From: Alelou123@aol.com Date: Mon, 9 Aug 1999 21:34:59 EDT Subject: xfc: A Proposal, Sort Of... by Alelou (1/1) Source: xfc From: Alelou123@aol.com Title: A Proposal, Sort Of... Author: Alelou Feedback: Alelou123@aol.com Category: Vignette, Humor, MSR Spoilers: Nah Rating: PG-13 (this round) for language and implied sexual activity Disclaimer: Chris Carter's and 1013's, not mine Archive: Just tell me where. Author's Note: This is the first of what I envision as a continuing series, my "Sort Of" universe. Part 2 will be an NC-17 installment called "Two Rooms, Sort Of..." and should follow shortly. Many thanks to MystPhile and Ambress for their wonderful beta services. P.S. I know there's another story somewhere that begins with a similar situation, which I enjoyed but can't remember the title of (sorry). This one forks off differently, I however. A PROPOSAL, SORT OF... To Mulder's obvious annoyance, Scully had gotten along well with the polite and easygoing (if rather chubby) Detective Bobby Joe Ledbetter from the Tyson Police Department ever since they had arrived in sleepy Tyson, South Carolina. Now she chatted easily with him about their return travel arrangements as they handed over their final paperwork for a case that had ended early and well. Mulder, in the meantime, jangled his keys and paced about the desk area impatiently. Ledbetter wasn't to be hurried, however. "Next time y'all are in the area, Agent Scully, why don't you just give us a call? We'd love to see you again." She smiled. "We don't get down here too often, but I'll definitely keep it in mind." Mulder abruptly announced that he would be in the car when she was ready and stalked off. Ledbetter gave her an apologetic look. "Sorry -- I guess he felt a little left out there." "He'll get over it," Scully said, unconcerned. She was used to apologizing for Mulder's bad behavior and not particularly surprised by this latest example. He'd been tetchy through the entire case. So she said her goodbyes and walked out to the car prepared for a relatively sullen trip to the airport. No big deal. Over the years she had developed strategies for coping with Mulder's pouty moods; this time she was planning to nap most of the way home. She found Mulder slumped dramatically over the steering wheel. "All set," she said pleasantly. She ignored the mild temptation to lecture him on the need to relate well with local law enforcement. It never made any difference anyway. Meanwhile, he continued to sit there, slumped, staring morosely out the front window. "Mulder?" she prompted him. "You're never going to marry me, are you, Scully?" She squinted. "What?" He was still staring out the front window. "When all this is done, you're just going to say -- well, it's been real, Mulder, have a nice life -- and then you're going to go off and find yourself some nice normal guy like Detective Bobby Joe in there. Aren't you?" She sat speechless. He turned the key in the ignition and backed out. She was still sitting there, surprise turning to annoyance, as he merged onto the highway and accelerated. "You know," she said. "If you were hoping to marry me one of these days, I would think that -- just maybe -- you might have wanted to give me a *clue* about it." "I've given you plenty of clues," he said, dismissively. "You've given me plenty of clues," she echoed, in a voice as flat as Kansas. "Yes, clues," he repeated in his most patronizing tone of voice. "For a trained investigator, you've been surprisingly slow on the uptake. I mean, some of them were pretty damned obvious." "I see," she said, tight-lipped with irritation. "Refresh my memory, Mulder. Just which of these painfully obvious clues have I so unprofessionally overlooked?" He drew a deep breath. "Okay. Clue Number One: I told you quite clearly that I loved you." He waited a beat, then added, "Incidentally, your reply was, and I quote, 'Oh brother.'" "Oh please," she said. "I can't believe you even remember that. You were high as a kite. You thought you and a woman who looked just like me had just saved the world from Nazi domination. I'm surprised you didn't tell Skinner you loved him, too." "Clue Number Two," he continued, undaunted. "Hallway." Here he suddenly fumbled. "Well -- you know." "What do I know?" she asked thinly. He gave her a dark look. "I think I made my feelings pretty clear." "Oh really? And were those feelings relating to me personally, or to my contribution to the X Files?" At this, Mulder's face turned red and he pulled the car over to the side of the highway. This was a good thing in Scully's judgment, since highway driving and long-overdue arguments about core relationship issues really didn't go well together. On the other hand, he could now vent his full fury on her without distraction. "Right, Scully," he hissed. "I tried to kiss you about the fucking work." "If it wasn't about the work," she shot back, "why the hell didn't it occur to you to try it again once work was no longer the issue?" He stared at her, now white-faced, nostrils flaring, and she had a sudden apprehension that he was either going to kiss her passionately at last -- or kill her with his bare hands. She wasn't 100% sure which he'd choose. Being Mulder, however, he chose neither. Instead he made a choking sound and looked down to where his white-knuckled hands gripped the steering wheel. "You're an adult," he spat out. "And not a particularly shy and retiring one, either. If you wanted it to happen, you only had to say something. You didn't." Forget him killing her -- she sat there for some moments resisting the urge to pull her own gun out. When she spoke, she was deeply annoyed at herself for the tremor in her voice. "I told you that my place was with you, at your side. And I'm still here, despite serious provocations in recent months that would have suggested to any sane, self-respecting woman that she should just clear the hell out. So don't you get on my case for failing to jump into your lap and make this easy enough for you to handle, Agent Mulder." "Well, Agent Scully, I don't think anybody would ever accuse you of making anything easy." At this she seriously considered getting out of the car and calling a cab on her cell phone, but it was hotter than hell out there. "Can we please just get to the airport?" she finally asked, between tightly clenched teeth. He looked at her with disgust, and threw the car back on the road with an angry spit of gravel. She turned her head to gaze out at the blur of trees racing past her window at way more than the legal speed limit. Being Scully, she strove to apply logic and rationality to the conversation they had just had. Carefully, she laid out the train of events in her mind: #1 -- Mulder had apparently gotten jealous of genial Bobby Ledbetter. #2 -- Mulder had suggested that she was never going to marry him, Mulder (as if this were a bad thing). #3 -- They had both said some really unfortunate things to each other. #4 -- It was entirely possible that they would both die in this car, the way he was driving now. "Mulder, pull over." "You wanted to get to the airport a minute ago." "Pull over, dammit." He pulled over, put the car in park, and turned to look at her. "Okay, I'll marry you," she said. He stared. She lifted her eyebrows at him, as if to say, Well??? "Really?" She nodded. She waited. He still looked doubtful. "You're not just saying that because of the driving, are you?" "No. But have to admit that it was a contributing factor." "My God, you actually said yes!" he said, his face lighting up in a huge smile. She couldn't help smiling back. "Yes, I did." The air between them suddenly took on a special kind of energy, a very particular electromagnetic charge conducted across a field of pheromones. When his seatbelt abruptly blocked his first attempt at leaning over to kiss her, he wrestled it off. She took hers off, too. Their lips met, parted, and met again over the center armrest of a Silver Blue Ford Taurus SE registered to Alamo out of Charlotte, North Carolina. After said armrest was lifted back and out of the way, further explorations ensued. Eventually, both of them settled back into their respective seats, patting back their hair and rearranging their clothing. "I can't believe that finally happened," he said reverently. "Mmmm," she agreed, breathless and faint, and also resisting the urge to add, "About Fucking Time." "Now what?" he asked, with a lovesick grin. She took a deep breath. "Airport?" "There's got to be more to it than that," he said, pouting, but pulling out onto the highway nonetheless. "Set a date?" "We'll figure it out," she said briskly. "China patterns?" "Drive, Mulder." "Whatever you say, love muffin." He shot her a look of triumph. "Don't push your luck, poopyhead," she shot back. But she grabbed his free hand and brought it up to her lips for a kiss. "You're *my* poopyhead now." "Your poopyhead," he agreed. They drove in companionable silence for a little while, hands linked on the seat between them, both thinking with great relief that whatever else may have just changed, at least they could still drive together in companionable silence. Something finally occurred to Scully, however, as she wrestled with the inevitable question of how to tell her mother what had just happened. "You know, Mulder, when people ask us how you proposed, what are you planning on telling them?" "To mind their own damned business?" Her eyebrow lifted. "Why, you want me to do it over properly?" "No, thank you. It was fitting, really. If you asked me like a normal person, I'd have to wonder if it was really you and not Eddie Van Blundht, or an alien shapeshifter." He looked miffed and countered with: "How do you know I'm not?" And then it suddenly occurred to her that if this were in any way like the rest of their lives, at any moment disaster would befall them. Either one or both of them would be kidnapped -- or the plane would crash because of alien interference, and even though they both survived, somehow they'd both develop a tragic case of amnesia and never recall that they'd had this conversation. Or one of those damned bees would show up. With a new sense of purpose, she began scanning billboards. "Econolodge, 2.4 miles ahead," she suggested. "Huh?" "You really want to catch that flight?" she asked. He looked over at her in surprise. "You don't?" She gave him a kittenish look. "I can think of something I'd rather do with my afternoon." And suddenly the trees were passing by her window at way more than the legal speed limit once again. THE END -- but stay tuned for "Two Rooms, Sort Of..." (if you're 18 or older, that is)