TITLE: Moose and Squirrel
AUTHOR: Lysandra
E-MAIL: I'd love feedback at Lysandra31@aol.com
SPOILERS:  Christmas Carol/Emily, The Unnatural
DISTRIBUTION: Just at my own page for the moment.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATION: Story/Romance
KEYWORDS: MSR
SUMMARY: Moose and Squirrel - really.
NOTES:  This is an improv done for Scullyfic... The elements are listed at
the end, as are the rules of the Improv.  There's also a feeble attempt at
trademark/copyright information and thanks to those who deserve it!

** MOOSE AND SQUIRREL **
            by Lysandra

Pre-schoolers positively swarmed around the room, wild and free and full of
life.  Scully could scarcely remember being so young and innocent, so
untouched by tragedy and loss.

She and Mulder were in a brightly painted room, with walls covered in finger
paintings, macaroni art and God's-Eyes.  This place screamed childhood, the
smells and sounds sending her back thirty years or so.  She had gone to a
pre-school like this, although she couldn't even remember where she lived at
the time.  Was it San Diego?  It didn't matter.  Childhood was childhood,
and she saw herself in the bright eyes and dirty faces and paint-covered hands
of the three- and four-year-olds before her.  They had just had their snack,
and were on quite the sugar high from the looks of things.  Had she ever
screamed that loudly?  She doubted it.  Scully had been a pretty quiet child,
always thinking before she spoke, even before she learned about manners; it 
was just her nature.

A little Hispanic boy grabbed at Scully's hand, insistently pulling her
across the room.  "What is it, where are we going?" she asked.  The
dark-haired cherub looked up plaintively at her, his deep brown eyes trying
to impart a message the child seemed unable to voice.   He dragged Scully
toward the television in the corner as he pointed toward a large wall clock.
Almost noon.  Scully didn't quite know what to do.  Nothing for it but to
ask, she decided.  "What's your name, sweetie?  What do you need?"

Angel-child looked up at Scully again, desperation in his eyes.  "Miss Dana,
por favor, help me con la TV," he said in a high-pitched, heavily accented
voice.  He pointed at the clock.  "It's gonna start!"

What was going to start?  Which nasty kiddie program was about to make
Scully's life miserable?  The Teletubbies?  Power Rangers?  Good God,
please, not Barney, Scully silently prayed.  She grabbed the remote off the 
top of the TV, where it was attached with a worn piece of Velcro, obviously 
out of the reach of grubby little hands.  "What are we watching?" she asked,
as she turned on the TV, adjusted the volume, and waited for instructions 
from her tiny master.  Angelface was silent, sighing and clicking his 
tongue.  Hoping against hope that he would want to watch "Sesame Street," 
she changed the cable channels until his face lit up, his baby-toothed smile
reaching his eyes.

Scully was stunned back to 1968 or so by what she saw on the screen.  The
theme music was as familiar to her as her own name.  She smiled as she
remembered sitting between Bill and Melissa on a moss green couch, all of
their eyes glued to the TV in the Scully living room.  With their ages
varying as they did, there were few shows that they all agreed on, but this
program was universally loved in the Scully household.  Their parents seemed
to like it as much as the kids, although they didn't watch nearly as often.
As she saw the beloved characters zipping across the screen, she closed her
eyes for a moment in remembrance of years past.

Rocky and Bullwinkle.  She was so glad she had grown up with them instead of
Barney, and made a mental note to find out what channel this was, and to
write and thank them for carrying such programming.  She had a special
fondness for Bullwinkle Moose and Rocket J. Squirrel, along with Sherman and
Mr. Peabody.  At the moment, Rocky was telling Bullwinkle that they'd never
get out of whatever situation they were in.

She studied the child now sitting cross-legged on the floor, slightly too
close to the TV but not so close that she felt the need to make him move, as
content as he was.  This dark little boy, looking so different from any of
the fair Irish Scully children, still managed to remind her of her brother
Bill, the way he looked at the television, very seriously concentrating on
the scene before him.

She was no longer needed here in the TV area; this child, whose name she'd
never learned, was lost to the world of Fractured Fairy Tales and Boris and
Natasha.

Scully's gaze meandered across the room to find her partner, sitting on the
floor at a long, low table, happily dipping a brush into a canister of
tempera, with about six children doing the same from their child-sized
chairs.  She could see colors on the papers from twenty feet away, bright
splashes of fuschia, orange, lime green... When she was a child there were
only seven colors, just Roy G. Biv and black and white with which to mix,
not a flashy rainbow, no neon yellow screaming out for attention.  She could
vaguely hear Mulder's low voice amid the cacophony, telling the kids some
vitally important sunflower seed factoid.

What could Mulder possibly be painting, she wondered, and how was it
possible that he wasn't covered in egg-based paint like all the children 
surrounding him?  They were wearing old dress shirts as smocks, just like
she had in pre-school over three decades ago.  Scully wondered if the 
shirts had been worn by the children's fathers, like hers had.  She 
remembered the day when Ahab had reached into his closet to pick out a 
shirt for her to take to school with her, and how his deep laugh had 
resonated when she'd asked why she couldn't wear a tie like he did.

She must have drifted someplace very far away for a moment, because when she
looked back up and focused, Mulder was staring at her with a look of grave
concern.  She smiled at him, and nodded almost imperceptibly, but enough to
calm him down.  He went back to his painting, saying something to the
children that made them giggle like cute little hyenas.

It was obvious to her what was worrying Mulder.  Emily.  But actually, until
Scully saw the look in his eyes, she hadn't been overly aware that all these
children were roughly the age that Emily was when she had died.  She hadn't
noticed that one little girl had hair the same color as Emily's, and that
another wore blue deck shoes like Emily had.

Until now, she hadn't realized that she'd never heard Emily's laugh.  She
didn't know if Emily had ever gone to pre-school, she thought wistfully.
She had no idea if Emily had ever watched Bullwinkle.

And then she decided that she needed a snack too.  She'd been so busy
helping the kids that she hadn't eaten when they had, and now she was 
hungry. Eating Nilla Wafers could cure the blues when she was four, and 
maybe it would still work at thirty-five.  A sugar high of her own would 
definitely be needed if she was to get through another three hours of 
pre-school.

Scully took a few cookies out of the economy-sized box, and after grabbing
some bottled water out of the fridge, she happily settled near the painters,
quietly munching away from her perch on the world's tiniest chair.

She was glad tempera was non-toxic, otherwise Mulder would have a headache
from sitting so long at such close proximity to the stuff.  It made her
happy, somehow, to see Mulder so comfortable in this environment.  He'd been
good with Emily, too, but he was thriving with a larger audience such as he
had here.  He was really a natural with kids, and she marveled that in as
long as she'd known him, even though she'd seen him interview children with
ease and humor, it had never dawned on her what a good father he would be.

She chose not to dwell on things lost; she knew what she was getting into
when she volunteered for a day at the Youth Center.  So had Mulder.  And in
jeans and a t-shirt, he was looking positively delicious right now.  Much
more appetizing than the slightly stale cookies in her hand.

Scully scooted her chair over behind his, leaning over his shoulder.  "What
are you working on there, Mulder?"

"Am I that bad, Scully?" he said, staring at his painting, which resembled 
a bluish kidney-shaped blob.  "Is it completely unrecognizable?"

She leaned in closer, and could smell Mulder's aftershave, faintly, just
enough to make her flush slightly.  She turned her attention more closely to
the painting, but it didn't really give her a better clue.  Time for a
guessing game.  "Is it ... an amoeba?"

"Scully, do you really think I'd spend this long on something with only one
cell?"  He rolled his eyes.  "Please."

"Okay..." she ventured with an evil grin.  "Is it ... a lima bean?"

Mulder turned to face her, wearing his You Wound Me look and waving his
paintbrush too close to her face for comfort.  Scully leaned back, shooting
him a Don't You Dare Splash Paint on Me look, even though she was wearing an
old t-shirt too.  "Mulder, I'm trying here, really.  I give."

"It's a swimming pool, Scully.  See?"  He held up the paper, as if that
would make it appear more like a swimming pool.  It didn't.

"Sure it is, Mulder," she said, adopting a neutral tone, tamping down her
sarcastic instincts lest they run wild here in a room full of children.
Sarcasm is wasted on the young, and it would only get her in hot water with
Mulder anyway.  The temporary satisfaction she'd derive from berating him
wasn't worth it, not today, anyway, she thought.  She picked up her little
chair and put it back where it came from, then went to help some girls make
necklaces out of dyed pasta.

The rest of the afternoon was fairly uneventful, albeit louder than Scully
usually preferred her afternoons.  But it was a good loud.  If she had to
listen to loud noises, better it be the laughter of children than a
jackhammer outside her window.

Few words passed between the partners on the drive home, and Scully
suspected that Mulder was as lost in his thoughts about this odd day as 
she was.  She parked her car and looked over at the man in the passenger 
seat; he was tired and scruffy, and hadn't made it through the painting 
unscathed.  He had a few spots of paint on his T-shirt, and a bit on his 
hands, and a tiny bright green spot occupied a spot just under his left 
ear.  Scully had a notion to lick him clean, but, as usual, there would 
be no licking.  Mulder just sat, staring off into space.

"Mulder," she asked, gently nudging him, "...you okay over there?  You're
home."  She nodded toward his apartment building.

He looked up at her, focused his eyes on her own, then surprised her with a
proclamation.  "Come on, Scully, I've got something for you."  He leaned
toward her, twisted her car keys out of the ignition, and was out of the car,
shoving her keys into his pocket before she had a chance to protest.  He had
seemed almost as surprised at his words as she was, and she wondered what on
earth he had suddenly decided to give her.

She caught up with him in the entryway of his building, where he'd stopped
to get his mail.  "So, Mulder," she asked, sarcasm sneaking back into her
voice, "What do you have to *give me* in your apartment?"

"Oh, you'll see," he countered, obviously back to playing grown-up games
himself.  "Just something I think you'll use more than I will."  He winked.
Actually winked at her.  She was about to ream him for that, when his
expression changed, his eyes clouding over for a moment.  "Come on, Scully,"
he said, a little too much seriousness in his voice for her comfort.  He
took her hand and led her to the elevator, and their fingers intertwined 
as he punched the Up button with a knuckle on his left hand, still grasping
his mail.

She didn't know quite what to make of this.  We hold hands now?  What's that
about, she thought.  But she didn't let go.  Not when they got in the
elevator, not while they rode up to the fourth floor in awkward silence, and
not when they stepped out into the hallway.

Mulder finally released his hold on her at the door to his apartment,
fumbling for his keys for a moment as they tangled with hers in his hand.
He put her keys back in his pocket and opened the door, ushering her inside.

"Sit down, Scully," he said, nodding toward the couch.  "I'll be right
back." He disappeared into the bedroom, and Scully did as she was told.

She sat down, looked out the window for a moment, then realized she wasn't
bothering to look at anything and shifted on the leather sofa.  Gazing at
her left hand, she thought it felt different.  It didn't *look* any different,
but it felt different.  She tried to chastise herself for remembering
Mulder's fingers warmly woven with hers, the pads of his fingertips loosely
caressing her knuckles.

She tried to chastise herself, but she couldn't do it.  He had so rarely
held her hand, outside of a hospital setting or a few other extremely 
stressful situations.  But when they were in California posing as husband 
and wife, he had put his arm around her constantly; and in recent weeks, 
too, he had been a shameless flirt.  This was the real Mulder, though, 
holding her hand, not to comfort her, but for no other reason than that he 
wanted to.  It had felt like he was her lover, or husband, just taking her 
hand because that's what lovers and husbands do.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a *CRASH* in the other room, followed by 
a long, loud Rumble-Crash-Rumble.  She jumped from the couch, and heard
Mulder's muffled voice.  "Shit!"

Scully opened the bedroom door to quite a sight.  The contents of the top
shelf in Mulder's closet had tumbled down on top of him.  He was seated on
the floor, surrounded by clothes, videos, and magazines - and a red pair of
long-johns, the full-body kind with a drop-seat, draped over him like
strawberry sauce, topping off a Mulder sundae made especially for her.  She
burst out laughing, unable to squelch the impulse for even a second.

Mulder seemed wholly unamused, which sent Scully further over the edge even
as she endeavored to stop sniggering.

She managed to blurt out, "You okay?" in the midst of her giggles, and
crouched beside him, grabbing the long-johns and throwing them onto the bed.
"Mulder," she continued, "when's the last time you wore *those?*"

"Try to do a girl a favor..." Mulder grumbled, rubbing a spot above his eye.
Scully saw that he'd been hit by something, most likely a videotape, and a
small bump was forming.  Nothing earth-shattering, but it stopped her
giggling fit, and she switched to doctor mode, leaning in to examine her
patient.

"I don't recall asking you for a favor," she said, almost shivering at the
feeling of his breath on her neck.  The bump didn't look too bad, and he
didn't wince at her touch.  As she looked in his eyes to check his pupils,
she saw something new, something which in anyone else might seem dangerous
-- but coming from Mulder, today, it simply seemed right.  And she wondered
if he saw the same thing in hers.

"You didn't ask me for one, but I was going to give you one anyway.  Not
really a favor, more like a gift..."  He looked up at her, oozing sincerity
for once.  "Well, just a little one."

She wondered what gift he'd been pulling out of his closet, before the Crash
of '99.  "A little *what,* Mulder?" she said softly, her fingers still
whispering along his brow.

"Its ... uhh ... it's a video," he said, looking in the mess around him to
find said video.  Scully dropped her hand, and she surveyed the area.
Playboy magazines, some clothes she couldn't imagine Mulder wearing, and
what looked to be mostly porno videos littered the immediate vicinity.

"You're bequeathing me with a treasure from the Fox Mulder Video Vault?" she
asked, unable to stop a brow from rising heavenward.  "What kind of girl do
you think I am?"

"The best kind, Scully," he answered immediately.  He seemed embarrassed to
have said it, as if he hadn't thought before speaking and wanted to take it
back.  But she knew he couldn't; it was already out there, along with the
hand-holding and the gift-giving.  She wouldn't want him to take it back,
anyway.  It was among the nicest things he'd ever said to her; it was a gift
in itself.

Scully knew she was beaming.  So much for playing my cards close to my vest,
she thought.  There was no point in either of them hiding what they were
feeling, not now.  "Mulder, come here a second," she finally said, wrapping
her fingers around his neck and pulling him closer.  The look on his face
was absolutely priceless, but Scully lost eye contact as she dipped her 
head around to the side of his neck.  Aha, there it was.  That spot of 
green paint below his ear that had been calling to her since they'd been 
in the car ...

And she licked him.  Mulder growled, and she not only heard it but felt it
against her lips.  She kissed and licked the paint right off his neck, and
then moved up to nibble his earlobe.  The paint didn't taste like much, and
soon was replaced by pure Mulder skin.  She was right; he *was* delicious.
And much more satisfying than Nilla Wafers.

She didn't get to taste him for long, however; Mulder apparently had some
taste-testing of his own in mind, and tackled her, taking them both down to
the floor, trying in vain to clear a place amongst the mess.  He hovered
above her for a moment as if he didn't quite know what to do with her now
that he had her here.

He figured it out.

Their kiss was slow and languid, almost casual on the surface, but Scully
didn't feel like rushing.  They'd waited six and a half years to do this,
and somehow, lying beneath Mulder on the floor of his bedroom after a day
spent playing with children just seemed right.

And she discovered, much to her delight, that yes, the air in Mulder's mouth
really DID taste better than a nonfat tofutti rice dreamsicle.

Much better.

** END 1/1 **

Well, there's my improv ... and as a good friend of mine would say - aieee!
This was harder than I thought it would be...

The IMPROV ELEMENTS and their perpetrators were:
- a talking squirrel (from Dilby)
- tempera paint canisters (from Squeak)
- an amoeba (from some mean Australian student)
- Spanglish (from Janet)
- A pair of long-johns with a drop-seat bottom  (from Paulette)

DISCLAIMER: "The X-Files," Mulder, and all the Scullys belong to Chris
Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox.  VelcroŽ is owned by The Velcro
Companies; "Bullwinkle" & all his friends are owned by Jay Ward 
Productions; The Teletubbies are owned by some truly disturbed English 
people in Stratford-upon-Avon; "Sesame Street" is a production of the 
Children's Television Workshop; "Mighty Morphin Power Rangers" belong 
to Saban Entertainment; "Barney and Friends" belong to the Devil.  Or 
some lady in Texas, I think.  Levi's are property of the Levi Strauss 
Company, I'm guessing.  And we have Nabisco to thank for Nilla Wafers.  
Yum.  No infringement is intended to any of these fine people/companies, 
and I encourage you to go out and buy a box of Nilla Wafers and just see 
how happy it makes you.  :-)

NOTES:
-- ROY G. BIV is an acronym for the colors of the spectrum (Red Orange
Yellow
Green Blue Indigo Violet).
-- Tempera paint is non-toxic, as far as I know ... but I still would rather
have a Nilla Wafer myself.

THANKS:  To Shannon, Brandon, Lena, Erlybird, Sara S., Leilia & Paulette for
all the great ideas & quick beta-reading.  (Except for the long-johns,
Paulette; that was just plain mean!)

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

 ** SCULLYFIC IMPROV INFO **

    The game works like this.  A predetermined author volunteer (that would
be me) agrees to write a story containing five elements supplied by members
of the Scullyfic list.  Once the author puts out a call for story elements,
the first five people who respond will have their ideas included in the
story.
    Those elements can include a character, a setting, a piece of clothing,
an emotion -- anything at all that you would like to see incorporated into a
piece of fanfic.  The author will then have a week to write a story that
includes all five of those elements, no matter what those may be.
    For example, Scullyfic members could ask for the following things to be
included:   A beach, A parakeet, Silk boxers, John Kresge, A gaping head
wound.  (That would have been easier, for some reason...)
    The volunteer author would then arrange those elements into any type of
story they choose to write -- angst, humor, romance, character death --
they'll have free rein as long as they include those required elements.
(Why "free rein" made me write a sappy piece, I don't know.  I blame
everything on Paulette.)