The Deeper Else
By Slippin' Mickeys
red_phile@yahoo.com

CLASSIFICATION: A, V, MSR

RATING: PG

SUMMARY: 

SPOILERS: None.

DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully were used without permission. They're the
property of Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox, and if I was making any money off
of this, I wouldn't have 12 dollars in my checking account.

ARCHIVE: Ask, please. 

FEEDBACK: Is the great big ole box of Hamburger Helper to my 50lbs of
low-self-esteem-uncooked-ground-beef.  red_phile@yahoo.com

NOTES: This is more abstract than anything I've ever really written, which
has been pretty cut and dry. I'm straying from something I feel comfortable
with, but I figure "you should really try it, you know?" I think some
little piece of Dude, Stoner, and Chick has stayed with me ever since WOTC.
Hope it all works for you!

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The Deeper Else
By Slippin' Mickeys



"You want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

He'd asked her twice now, and twice now, she'd refused.

Scully looked out the window at the dull brightness of the desert in
twilight.  

The landscape a diffused shade of blue, absent of a moon but chock full of
stars, the constellations almost in a dance above them. 

She could hardly remember the impetus of her current mood. She only vaguely
recollected that it had nothing to do with anything that Mulder had done or
said. That in and of itself was unusual. Even more so was the fact that it
was coming solely from some deep place in her mind— else of the
something—and she couldn't grasp either one.  

Mulder shifted in the drivers seat next to her and leaned forward, looking
up to the heavens in hopes that maybe they'd provide an answer for her.

"I've done something wrong, haven't I?" He asked gently, his voice not
altogether humorless. 

She gave an ironic half-smile and answered, "Not this time, Mulder."

"Then…" He cut himself off when she turned sharply back to the window. 

He slowed the car then, and pulled over onto the shoulder. 

"What are you doing?" She asked.

He shrugged, but didn't look at her. 

"Sittin'. Thinkin'."

He'd always had a knack for knowing what she needed at any point in time.
She was only disappointed that he didn't use it that often.

Her staunch resolve crumbled and she closed her eyes.

"I hate you," she said at near whisper.

His hurt only showed a little, he just leaned toward her, concerned.

"Why?" He asked innocently.

She closed her eyes and confessed.

"I hate you for always being right, and I hate you for making sense out of
insensible puzzles, and I hate you for your smart ass remarks. I hate you
for flirting with me when you know I won't flirt back, and I hate you for
charming your way out of everything. I hate the way you look at me when you
think I'm not looking and I hate that I do the same. I hate that you're a
gentleman and a scoundrel at the same time. And most of all, I hate you for
loving me, and I hate myself for loving you back."

He pulled back a little, and gripped the steering wheel, fixating his gaze
on it. He gulped several times and she couldn't stand it anymore.

She threw off her seatbelt and it hit the window with a crack. She saw him
jump beside her as she swung open the door and stood in it, breathing in
the cool, night air. It was sweet and damp and it rolled over in her mind,
covering her frayed nerves and frenzied emotions. She relaxed somewhat, but
didn't move.



He came around the side of the car, and she stood there, her door still
open. Eyes held by the earth as if pulled by gravity. 

He slowed as he approached her, putting his hands in the pockets of his
trench coat. He took small, slow steps closer and nearly enveloped her with
his size. He shifted his feet so they fit in between hers, one inside of
the other, not the first puzzle they'd fit together. His warm breath was
steamy in the cool air and fanned her face and she blinked it away and
looked up to him, having to crane her neck at their proximity. 

They stood there, barely touching, just a glance with a knee or a hip. Her
arms lingered at her side, and his remained buried deep in his pockets.

Hips before hands. 

"Dance with me, Scully," he said. 

Her head fell once more and she sighed.

"You can't fix this, Mulder, as much as you want to."

"Can I try?" He asked, finally pulling a hand free and traced her left
eyebrow with his fingertip.

Scully held her eyes shut and leaned into him.

The fact that there was no music, no staccato beat to step to-- no harmony
to sway to, seemed trivial. She didn't bring it up. 

He bent his neck down and rested his forehead against her shoulder, pulling
his arms free from his coat and wrapping them loosely around her waist. 

She threaded her fingers through his hair and held his head to her. 

Their problems wouldn't go away, she knew. But they faded and winked out as
if a light bulb had been pulled from a string. As soon as they got back in
the car and began to drive again, the bulb would be replaced and the lights
would wink back on. But now, in this perfect moment, they waned from her
view.

She distantly wondered what time was.

This is the only thing that's real, she thought to herself, this is the
only constant- her and Mulder- swaying to music without a beat. 


End
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Was that unfulfilling? Should I not try it again? It was an impulsive post,
forgive me. 
red_phile@yahoo.com