Ask Mom  (1/1--MSR)

by Jayel (mlifsey@mail.infoave.net)
    
Disclaimer:  The characters of Dana Scully and Fox Mulder were created by
Chris Carter and belong to him, Fox and Ten-Thirteen Productions, none of
whom know me from Eve.  No copyright infringement is intended.  This
particular story does belong to me, however, so anyone who wants to forward
or distribute it elsewhere should drop me a line at mlifsey@mail.infoave.net
first. And yes, heaven help, this is a Mulder/Scully relationship story.

Summary:  At a moment of low tension and lower peril, Scully forces Mulder
to turn off "Day of the Triffids" and talk about his feelings.

One final note:  Feedback of any kind, positive or negative, is most
appreciated.  I'll be out of town for the next week, but my mailbox will
still be here, so anyone who drops a line will get an answer eventually, I
promise.  

***********************************************************

Scully tunneled through her nightshirt without bothering to unfasten the
buttons and pulled her hair free of the neckline, catching the eye of her
reflection in the routinely generic motel room's routinely generic dress
mirror.  Good lord, her mother was right--she *was* starting to regress, at
least so far as her bedtime attire was concerned.  She had never been the
sex kitten type, but at what point had she abandoned silk and lace entirely
for plaid flannel or pastel jersey?  "All this outfit needs is a teddy bear
and a retainer," she sighed, adjusting the tiny gold cross at her throat.
And for that matter, when had she started thinking of herself as "Scully"
and not "Dana", even when undressing for bed? 

The answers were painfully easy to find, of course.  Anyone who might find
herself chasing aliens or Navy test pilots costumed as aliens or whatever
else the mondo-weirdo world of Mulderland might cough up in the dead of
night was well-advised to go to bed wearing something that covered her ass.
And only someone who thought of herself as an asexual surname could process
the prospect of chasing aliens in the first place--no time for sex or beauty
sleep; there's a conspiracy afoot!  

She sighed again.  Maybe her mom was right about a lot of things.

She heard Mulder come into the room next door and flip on the
television--she had privately decided long ago that the great ironic tragedy
of her partner's demise would not be alien or conspiratorial but comic when
he was bludgeoned to death by a mugger after his wallet as he ran his usual
five miles in some strange city after midnight.  Giving her reflection
another wry glance-- "Very seductive, Scully; knock him dead"--she walked
briskly to the adjoining door and knocked, punctuating with,  "Hey Mulder,
you up?"

"Mrlph?" he replied, obviously pulling his sweatshirt over his head.
"Yeah--come on in, Scully."

She reached for the doorknob, then stopped.  "Are you dressed?"

Slight pause in which she was almost positive she heard him snicker.  "Do
you care?" he retorted gamely.  "Yes, Scully, I'm dressed."

She walked in and found him sitting on the foot of the bed wearing his
sweatpants and t-shirt, his nose mere inches from the television as
Jeannette Scott socked it to the Triffids.  "I notice you didn't ask if I
was decent," he quipped, shooting her a grin.

"That one I already knew," she shot back.  "What is it--do you call ahead to
the cheesiest local TV station you can find when you make our plane
reservations to make sure they'll be running at least one of these things
every night you're in town?"

"No, I swear," he answered.  "It's incredible, isn't it?  Pure serendipity,
if you believe in that kind of thing."  He grinned.  "There are forces at
work in the universe that we're only beginning to understand, Scully."

"So I hear," she answered, reaching up and turning off the television set.  

"Hey!" he protested, giving her a look of pure little kid irritation.  

"Oh, like you don't know how it comes out," she scolded.  "I need to ask you
something, and I want your undivided attention."

He looked straight at her for the first time since she'd come in.  "Sounds
serious," he allowed, his eyes scanning her face for clues, signs of
imminent meltdown.  

"It is," she answered, sitting on the other side of the bed,
half-consciously pulling down a pillow and stationing it between them.  "No,
it isn't . . .It shouldn't be, but the longer we don't . . . the longer *I*
don't talk about it, the more serious it seems."

Any other red-blooded, heterosexual American male of his age and marital
status would have known exactly what was coming, but Mulder looked
completely mystified.  "Scully, what are you talking about?" he asked.  "If
something's preying on your mind--"

"Does it ever bother you that neither of us has a sex life?" she blurted
out, meeting his eyes.

He blinked, apparently expecting something else entirely and having a little
trouble catching up.  "No--wait a second," he stammered.  "Who says neither
of us has a sex life?"

"So you're seeing someone?" she asked.

"No, of course not," he answered.

"But you have seen someone recently, or you expect to in the near
future--you've got prospects," she continued.

"I don't--Scully, why are you asking me this?" he demanded, getting up from
the bed like he'd just realized the mattress was stuffed with rattlesnakes.  

"Because I'm not seeing anyone, and I haven't, and I have no plans to," she
answered, plucking at the corner of the pillowcase.  "The last date I had
was the weekend of the Jersey Devil--"

"You organize your memories around cases?" he interrupted with a grin.
"That's funny--I do, too."

"No, you organize your entire existence around cases," she corrected.  "And
the longer I work with you, the more I do the same thing, the easier it is
to do the same thing, because there are more and more cases and less and
less life."  She paused for breath, hoping he would interrupt with something
more insightful than clever, but for once he had nothing to say.  "I can't
even keep a dog, for heaven's sake--"

"I know," he interrupted, finding his tongue at last.  "And it's not fair,
and it's my fault--"

"I'm not saying it's your fault, Mulder--"

"You don't have to say it; I'm saying it," he cut her off.  "I should have
warned you, but when you first transferred into the Xfiles, I didn't realize
you'd be staying long enough to get sucked in.  The kind of work that we do,
the kind of cases we're exploring--"

"Don't exactly lend themselves to outside interests," she finished for him.
"Yes, I know--that's what I've been telling myself--and my mother,
incidentally."

"You've spoken with your mother about this?" he asked, surprised.  "You talk
to your mom about your sex life--or your lack of sex life--"

"Yes, Mulder, I talk to my mom about a lot of things," she answered, looking
away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

"Aaaaannnnddddd . . . . what does she say?" he asked, half-teasing.  "Come
on, Scully--I'm dying of curiosity here."

"She says the cases are just an excuse," she answered seriously, looking
back at him again.  "She says that if I really wanted a life outside the
Xfiles, I would find a way to have one."

"So what, your mother thinks you've become a sexless fungo?" he quipped.

"Not exactly," she retorted.  "She thinks I've got the hots for one."

Houston, we have contact, she thought wryly as this particular jab crossed
his expression and lit up his eyes.  He opened his mouth as if to answer,
but it took him a couple of tries to actually spit something out.  "I . . .
what exactly--?"

"My mother thinks the reason I'm not interested in having a relationship
with anyone else is that I'm completely consumed by the idea of having a
relationship with you," she answered, helping him over the hump.  "And
what's more, she thinks you have exactly the same problem--or rather, the
exact opposite problem--she thinks you're--"

"In love with you," he finished, returning the favor.

"Or some version thereof, yes," she answered.  

He just stood there with his hands on his hips, staring at the floor and
nodding occasionally as if working out a particularly thorny calculus
problem in his head.  "And what do you think?" he said at last.

"I don't know what I think," she confessed plaintively.  "When she said it,
I told her she was being completely ridiculous, that she didn't understand
our friendship--I even accused her of reading too many Danielle Steele novels."

"That would do it," he muttered.

"But I can't seem to stop thinking about it, and the more I think about it,
the more I think she may be right," she continued.  "Or if not right, at
least have a point--I mean, the fact that you're a man and I'm a woman
shouldn't have any bearing on our working relationship--"

"But it does," he conceded.

"You're damned right it does," she answered.  "And yes, every time I notice
a guy noticing me, my first thought is not is he cute or smart or annoying,
but how cute or smart or annoying is he in comparison to you?  How does he
measure up to you?"

"Cute?" he repeated doubtfully.

 "You're missing the point, Mulder," she retorted.  "For better or worse,
whether it's healthy or telling or whatever, you have become my yardstick
when it comes to men, and I'm not sure what to do about that."

"Scully, you and I are together almost constantly," he interrupted, sitting
on the bed again.  "It would be hopelessly naive to think we could have that
kind of contact and not be affected by it on some level--"

"On some level?" she echoed.  "What level, Mulder?"  She stopped, trying to
collect her thoughts before she blurted out something so hideous and
embarrassing she could never face him again.  "Maybe that is what I'm asking
you," she continued more calmly.  "At what level are you being affected by
my being a woman?  Is it a passing thought?  Are you hopelessly in love with
me?  Do you identify me completely with your sister?"

"No," he said quickly, his eyes serious.  "I can understand how you might
think that, but . . . "  He shook his head, all traces of teasing gone.
"Don't," he finished.  

"Okay," she promised.  "I won't."  She leaned across the pillow, hunched
down to peer into his lowered eyes.  "But if I'm going to stop thinking
that, I need you to tell me what I should think instead," she said, nudging
him along.  "I know you don't want to talk about this, but I have to know--"

"You're wrong, Scully," he said with a smile.  "I do want to talk about
this, very much.  I have for a long time."

Now it was her turn to stammer.  "You--but--Mulder, if that's true, then why
haven't you--?"

"I didn't think I should bring it up; I didn't think it was fair of me to
start anything like this," he explained.  "As you say, I've already taken
over every other aspect of your life--"

"I did not say that," she protested.

"Case by case, moment by moment, I've drawn you into the same dark place
I've lived in for most of my life," he continued.  "Like you said, I've made
it so you can't even have a dog for fear of what might happen to it."

"Mulder, that is not what I said," she persisted.  "You can't blame yourself--"

"If being my partner at work has caused you this much pain, can  you imagine
what being anything else could do?" he finished, meeting her eyes.  "Yes,
Scully, I do think of you on every level--your mom is right.  I am consumed
by the idea of being with you.  The only physical contact with the opposite
sex *I've* had since we met was when . . ."  He stopped, obviously unable to
finish the thought aloud, even to her.  "The point is that I do care for
you, so much that I can't let my personal agenda have any more of a negative
impact on your life."

"No, Mulder, the point is that you've made this decision all on your own
without consulting me," she shot back, not sure whether she was more giddy
or furious.  "That is so typical--"

"The annoying thing, right?" he teased.

"Yes," she retorted.  "You annoy me more than any other human being on the
planet."

"That's an interesting way to phrase it," he pointed out with a grin.  "Are
you sure that wasn't a Freudian slip?"

"I'm not sure of anything any more," she admitted.  "Or at least I wasn't."

"So what are you sure of now?" he asked carefully, reaching out and taking
her hand on top of the pillow.

She smiled, watching his hand close over hers.  "That I'm not completely
crazy," she answered truthfully.  Her smile broadened.  "You, on the other
hand--"

"Are nuts," he finished for her.  "I know, you told me already."  He reached
out with his free hand and touched her chin, turning her face up to his.
"But if I'm nuts and you love me, what does that make you?" he asked.

"I don't know," she admitted.  "Nothing good, I would think."  He leaned
down and kissed her, something she had imagined a thousand times.  But as
active and intelligent as her imagination could be, it had never quite
captured the (you'll pardon the expression) full flavor of being kissed by a
lunatic conspiracy theorist with the most gorgeous mouth known to woman.
The fantasy had been lovely enough to carry her through a few sleepless
nights and a couple of particularly grueling D.C. traffic jams.  The real
thing was almost too sweet to be borne.  

Mulder pulled away first, tugging her lower lip out of shape for a moment
with his mouth before letting it go with a soft smack of saliva.  "Soooo,"
he said, caressing her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"Sooooo," she agreed with a smile.  

"What happens now?" he asked.

She looked away, breaking the intensity of his gaze while she could still
think reasonably coherent thoughts.  "I go back into the next room and sleep
better than I have in weeks," she answered.

"Oh," he said.  "And I stay in here and sleep worse."

She laughed.  "Only if you think you have to," she assured him, running a
proprietary hand over his chest before pulling away.  "I think we should
finish the case before we make any more plans."

"Planning wasn't actually on the list," he confessed, catching her hand.
"Scully--"

"I can't spend the night with a man who calls me by my last name," she
teased, cutting him off.  She picked up his hand between both of hers and
kissed it.  "Besides . . . I think I need some time to digest this much
before I go on to anything else."  She looked up at him.  "Do you understand?"

"Nope," he retorted, pulling her close just long enough to plant a kiss on
her brow then letting her go.  "Just promise me you won't call your mother
before breakfast in the morning, okay?"

She grinned.  "I'm not sure I can't promise that," she admitted.  "But I
promise to try."

Finis.