"Near Miss"
                            By Dawson E. Rambo

Disclaimer : Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any
other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter
remain his copyrighted property, the property of 1013 Productions,
and the property of Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox,
Inc. No infringement of any copyright is intended. Characters
created by the author remain his property.

Original Post  :  August 8, 1997
Archive Entry  :  "Near Miss"
Classification :  MSR,V
Rating         :  PG-13 (Suggestive imagery)
Archive        :  Any public accessible server in this form, unchanged.
Missing Parts  :  http://www.sonic.net/~drambo (1/1)
Feedback       :  All feedback (good or bad) to: drambo@sonic.net
Timeline       :  Fourth season, prior to "Momento Mori."


Author's Note : Ok, I will be the first to admit what this story truly 
is: An apology for "Convections." The polarity of the email that I 
received regarding that piece amazed even me, and I'm usually a pretty 
even-handed kind of person. On the one hand, I'm firmly of the opinion 
that there is no such thing as a fanfic story that should not be 
written. (I won't, at this time, delve into the argument regarding 
whether stories about the actors as opposed to the characters even 
constitutes fanfic.) On the other, as a human being, it is upsetting to 
be the author of something that generated so much...invective. 
Especially when I've (truly) enjoyed such a wonderful relationship with 
the readers. So, this is an unabashed mind-candy MSR piece, offered as a 
token of friendship to those that wrote and told me they would never 
read anything I wrote again. One more chance...please?

Enjoy!
------

-1-
Office of Special Agent Fox W. Mulder
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, DC
Monday Morning

	It was in the air, something ozone and electric, something between 
them, vital and real. It was in the way they moved, both alone and 
around each other. It was in the words they used, and sometimes, in the 
words they didn't use. It was in the way they looked at each other, as 
trite and adolescent as that sounded. It wasn't moon-eyed infatuation, 
it wasn't barely controlled lust; It was something else, something 
different, something neither of them could explain if pressed.
	But they knew it was there.
	They could each feel it, like a slowly growing pulse of energy 
that reverberated back and forth between them, growing stronger each 
time one of the partners took it and bounced it back.
	Neither knew when it had started, but if called before a 
Congressional committee investigating such things, one might have 
contributed it to Spring Fever, the other to too many long weeks and 
months spent without the physical comfort of another human being. And 
each would be comfortable able to recite either opinion. The truth was, 
neither knew exactly where it came from, and both were afraid of where 
it was going.
	It was guilty looks across a dim office. It was brushed fingers as 
a file passed from hand to hand. It was the press of a palm against the 
small of a back. It was the tucking of a stray strand of hair behind an 
ear. It was all that and none of that, more than that and nothing at 
all.
	It just was.
	It just existed.
	Electric. Hot.
	Snapping between them, short-circuits of desire and outright lust.
	Shrugging her jacket off that morning, turning to hang it up, 
spinning around again to find him there, inside her space, holding a 
freshly poured cup of coffee. Fingers brushing as she took it from him, 
the touch lasting that one fraction of a second longer than was 
necessary, and then parting, saddened by the missing of the touch. 
Turning to her desk with the coffee cup in her hand and then turning 
back to ask a question that died on her lips when she realized how close 
he was, how <there> he was.
	It was later in the day, after she had finally managed to tear 
herself away and move to the workspace he laughingly called a desk when 
it happened again. Leaning over her, pointing something out on the 
screen, his hand on her shoulder, leaning close to squint at the 
phosphorous characters. His nearness, her nearness, the scent of him and 
her and the smell of how those scents mixed. An almost but not quite 
sound that was more of a moan that a groan escaped her lips as she 
leaned back, the top of her head brushing his cheek. If asked, he could 
probably have counted the number of whiskers that her hair glided over 
before he moved back a fraction, wanting to put that space back if only 
for an instant.
	And then he leaned into it again, just for a second, stealing a 
second burst of sensation from the silk of her red hair against his 
skin. She turned to him, ready to let him...
	What?
	But he was gone, moving away from her, moving to the filing 
cabinet to find something, anything to do with his hands. He yanked a 
drawer open, harder than he'd intended, and began rifling through, 
silently chastising himself for the stolen pleasure.
	She wanted to move to him, to tell him that it was all right, that 
she didn't mind, that it had affected her just as much, if not more, 
than it had him.	
	But the game continued, and she sat where she was, turning her 
attention back to the computer screen with the mightiest of efforts.
	And for perhaps the thousandth time in as many hours, she wondered 
why she didn't think about it more. It was odd, having a thought about 
not having a thought, but in a certain sense, a certain way that only 
made sense between the two of them, it was perfectly natural.
	She didn't think about the near misses themselves, or the missed 
opportunities they represented. She only thought about when the next one 
would occur, when the next time they would enter each other's orbits for 
that brief moment of almost contact, that most gentle of body touches, 
that softest of caresses that seemed more a whisper than reality.
	It was a tease, she knew, a tease that had been going on for as 
long as she could remember. Her last date popped into her mind, a 
disaster if ever that had been one. Oh, he'd been nice enough, some kind 
of Administrative Assistant or Assistant Administrator or something like 
that over at the EPA. He'd been fun, interesting, a nice, safe date, 
until he took her hand on the walk back to his car. It was a simple, 
almost friendly gesture, but she found herself wanting to pull her hand 
away. The man, with a name she couldn't remember at this exact moment, 
hadn't been threatening or even vaguely hinting that the hand-holding 
was a precursor to anything more, but she found herself wanting to pull 
away, wanting to create distance...for the simple reason that he wasn't 
touching her right.
	Not that he was touching her wrong, or what parents teach young 
children is a 'bad' touch...just not right. Funny how the Boolean logic 
of right/wrong, up/down, left/right became so much more when it applied 
to her partner, her friend. Suddenly there were other categories in the 
binary systems of her life; there was right, not so right, not right, 
not so wrong, not wrong...and just plain wrong. Even up and down, two 
mutually exclusive descriptors of direction became confused. Up and down 
and left and right became intermixed in her mind when it came to him, 
stirred together in a stew of conflicting emotions and seemingly 
contradictory expectations and beliefs. Rules began to soften and then 
bend around the edges when it came to him, the lines she had drawn in 
her mind years ago starting to blur and yellow with age until they 
became transparent, invisible. 
	Only he could have done that to her, she realized. It was like the 
concept of the single drop of water; put a cinderblock under a slowly 
leaking faucet; one drop every minute. No more, no less. In ten thousand 
years, the cinderblock would be gone, torn asunder by the relentless but 
gentle pressure of that single water drop. It hadn't taken nearly ten 
thousand years of constant, gentle pressure from him before she realized 
that the cinderblocks that were her defenses, her rules, were being 
slowly dissolved.
	And then she realized something else; cinderblock couldn't reach 
for the water, couldn't ache for it, couldn't wait for it with agonizing 
anticipation.
	She could.
	And that, she realized with a start, was where the electricity was 
coming from. She was arcing towards him, metaphorically speaking, two 
halves of a whole wanting, waiting to be reunited. Like magnetic 
opposites, north and south, the polarity of their souls kept dragging 
them back towards each other until they connected with an almost audible 
magnetic click!
	Sighing, she returned to work.

-2-
Apartment of Fox W. Mulder
Monday Night

	He was watching the television, fast-forwarding through another 
one of the tapes that he didn't actually own but always seemed to be in 
possession of when the knock, totally unexpected, sounded on the wood of 
his door.
	"It's open," he called, recognizing the soft sound of her 
knuckles.
	She opened the door and came in, hands jammed deep in the pockets 
of her coat. It was cool that night, and she had donned it as a 
protection against the-
	No, she corrected herself. It wasn't a protection against the 
elements, unless you counted her elemental need to be around this man in 
the same category as wind and rain. Not that she didn't.
	She did neither, actually. She neither counted it nor discounted 
it.
	It simply was.
	"Hey," he said softly, quickly thumbing the VCR to a stop.
	"Watching anything interesting?" she asked.
	"Depends on your point of view." She knew what he meant, and at 
one time she would have blushed and stammered. But she knew that he 
needed it, needed the release, the carefully constructed detachment from 
his emotions. Were he to confront them head on in any place but his 
dreams, she would be worried for his sanity; shortly thereafter she'd be 
worried for her own.
	"Mind if I hang out a while?" she asked, already shucking her 
jacket, knowing what his response would be.
	"Sure."
	"Thirsty?" she asked, moving towards the kitchen.
	"Tea," he said by way of answer.
	She paused in the doorway, noting the hint of a smile that was 
more in his eyes than his face. She felt her brows drawing together and 
then disregarded it, knowing that she would discover soon enough what he 
found so faintly amusing.
	He'd done the dishes, she saw. The sink and drainboard were both 
empty.
	Which meant, of course, that he'd put the glasses away.
	Where he always did.
	On the top shelf, just out of her reach.
	Almost like a child aching to grow, a small girl wanting to be a 
Big Girl and by straining to reach ever higher she would somehow 
spontaneously grow, Scully opened the cabinet and leaned up on her toes, 
trying to reach the top shelf.
	No go.
	"Here," he said, his breath suddenly in her ear, brushing her 
hair, "let me help." 
	He reached past her, and she felt his chest against her back as he 
moved, his long, nimble fingers closing around the glasses and drawing 
them down to where she could reach them. She took them from him, not 
meeting his gaze, the knowledge that her cheeks were burning bright red 
somehow familiar, somehow comforting. 
	They stood for a moment, silent but not uncomfortable. Then he was 
gone, moving back towards the living room. She fixed the drinks quickly, 
expertly, pouring herself a small glass of white wine and a larger, 
colder glass of iced tea for her partner.
	Returning to the living room, she handed him his glass and sat on 
the other end of the couch, groaning in relief as she lifted her feet 
onto the coffee table. It had been a long day and she was tired.
	She toed her flats off and smiled, enjoying the feeling of the 
cool air teasing her feet.
	Without speaking, he moved to take her feet in his hands. This was 
something new, something that had only happened half a dozen times so 
far. He would swing her legs perpendicular to his lap and...
	Rub.
	Oh, God, would he, she thought. His strong, flexible fingers would 
stroke, rub, massage and generally knead her sore feet for close to half 
an hour. His touch was exquisite, a sweet torture for the both of them. 
	Just like the other few times, he didn't look at her or speak 
about it. She had understood since the first time that it was better if 
she didn't ask since he so obviously wanted to do it and she so achingly 
wanted it done. He worked silently, his eyes fixed on Larry King talking 
to the new police chief of Los Angeles, his touch sending shivers up her 
spine.
	Did this count? she wondered. Was this a near miss?
	Close enough to be a near miss, she silently teased herself.
	And then something new, something even more insidious and 
delicious. His fingernails lightly stroking her calf, half an inch above 
her ankle. The gentle scratch was enough to make her bite her lip, 
trying to use the sudden pain in her mouth to force her attention away 
from him, his touch, his gentle stroking and back onto the television 
where it belonged.
	Soon, too soon, he was finished. He carefully replaced her feet on 
the coffee table and switched channels. One show was ending, another 
beginning; a repeat of NYPD Blue on one of the cable networks. As Kelly 
and Sipowitcz interrogated yet another suspect of yet another horrible 
crime in the same sunlit, scruffy interview room, she glanced at him 
again.
	He had his hands together as if in prayer, and then he arched his 
fingers, a makeshift steeple cracking all his knuckles at the same time. 
Taking each finger in one hand, he worked the joints, popping them 
loudly. 
	Wincing, she scooted over, taking his left hand between both of 
hers and repeated the actions he'd so recently completed on her feet.
	This was dangerous, she thought.
	Very dangerous. Hands to feet were one thing; he was far enough 
away from her, from her arms and her mouth where she could resist the 
temptation to draw him to her and break the fragile circuit of power 
that revolved between them. Now, this new step, this delicious, 
intoxicating new way to brush against him was threatening to drive her 
completely up the wall.
	He seemed unaffected.
	Nothing could be further from the truth.

-3-
Apartment of Fox W. Mulder

	He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to close his eyes and moan 
out loud. More than that, more than almost anything else in the world, 
he wanted to close his eyes, moan, turn to her, pull her towards him and 
finally taste her mouth, her lips, her face, her skin. He wanted to lose 
himself in her, wanted to descend into her depths to vanish forever.
	Instead, he played the game.
	He fixed his attention on a single point, in this case the knot of 
Kelly's tie. He tried to lose himself in the dialog, the Mamet-like give 
and take, punch and counter-punch of two trained investigators as the 
started sentences, stopped, backed up and then repeated parts, 
fragments, words, phrases, and then continued on in a headlong rush 
towards one thing : getting the confession. 
	Would be nice, he thought idly, if we could work that way. The OPR 
wouldn't condone Sipowitcz-style tactics, threatening to smack a suspect 
upside his pointy head, threatening to 'tune him up' in the ever-
changing parlance of the NYPD Detective Bureau. Might work, might be fun 
to watch...but it'd never happen.
	As she rubbed his hand, his mind drifted, losing itself in the 
sensation. And then he wasn't in his apartment anymore, and she wasn't 
sitting next to him; he was in another place, another time, an 
interrogation room far, far away.

***
Interrogation Room "D"
12th District, Chicago Police Department

	The suspect grinned at them from his seat, his incisors looking 
yellow and rat-like. His cuffed hands played on the scarred wood 
surface, drawing little patterns that only he could see. The room was 
mostly dark, the only light coming from a high-intensity bulb hanging in 
a wire cage three feet off the table. The suspect could only see her 
from the midsection down. 
	She stood across from him, all her weight on one hip, holding a 
case folder open in one hand, a single perfect eyebrow arched as she 
waited for the answer to her question.
	"Wasn't me," the suspect said, giggling.
	She frowned just a tiny bit, annoyed at him. She fingered through 
the papers in the file, searching for a specific page. Finding it, she 
extracted the 8x10 glossy black and white photograph featuring the 
selfsame suspect, in the flesh, standing over the body in the 7-11, 
smoke trails visibly rising from the barrel of the shotgun that the same 
suspect had just used to dispatch the aforementioned body.
	She slapped it on the table where the suspect could see it.
	"Explain that," she said, her voice calm, even.
	He looked at it, used his cuffed hands to turn it around so he 
could see it.
	"Not me," he said again, and giggled.
	"Who was it then?" she asked. "Your face is clearly visible."
	"My B-brother," the suspect said, and then added, "Twin."
	"You have a twin brother?" Scully asked skeptically.
	"Yup. He did it. Not me. Nun-huh. Wasn't me. I was home. 
Wheeling."
	"Wheeling?" Scully prodded.
	"Pat. Vanna. Wheeling."
	She nodded, slightly amused. Wheel of Fortune, indeed. At that 
moment, a face appeared in the interview room door's window. It was one 
of the local detectives, holding up a sheet of paper. He could see it 
from where he stood.
	Fingerprints.
	Moving to the door, he opened it and quickly took the sheet from 
the cop. He moved back to the darkness, letting her do it, letting her 
run the show the way she knew best.
	She made a small motion with her shoulder, asking without speaking 
for him to join her.
	He moved to her, and she angled her chin at him, again asking 
without speaking, this time for him to lower his ear to her mouth.
	Gladly.
	"What?" she whispered.	
	They switched places, she turning her head to offer an ear, him 
lowering his mouth close enough to feel the tickle of her hair against 
his lips.
	Sweet torture.
	"Fingerprints," he whispered.
	She glanced back at the suspect, a predator's grin on her face. 
Opening the folder, she pulled out his prints from the booking 
paperwork. She offered them to him, and he took them, moving to the 
table. 
	He stopped just before he reached the table, turning back and 
almost bumping into her. She glanced up, alarmed, until he made a 'come 
here' motion with the first two fingers of his hand. "What?" she 
whispered again.
	"Do twins have the same fingerprints?"
	She looked at him as if he were insane, a small smile teasing the 
corners of her mouth, the mirth dancing in her eyes. She shook her head.
	Grunting his understanding, he turned back to the table and sat at 
the only other available chair. He looked at the two set of 
fingerprints.
	"These," he said to the suspect, tapping the page from the booking 
slip, "were taken from you today, when we arrested you." He tapped the 
other sheet. "These were taken from the scene of the murder."
	The suspect began to sing. "If a picture paints a thousand words, 
then why can't I paint you...?"
	She frowned, moving to the table, reaching for the picture.
	In the picture, the murderer wore gloves.
	The fingerprints weren't his.
	She looked at her partner and pointed to the gloves in the photo.
	He nodded, but bent over the two sheets anyway, doing a quick 
rule-of-thumb analysis.
	He glanced up, his eyes wide. He nodded.
	They matched.
	"Have you ever been in that store before?" she asked.
	"You talking to me or him?" the suspect queried.
	"You, obviously."
	"Sure, lots of times. So's my brother. That's why I was picked out 
of the lineup."
	"What lineup?" she asked. They had done a photo spread for a 
nearby witness, but the suspect hadn't actually stood in a formal 
lineup.
	Yet.
	"The photo spread you did for 'ol lady Johnson," the suspect 
grinned. "I know that old bat picked me out. She's crazy, y'know. Crazy 
as a bedbug."
	"Be that as it may," she started to reply.
	"Do me a favor," her partner said, reaching into his pocket and 
placing a pen on the table in front of the suspect. "Write your name on 
the back of the picture."
	The suspect picked up the pen and did as asked.
	She looked at her partner, the arch of an eyebrow communicating 
her lack of understanding.
	Her partner pointed at the suspect, then at the picture again. In 
the picture, the gunman was holding the forestock of the shotgun with 
his right hand, his left hand wrapped around the pistol-grip.
	The suspect in front of them was signing his name with his right 
hand.
	She leaned down, her breath tickling his ear, her hand on his 
shoulder. He was suddenly aroused, suddenly erect in his pants. Her 
nearness, her mere presence, even in this dark, evil place, was 
comforting, familiar...exciting.
	"What?" she asked. "What's going on?"
	"Multiple personalities?" was his answer.
	She shook her head; too easy, too predictable. 
	"No...he's involved," she whispered. "I can feel it..."

***
Apartment of Fox W. Mulder

	...and she had been right. The case had been solved, and it had 
been a case of twins; each setting up the other's alibi so that no one 
could be sure which had been in the store at the time of the murder. She 
had managed to convince each that the other had turned, had flipped and 
confessed. It had been a beautiful piece of work, a display of 
interrogation technique that the Chicago Police were probably still 
talking about: The tiny redhead with the warrior's heart who had solved 
the case in a matter of hours.
	She was reaching for his other hand when he knew he had to get out 
of there; she was leaning across his body, her breasts brushing against 
his left arm.
	He stood, moving as if he needed to get more tea.
	"More wine?" he asked.
	Disappointed, she nodded. He took her empty glass and quickly 
moved to the kitchen, eager to put space between them.
	This was getting hard, he thought, and then glancing down at the 
tent in his trousers, he mentally amended, in more ways than one.

-4-
Office of Walter S. Skinner

	The report lay on Skinner's desk and he was flipping through it, 
going over each line, each word, each punctuation mark as he always did. 
They were seated across from him, he on the right, she on the left. She 
was wearing her usual business suit, but there was just something about 
it, something about the cut and the fit and the material and the way 
she'd draped it on her body that day, in combination with the way her 
hair fell across her face, the smell, the scent, the intoxicating aroma 
of her that was combining in his mind to make her...
	Perfect.
	"Is this the report you want to submit?" Skinner asked.
	"Yes, sir," they said in unison. They'd already done all their 
arguing in their shared basement office. When they came to Skinner, they 
provided a united front; it was more out of a sense of self-preservation 
than any latent professionalism.
	"Very well," Skinner said. "You're dismissed." He tossed the file 
in his OUT box and turned his attention back to the other pressing 
matters of the day.
	As a unit, they rose to take their leave. She turned, took a step 
forward and then stopped, turning back. He almost ran into her and then 
stumbled, reaching out a hand to steady himself. The hand landed on her 
shoulder.
	"One more thing, sir," she said, and he stood there, his hand on 
her shoulder because he didn't want to take it away, and because it felt 
so good to touch her like that. She asked the question and Skinner 
answered it and then it was time to leave.
	They did leave, walking through the outer office to the hallway, 
down the hallway to the elevator, never more than a few inches apart, 
and then they were in the elevator, alone, and the doors slid closed, 
shutting them away.
	She turned to him, gazing up at him with bright, dancing eyes. She 
seemed ready to say something, and then she glanced at his chest. A 
small frown tugged at her mouth.
	She reached out, and he looked down, watching.
	She found the loose tail of his tie and fiddled with it for a 
second, and then turned the front over and tucked the tail behind the 
label. Turning it back over, she smoothed it against his shirt, her 
fingers lingering just that one second longer than was required by the 
simple act.
	He was about to speak when the doors dinged! open. 
	Sighing, they went to their office.

***
Marine Barracks, Quantico

	Requalification for SWAT certification; they were dressed, 
literally, to kill. Black BDU's, ballistic body armor, H&K MP-5 SMG's... 
the works. 
	Close order drills, the HRT instructor called it.
	Doing what was known as a circle clear; two people, each heavily 
armed, entering a room one after the other and then moving, backs 
pressed together, each of them pointing out, away from the other.
	Only he could feel her softness pressing against him; could feel 
the length of her molding against him.
	They performed the exercise and the instructor called to a halt, 
wanting to introduce them to something else.
	Over-under, the instructor called it, and they both thought that 
it was a special FBI torture designed with them in mind.
	She was shorter, so she would go in front, the instructor said, 
you, the taller, in back. The way it works is, if you have to cover a 
45-degree arc, each person takes half. One to the left, one to the 
right. Designed for shooting from behind a standing barrier, like a 
water pipe or steel girder. The idea is to stay pressed together, back 
to front.
	Back to front.
	After they were placed together, she felt him shift, trying to get 
comfortable.
	And then she felt it.
	Hot.
	Hard.
	Against the small of her back, the tops of her buttocks.
	A small part of her wanted to press back against it, stroking it 
with her body, stroking <him> with her body.
	Not now, she thought.
	Not here.
	The lesson, performed for the other members of the class, took 
forever. And then it was over, and he was embarrassed, because anyone 
looking at him would see.
	And they would know.
	She turned to face him, hiding him from their view, talking with 
him, smiling at him. She glanced at her watch but let her focus deepen, 
watching it as it shrank back to what passed for normal when he was 
around her.
	Then it was safe for her to move.
	They never spoke of it.
	They never spoke of any of it.
	Until...

-5-
Apartment of Dana Scully

	She was in the bathroom when he arrived. She had just finished 
twenty minutes on the stairmaster, and was washing her face and brushing 
her teeth when she felt him in the apartment.
	She glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway, leaning 
against the jamb, his arms crossed against his chest.
	He was staring at her buttocks as she bent over the sink.
	She smiled into the mirror and straightened.
	The soft gray Oxford T-shirt clung to her form, a half-moon shaped 
sweatstain staring at her collar and covering her to mid-sternum. The 
coolness of the air conditioning had puckered her, even through the 
sports bra.
	His eyes danced over her, greedy, insatiable.
	She moved to him.
	He straightened, moving back to let her exit.
	She followed him into the short hallway, and as he turned to move 
back to the living room she stopped him with a soft hand on his arm.
	He stopped and turned back, a question forming on his lips.
	Stepping inside his space, she slid her arms around his waist, 
laying the side of her face against his chest.
	His arms came around her shoulders.
	She rubbed her face against his chest.
	His hands rubbed her back.
	She lifted her head to look at him, trying to put an invitation 
that had to remain unspoken into her eyes. He saw it, she knew, and his 
answer was to lean down and brush her nose with his.
	Eskimo kiss.
	She smiled, wanting to giggle, knowing the sound would break the 
spell.
	His hand slid up her body and found her face, cupping her cheek 
against his palm.
	"Soon," he whispered.
	She nodded, reaching up with her head to rub his nose again.
	Eskimo kiss.
	And then she came back down, turning to go into the living room, 
showing him the side of her graceful swan's neck.
	He leaned down and brushed it with his nose.
	Eskimo kiss?
	No, something new, something without a name, less than an actual 
kiss and more than a friendly nuzzle. 
	She stopped, smiling at the floor, wanting to make a sound.
	"Soon," she whispered to no one.

-------
THE END