, annoying, infuriating, teeth-gnashing Mulder fashion he was hiding behind that cloying, cute boyishness that he is just fucking convinced turns every woman in his path into a puddle of quaking goo. Yes, it does. Of course it does. How could it not? But that's not the damn point. The point is... Is... Oh, right. The kiss. -3- So we're in the office and another slideshow is going on. I wasn't staring at his ass, I swear. Ok, maybe a little. Ok, a lot. Ok, I was drooling. But that's not the point. He said something so totally outrageous, so insidiously designed to get my ire going that I just had to respond. "More coffee?" I asked. He looked at me, confused. That was not the answer he was expecting. Truth be told, I was sick of him playing me. Saying things he knew would get me going just to have those "banter moments" he treasured so much. Treat me like a damn human being, Mulder. I'm not a trained seal. "So you don't disagree with me?" he'd asked. "Of course I do, Mulder. Your theory is insane, based on what can only generously be called half a fact, and takes into account both beliefs and practices that have been proven as nothing more than urban legends over twenty years ago. You're wasting my time and your time on this nonsense in an effort to get me into some cute little conversation so you can show me how erotically witty you can be." He stared at me, his mouth open wide enough to park a truck in. "Cream?" I asked. -4- He took it pretty well, I guess. For Mulder. Ten minutes of stomping around, petulant that his favorite toy didn't want to play with him. Waving his arms like an organ-grinder's monkey, telling me that these files were his life, that I'd only been assigned to them... Yadda. Yadda. Blah, blah. Yadda. You get the idea. His back was turned, and he was right in the middle of his number 12 speech, otherwise known as "Government Conspirators Ate My Brain." I knew it by heart and was looking somewhere in the middle distance above his left shoulder, mouthing the words as he spoke. Mistake numero uno. The room went REAL quiet all of a sudden, and I focused my eyes to find him staring at me, his (admittedly gorgeous) lips pressed together in a thin, white line, hands on his hips. My own lips sort of slid over to the left side of my face. I glanced left, gauging the distance to the door. If I hadn't been wearing heels... He moved to cut me off, stepping between me and the door. Ah shit. "You think this is funny, Scully?" "No," I said honestly. "Just predictable." That rocked him back. He actually looked like I'd slapped him. Like when I told him he'd sung the theme from "Shaft" on that `vampire' case. "So now I'm predictable, Scully?" I shrugged. Mistake numero dos. He rubbed his philtrum (look it up) with two fingers. "Prove it," he said. Mistake numero tres. I walked to his desk and found a box of blank envelopes, #10 business size. I removed one from the box and held it to my forehead. "Aliens," I said. Tearing the edge of the envelope off, I mimed bringing out a sheet of paper. "What is the cause of sunspots, of a Republican-controlled Congress, high credit card interests rates, low scholastic achievement tests in our high schools, our several trillion-dollar trade deficit, the slowly depleting ozone layer and the cancellation of Sienfeld?" She swings, connects.... It's going...going...it's OUTTA THERE! She got all of THAT one, folks. See, I was trying to be funny. I guess a sense of humor is one thing Mulder and I don't share. At least...the _same_ sense of humor, anyway. He...didn't take it well. He threw the pencil he'd been holding against the filing cabinet nearest him. And then he kicked it. Hard. Three times. Then he paused, looked at me and very slowly, very carefully, flipped me the bird. "Mulder, there's nothing wrong with predictability. It sometimes helps in dealing with you, to be honest." "Dealing with me?" he said very slowly. I remember quite clearly thinking, "Uh oh." "Bad choice of words," I said, holding up my hands. "Predictable," he muttered, moving around me to his desk. "I'm one of the most spontaneous people I know." Foolhardy, I thought, but wisely didn't say. "Mulder, do you want me to do another magic trick?" His guarded, wounded eyes peered up at me from behind his desk. "What kind of trick?" he asked, that patented wounded-puppy look making its' scheduled and totally expected appearance. I closed my eyes. "For dinner last night, you had pizza. Antonio's. With extra cheese and onions." I opened my eyes. "How did you know that?" "Because, Mulder, today is Wednesday, and Tuesday is two-toppings for ten bucks at Antonios." You're not only predictable, Mulder, you're cheap. "What did I have to drink?" "Depends on how much cash you had. If you had enough, you told the delivery guy to bring a sixer of Brisk Iced Tea. If not, tap water, no ice, in a Flintstones jelly glass. Wilma, since you don't do the dishes until Friday night, and you would have already used Fred and Barney." He sighed, sitting back. "Mulder, face it. You might as well have those underwear with the days of the week stitched in the crotch." "I'm not predictable," he insisted. "Whatever," I said, turning and walking back to my table-desk. "Mulder?" "Yeah?" "Today...at lunch?" "Yeah?" "Bring me back a nice veggie burger from the J- Street Deli, ok?" "How did...?" "Wednesday. You always go to J-Street on Wednesdays." And that was the last mistake I made that day, for it was Mulder's turn to make a mistake. He got up, walked over to me, purpose in every stride. Ok, there was only room for two and a half strides, but by the time he cleared his desk I knew that he was coming over for a reason, and that reason didn't have much to do with shouting at me, pointing an impetuous finger at me or generally impugning my powers of perception where he was concerned. This walk had a Reason. He stopped in front of me, grabbed my face and... And... And..! Kissed me. Smack-dab on the lips. Not a soft little peck, either. Not a deft little brush of skin against skin, not a little tease of a smidge of a whisper of a hint of a kiss. Nice tonsils, Mulder. Very nice. Let's just say that I never had a kiss like that before and leave it at that, ok? No? You want details? I was kissed. First Degree Kissing, With Intent. It started soft, got a little warmer, got very hot, and then wet, and then deep and then I forgot where I was, what I was doing there, what my name was and what, if anything, I was going to do when this kiss ended, which I devoutly hoped it never would. When he finally broke for air, I... God, this is embarrassing. I whimpered. There, I said it. Happy? I moaned and whimpered and pulled his head towards me again, wanting more of that kiss. More kisses. More. Dana wants more! More! Only...he pulled back, smirked at me and returned to his desk. "Predictable?" he asked. I stood there, my arms still raised a little, a dance partner waiting for the music to start, and blinked. Twice. I realized my arms were still up in the air and I lowered them, straightening my jacket. I licked my lips. Tender and swollen, I noticed. Just like those damn cheap romance novels hidden at the bottom of my overnight bag and at the back of the drawer in my bedside table. They're Missy's. I swear. Anyway... "I stand corrected," I said softly. -5- So it's six hours later, I'm standing in front of his apartment door and I'm ready to knock. I'm going to kiss him this time. Like I said, there are some things you don't do with your partner, and kissing him is about six of them. But you know what? Ask me if I care. Say what you will about Mulder. The man can kiss. FINI