TITLE: Eavesdropping
AUTHOR: Flynn
E-MAIL ADDRESS: flyn121@yahoo.com
Website: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/ 
CLASSIFICATION: S,R
KEYWORDS: Skinner
CATEGORY: S,A
DATE: October 2, 2000
DISTRIBUTION: Xemplary, Ephemeral, Spooky, Gossamer, yes;
anywhere else, just ask. I share.
SPOILER WARNING: Passing references to S7.
RATING: NC-17 for observations of adult expressions of affection.
FEEDBACK: Please. It's better than .... well, I don't like chocolate.
DISCLAIMER: My last name is not Carter. 

SUMMARY: During a meeting with Scully, the burly surly one muses on a
few things: Kersh .... Doggett .... how Scully had gotten pregnant. 

Thanks, Christine. I'm running out of glib ways to say it.


~~~~~~~~~~~~
Eavesdropping
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~

I should have known this was going to be an interesting day.

I have a meeting with Kersh this afternoon, among other things. It comes
on the heels of another one with Agents Scully and Doggett, who are due
any minute. Now, as Assistant Directors go, Kersh is good. He's thorough.
He's methodical. He takes no bull. He accepts only the best efforts of the
agents under him, and as a consequence he's blessed with a unit boasting
one of the highest case-solved rates in the division.

He's a born accountant. He's a nitpicker. He's a stickler for protocol.

He's hell to work for. 

I'm sure it's difficult for any of the agents under him, at one time or
another. I can only imagine the hell Mulder went through, languishing
under his jaundiced eye for as long as he did, he and Scully.

Scully. That's another interesting thing. This meeting will be one of our last
before her maternity leave. THAT concept still stops me. Scully's pregnant.
Jesus. Guess those rumors really were true, about her and Mulder and all
their time spent together. All those rumors I ignored, having decided to
give them the benefit of doubt. I know I should be pissed. I mean, it's
almost humiliating. I could even bring them up for disciplinary actions, or
at least him. It's one thing to have a close working relationship with your
partner. To depend on him or her before all others. To trust when you have
nothing else but faith and history between you to depend on. 

But to get said partner pregnant? Must have missed that one in the regs.

I can't get angry and stay that way. Sure, they make my unit look a little ....
lax. They might even make me look ineffectual, in the wrong light. But it
isn't like this hasn't happened before in the history of the Bureau. The traits
that make a good, strong partnership can lead to other things. Normally,
the agents involved would recognize the situation and request transfers.
Under normal circumstances, it'd be a real strain to work together AND
attempt to co-habitate. This job can be hell on relationships. I know.

But I find I can't begrudge those two for anything that has happened. First
off, they have enough going against them as it is. Normal circumstances, as
might be defined by someone working in another section, have never
existed for these two. And besides, for years now I've watched them. I've
seen the dynamic which idiots like Blevins underestimate, or that
bookkeepers like Kersh just flat-out disregard. Those two really do have
something special, and have had it a long time. Besides, the status of their
partnership .... well, it isn't exactly cut-and-dried any longer. Technically,
their partnership will be suspended when Scully takes off to do her thing.

There's a knock on the door an instant before it opens. Scully. I nod a
greeting as she settles herself in one of the chairs facing me. There's a nice
glow to her today. I've never spent much time around pregnant women so
I'm probably not the best of judges, but she just doesn't seem that big to
me. I guess part of that is careful tailoring. Oh, it's been obvious for months
now that something's afoot, and there's been lots of speculation about
paternity; but I've seen women who could have been mistaken for sumo
wrestlers. She does not have that look.

We exchange pleasantries. I'm fine, I tell her; my apartment is fine, my
plastic houseplants are fine - outside of my job, I don't really have much of
a life. She appears to blush when I ask about Mulder. He's doing better; the
shrinks say he should be cleared for duty in a couple more weeks. None
too soon; I know Mulder, and I know he must be busting out at the seams.
She says he spends hours on the internet or haunting the DC libraries,
researching God only knows what. He's undergone regression therapy a
couple times now, but to no avail. His memories go straight from standing
in an Oregon forest to waking up in an Oregon hospital, with nothing in
between. Whatever happened to him, it's locked down tight. He's on edge
about it. I know Mulder on edge. It can't be pretty, having to live with that.

The conversation moves on to more staid topics. Her brothers are both in
the Navy, a fact I'm well aware of, and both are expecting shore leave
soon; first Charles, and then Bill. Her mother is already planning a family
reunion. When Scully says her brother's name, I have to use a hand to
actually smother a quick smile. I met Bill when she was in the hospital a
long time ago, the same time Mulder did. As I recall, it wasn't exactly love
at first sight between the two of them. I understand it's almost come to
blows between them a couple of times. I don't know much about Bill, but I
do know there are few forces in this world that can contain an agitated
Mulder. This woman is one of those forces. I can honestly say I don't envy
anyone unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of her wrath. I've been
there a time or two. I didn't like it.

The polite conversation lags, and we both glance at our watches - looks
like Doggett's running a little late. One thing he has in common with her
partner, but that's about it. John Doggett, I muse to myself. I didn't have a
lot to do with either Mulder or Scully for the first few months of their
partnership, so I can't say I know just how their relationship evolved, but
I'm fairly sure it wasn't anything at all like what I see developing between
her and Doggett. She's different with him. There's an edge to her. They
work all right together, and I know they watch out for each other; but I
don't think they'll ever be friends. It's obvious that he did something or said
something at the outset that she found offensive, and he hasn't been
forgiven. I know something about the devotion between Scully and
Mulder. I've seen how his disappearances affected her. Whatever Doggett
did, if it has anything at all to do with The Man, he's screwed.

I find my mind wandering a little as she recounts something from another
family event. Something about her nephew and chocolate cake. I listen, but
I don't exactly take notes. Dana Scully, I muse silently, is a complex
person, something I've been aware of for a good long while. Nothing about
her is overt. When she gets angry, she withdraws and becomes outwardly
still. I've seen that plenty of times. I can't say I've ever seen her in a rage,
though I know it must happen from time to time, especially considering
how her partner can be. I've seen her scared shitless. I've seen her grieve,
silent and inward. I've seen her shed tears, again, quietly. No histrionics for
her. I've even seen her smile a few times, and on one memorable occasion,
I actually heard her laugh. Not a tight, bitter cackle, but a real,
from-the-gut laugh. 

If there's anything I would like to take with me to my grave, it's the sound
of this woman's laughter. 

I think about how she was when Mulder finally turned up. Certainly not a
lot of laughter then. I don't think she'd been taking really good care of
herself. She was pale and almost gaunt, which certainly made them a nice
pair. She was intense in her concern for him, and obsessive in the way she
hovered. I'm sure the government HMO gave the hospital hell for all the
tests and procedures she wanted done. I kept in touch with her after she'd
taken him home - oh, there was no doubt where he'd be staying. For the
first week or so she was still clearly stressed. Didn't have to see her to
know those dark circles under her eyes hadn't gone anywhere. Then
something happened, something she still hasn't really explained to me.
Mulder had some sort of breakthrough. He wasn't himself exactly, but
suddenly there was progress. Each week saw more things return to normal.
Well, normal for them, at any rate.

I wonder if they've resumed their .... well, physical relations. Shit, why is it
so hard even to think within the safety of my own head? What, am I afraid
she'll see it in my eyes? Sex. I wonder if they've started having sex. Again. I
mean, something obviously happened before he left, because .... hell, look
at her. These things don't just happen. Unless it isn't his. THAT thought
never fails to trouble me. What was happening back then? What cases were
they working on? There was his unexpected and completely unauthorized
excursion to England. Sorry, Mulder, you're gonna have to eat the cost on
that one. But immediately before that was the episode with Old Scratch.
Three days she was alone with him. It's possible something could have
transpired. She said in her report that there was a good-sized time span she
couldn't account for. Jesus, could he have .... The thought makes me
shudder. Yet as unpleasant as it seems, I know the possibility exists. 

Oh, surely she's thought of that. Surely she asked her OB to run every test
he could. Not difficult to determine paternity in this day and age. Until and
unless I hear otherwise, I'm going to assume it's Mulder's.

Mulder's. That means they did have sex. I wonder about their first time. I
wonder when it was. Have they been involved for years, as it's been
speculated since her disappearance so long ago? Personally, I doubt it. I
think it's a recent development. That's just my opinion. I've watched them
for years. I'm no authority on women, God knows, but I do know a little
about male-female relations. I know that Mulder's been pretty fond of her
for a hell of a long time. I've caught onto the fact that the stronger his
feelings about something, the blanker his expression gets. I've watched him.
How they are in the basement office, when they're just THEM, is anyone's
guess. They come up for meetings or to consult with another department -
or, hell, coffee - and the man's face is as empty as a cadaver's. 

She's a little harder to read. Still, I see the looks. Before his latest
disappearance, I saw her smile just a little more. I saw her touch him.
Nothing obtrusive, just a hand on his forearm, or straightening his tie when
it didn't need it. There's always been a connection between them, but it
seemed a little different. They were physical about it. There was .... an ease
to it that wasn't there before. When did it start? I can't even say. 

So if I'm curious about anything, and obviously I am, it isn't when so much
as how. Did he romance her first? Hell, did SHE romance HIM? It
wouldn't really surprise me: there does seem to be a certain role reversal
where those two are concerned. Was it slow and deliberate? Or impulsive?
I think about that, mentally construct a scene which I pray she can't see in
my expression. Where are they? Not the office. Probably not a motel room
- too anonymous. Maybe her apartment. Or his. I see them in an embrace.
It's unhurried. Mulder's no giant, but he might as well be when she takes
her shoes off. I see his hands working at her collar. I see her skin bared
little by little to his touch. I see the emotions in her eyes. She accepts his
overtures, but silently. What would she taste like? I've never considered it
before this. Mulder knows. Mulder knows how she feels. He knows where
all her little moles and freckles are, and how they're laid out on the white
canvas of her body. He knows the spots that make her giggle, that make
her writhe and maybe whisper his name, like Sharon used to whisper mine.
He knows what it's like to have those lithe hands on him. Those fingers
dragging through his hair - something I haven't personally experienced
since I was eighteen. The warmth of her hand closing on his neck, drawing
him to her. Did he groan when he kissed her the first time? I imagine that
he did. Who wouldn't, when receiving something so long desired?

There's a sharp rap on the door. Scully and I both jump a little. Thank God
my train of thought is derailed. Doggett makes his entrance and sits down,
nodding once to each of us in acknowledgment of his tardiness. I see a
tightness in Scully's expression, one that wasn't there a few seconds ago.
No, she's living, breathing proof that trust and friendship do not necessarily
go hand in hand. Goes to show, I guess, that the indefinable chemistry
between this woman and her true partner is one-of-a-kind.

They start running down the list of cases that are currently pending. There
are six being run in conjunction with Violent Crimes, and two with
Domestics. Mulder would be consulting, if he were back at work.
Doggett's good, but he just doesn't have the bent that Mulder does. When
all is said and done, Mulder is a solid criminal profiler. I don't know how
many times the VC and other units have benefitted from his particular skill.
That the same people he's assisted no doubt disparage him in their
off-hours grinds the pride not just a little bit. I feel for Mulder. See, the
Bureau's always been about team-playing. Maybe it's some innate
personality trait, or maybe it's as simple as the fact that he was basically
raised as an only-child. The man is a loner.

I listen to my agents, and this time I do take notes; but with a knack that
probably developed during my stint in Vietnam, a portion of my mind
simultaneously returns to its earlier musings. Which means I can listen to
them and fantasize at the same time. As the agents explain their strategy for
phasing Scully out and Mulder in downstairs, I see something totally
different. They ARE in his apartment. They're in the living room, the only
room I can remember being in. He has her shirt undone, and now she's
working on his. The height difference comes in handy when she wants to
..... I find myself shifting a little in my chair. She's kissing him. His hands
are on her shoulders, and he tips his head back and bares his throat to her.
She's smiling. I see a flash of her teeth, and he groans just a little as she
worries his larynx. A shudder wracks him. Then he dips his head and goes
for her shoulder. Her neck. Jesus, what must she taste like.

With very little effort, I can feel the heat of her skin. That softness just over
her breastbone, the one which would hit me somewhere around the
sternum. It hits him there, too. Her hands are on his neck again, one
working its way into his hair while the other one .....

Shit. I twist a little in my seat.

The other one glides down his arm, grasps his left hand, and raises it to her
chest. His fingers don't hesitate, but curl around her breast in a gentle
embrace. He doesn't want to hurt her, clearly; but it's just as obvious that
she wants more than what he's giving her. Her fingers close around his,
tightening his grip on her. She's murmuring something to him, but I don't
catch the words. What they say to each other doesn't matter.

We didn't need to talk much at this point, my wife and I.

I come up for air and try, I really try, to keep my mind on what Doggett's
saying. Something about expense reports and how he needs last year's to
do a comparison. Is it legit, I wonder, or is he still trying to define himself,
to distinguish his own record from that of his less-than-respected
predecessor? Does it matter right now? I don't see how. I jot down a note
to contact Accounting and have the old files dug out of Archives.

He's gone to his knees. Is their height really this perfect, or am I creating
details that aren't valid? I can't say that I've ever witnessed Agent Mulder
kneeling in front of his partner before. Again I shrug away irrelevance. He's
drawing the shoulder strap of her bra down, baring her to him. Jesus, she's
beautiful. Pale. So pale that she'd burn within minutes out in the sun. Her
aureole is pinkish-peach. Rose, that's it. She really does have rose-tipped
breasts. There's a small mole on one of them, and he kisses it tenderly
before trailing over her white flesh, nuzzling and licking as he goes. She
shivers as he takes her in his mouth, lets her head fall forward until her
temple is pressed to his. Closer. Always closer.

Jesus, I shouldn't be doing this. I clear my throat suddenly and loudly and
shift my weight forward in my chair. Whoa, wrong move; the material of
my slacks binds suddenly over something that wasn't there a little while
ago. Hastily I sit back. Thank God I have a desk to hide behind, because
there's no explanation for what I have going on here. A puerile joke flits
through my head, something about icing down a painful swelling, and I
almost lose it and snicker. I clear my throat again to cover it.

Doggett's going on about the audit in May and doesn't notice, but Scully's
looking at me curiously. Dammit, it's easy to forget she's a doctor. I give
her a level look and raise my eyebrows. "You have a question, Agent
Scully?" I ask brusquely. Doggett breaks off and looks at her curiously.

She doesn't call my bluff, but a little frown pinches her own brows together
and she gives her head a shake. "No, sir. You just seem uncomfortable. We
could postpone this meeting if you're not feeling w- " 

"I'm perfectly well, I assure you," I snap, cutting her off. She bites back her
words, and I mentally kick myself. Well, it isn't like this is the first time I've
lied to the woman. Jesus, I hope I haven't gone six shades of red. I hope
she can't see my thoughts in my expression. My guilt. Sitting here,
fantasizing about a subordinate like I was a kid thinking about his crush.
And not just any subordinate, but the one sitting there looking at me with
eyes that could melt the iceberg that brought down the Titanic. Jesus, it's
been a long time since hormones had anything at all to do with my actions.

Okay, enough of this. Time I get a grip on myself, and not the kind that
feels good. I reach for my coffee cup and take a hefty swig. Shit, it's tepid.
I force it down and wipe my mouth in disgust. That leads to a bigger
problem than forcing down cold coffee: the lingering aftertaste is sweet and
smoky, and so much a part of sex for me that the memory alone is enough
to change the course of blood in my body. I'm not a smoker and neither
was Sharon, so our post-coital ritual was to split a cup of coffee. Light
sugar, heavy cream. A long, deep, gentle kiss to share the flavor. Dammit
dammit dammit. Why doesn't my assistant call with a really important,
irritating phone call from the Attorney General? Why doesn't Kersh come
in and politely demand his appointment be moved up by half an hour? Why
can't Mulder burst in, talking about bees or sewer monsters or Bigfoot, for
God's sake?

Ah, hell. Mulder. Why did I have to think of him? Jesus, right now I'd like
nothing more than to hate the man. Hate him and I wouldn't care. I wish I
didn't. How many barrels have I been over in the past eight years
specifically because of Fox Mulder? So this *particular* barrel has nothing
to do with conspiracies or aliens or devil women running amok in New
Jersey, of all places. No, the Amazon in my thoughts is sitting right here in
front of me, looking right through me to my soul with eyes the color of
lapis. 

She looks at her partner in just such a way, or at least she used to, so
bewildered and concerned. She also looks at him like Sharon used to look
at me, with patience and tenderness, or hot, brooding lust. She's looking at
him like that right now, the woman in my thoughts. He's on his knees and
he's suckling and worrying her, and it's becoming quite clear that she wants
much, much more from him. I can see his hands meeting around her back,
his fingers spreading and overlapping, slowly working their way into the
waistline of her skirt. He lifts his head and looks up at her, and I bite back a
soft gasp at what I see in his eyes. Wonder. Unabashed adoration. This
man's worshiping with his body what his heart and his mind have been
devoted to for the better part of a decade. Did I ever look at Sharon like
that? It hurts to realize that I probably didn't. I loved her - hell, I still do
love her - but I could never look at her with my soul in my eyes. Even with
her, I was hidden. Not so with this man. I can see every thought, every
impulse in those clear eyes. And so can his lover.

His lover. She stoops a little and covers his mouth with hers. Their eyes do
not quite close. Tongues dance and weave, seeking not to conquer but to
continue and complete. Her hands are in his hair again, stroking and
massaging, and this time he gives a nice, strong groan. His own hands
continue their way into her clothing, loosening and removing. Her skirt
drops in a heap around her bare feet. What she wears beneath it is a rosy
nebula of anonymity. I don't need to visualize her underwear. 

She draws him to his feet again, then purposefully unlatches his belt and
tugs it free. It lands on the floor several paces away. He doesn't move,
merely stands there with his hands angled away from his hips and watches
her. She makes short work of his shirt, then unzips his pants and pushes
them down. He's fully erect. A man doesn't think much about another guy's
package, and he certainly doesn't spend time on it in a hyperhormonal
daydream like this. I concentrate on her instead. Jesus, she's beautiful. Slim
and pale, round in all the right places. The swell of her ass fits into his
hands as if she'd been made just for him. I'm tempted to think maybe she
was.

He takes her hands as he backs toward the couch. She stands before him
and looks at him as he slowly sits. Her breasts are eye-level with him. He
doesn't seem to know where to look. Glances up at her, smiling a little as
his hands slide up her sides to cup her again. She leans into the touch. She
isn't coy, but neither is she overly-aggressive. She wants what she wants,
and she makes no bones about letting those desires be known. As he
fondles her, she frames his face with her own slim hands and leans down to
kiss him. 

Jesus, to be kissed like that. 

He sits back as she lowers herself on him. There's little hesitation, and no
fumbling. She shifts slightly and helps him find the right angle, and he
groans softly as she envelopes him. I think this was my favorite part when
my wife and I made love. Ejaculation might be the pinnacle, but it's over
and done with in the flicker of an eye. This moment can be drawn out until
you can't seem to find breath in your body. Slowly she rises, then sinks
down over him again. Her eyes. Jesus, her eyes. I can't help it, I find
something on my desk to occupy my own gaze. I can't look at her right
now. Her expression is rapt, and she arches back until the hair on his chest
tickles her breasts. Her hands are kneading his shoulders. She breathes his
name in time to her gentle rhythm of rise and fall. His response isn't spoken
so much as it's moaned. God, how can he just sit there and let her do that? 

Evidently he can't. His hands settle on her hips, arresting her movements.
He murmurs something, and she immediately coils herself around him. Ah,
I see. He collapses onto his side, then rolls and shifts them until she's under
him. God, I can almost feel his relief as he starts pumping into her. They
don't say anything; all I hear is the sounds of their breathing, of their bodies
moving and meeting. She lifts her legs and drapes them over his, deepening
his penetration, increasing the impact. Her face is pressed up close against
his, and oh God, her expression .... it couldn't be duplicated in all the porn
flicks that could ever be made. That expression isn't a practiced grimace;
it's almost a smile. Jesus, my heart flutters at the thought. 

I realize I'm looking at joy.

He's working on her neck as he slides in and out of her, but the difference
in their sizes proves to be a strain for him. He lunges upward, bracing
himself with his hands planted on either side of her shoulders, and actually
looks down between them as he moves. I sit there, frozen. Jesus, I can't
stop it; it's like a film that just keeps running and won't stop until it's
through. I don't have to see what he sees. I understand the impulse to look,
because it feels just too damn good to be true; looking somehow makes it
real. She's still smiling, still panting, her chest heaving beneath him. Her
hands slide up between them to her breasts, and as she works her own flesh
- something he clearly wants to do but can't just at the moment - an
invisible barrier is crossed and she's there, God help me, she's there .... and
he starts pounding. Hard. Fast. She's making a sound somewhere between
a whimper and a cry, one that is soon echoed by her partner. He throws his
head back as he lets go. She's still flying. The smile's still there, but it's
softer now. Ah, she's coming down. He gives a last few lunges and then
collapses atop her, and in that way women have - the way that Sharon had
- she holds him with her arms and her legs and keeps him from moving,
from rolling away. Not that it looks like he'll be going anyplace any time
soon.

I can't believe I'm doing this. For all intents and purposes, I just watched
my two star agents make love. I can almost feel her pulse where we touch,
but of course we aren't touching. I'm not her partner. I don't want to be.
I've been where he is, so to speak; but it wasn't these aquamarine eyes that
were staring at me, it was the slate blue eyes of my wife. Still, I know the
heat. I know the slickness, the urge to rise and plunge, to go faster and
faster until I can't stand it. I know the feel of a mouth against mine as I lose
it. I know the feel of *her* losing it. 

I know how these two felt when they made love the first time and the last
time. I know it, because I had it.

Jesus, sometimes I miss my wife so bad, I want to weep.

Thankfully, the erotic images are fading. I think of Sharon lying next to me,
touching me wherever she can. Her legs wrapped around my thigh; her arm
flung across my torso, her hand doing a side-to-side pattern on my chest.
My arms around her, holding her so tight it's not possible to talk. 

Maybe I should have found breath for it. Maybe if I'd just told her more
often how I felt, she wouldn't have left me. She wouldn't have .... 

Thank God, I've made it through the meeting. My sober thoughts have
taken care of .... certain problems, so I'm able to rise and see my agents to
the door without a trace of my earlier discomfort. Carefully I brush past
Scully, touching her discretely on the shoulder in order to ensure the
proper arm's-length between us, and ask Kim for my messages. She hands
me a cluster of pink notes. Something brushes my arm, and I'm surprised to
see Scully's hand hovering over my sleeve. Those cornflower blue eyes
hold mine effortlessly. I want to cringe in shame, for this thing I did
without meaning to do. I don't allow myself the luxury of a reaction.
Instead I drop my chin a little and meet her gaze full-bore. "Problem, Agent
Scully?" I grunt.

Her lips open, but for an interminable moment no words are uttered. Her
eyes twitch around my face as she clearly attempts to decipher my
thoughts. "Are you all right now?" she asks. Her tone is so soft, I don't
think Kim could hear her, even though she herself is standing only a few
feet away. 

I raise my head again. When haven't I given her a gruff, taciturn front?
When hasn't she bought it? I just pray she will again. "I'm fine, Agent
Scully." 

Was that the wrong thing to say? Her eyes narrow as she studies me, and
for a gut-wrenching moment I wonder if she's somehow caught on to my
unforgivable intrusion. In that instant, I realize my mistake. *I'm fine.*
How many times have I heard her utter that very phrase? How often had it
been true? How many times had I refused to buy it from her? Yet I expect
her to take it from me. How dumb is that? 

Shit, regroup. Redirect. Distract her. Or ignore her until she gives up and
lets the matter be. I turn away from her, leaving her hand hanging in the air
in an aborted appeal. "Kim, there are some materials I need to get from
Accounting. Get me an Interdepartmental pouch, would you, please?" I
state it as a question, but it's really more of a plea from me to her. And a
plea to Scully: leave it alone. Leave *me* alone.

Kim nods and presents one of the big manila envelopes from a desk
drawer. I grunt a thank you as I turn away. Kersh is standing beside the
outer door, his expression contained, almost placid. Lucky bastard. Hell, I
would bet *he* doesn't have afternoons like this. If Kersh daydreams at all,
it's probably about humiliating Mulder in front of a review board, not
watching displays of sexual and emotional gratification. Why is he here,
anyway? Oh, yeah. Budgetary wranglings for our departments. Great.
More cost analysis. More notes to Accounting.

I look at Kersh - Alvin is his name, but no one dares call him that - and nod
to him as I usher Scully past him to the outer door. Doggett follows
obediently. A minor disturbance in the outer hallway catches everyone's
attention. 

I should have seen this coming. Somehow, I should have known.

Jesus, I hate deliberately loud whispers. I hate the gawkers that seem to
come out of the woodwork at times like this. 

Mulder's just stepping off the elevator. He's not exactly hard to pick out;
whereas everyone here is dressed in business suits, men and women alike,
he's wearing jeans and a turtleneck. Boots instead of Wingtips. What the
hell is he doing here now? To my knowledge, it's the first time he's set foot
inside the Hoover Building since his return from Oregon. And the whispers
I hear are about him. About his obviously pregnant partner. About his
conduct and his subsequent disappearance. He'd knocked her up and then
chickened out. He'd found out she was sleeping around and dumped her,
only to relent and take her back despite her indiscretions. She'd been
abducted and assaulted while investigating a case he'd flatly refused to
accept. The baby isn't even his. Hell, I've heard the theories. If I'd ignored
them before out of an albeit misplaced sense of decency, I ignore these
because they are so blatantly insulting.

He must know. He has to hear the whispers in this hallway alone. I don't
see how he *can't* be aware of what people have been saying all these
years. It would kill me to know people were talking about me like that.
Difference is, Mulder has a real Screw-you strength. He really doesn't give
a shit what people think. 

I take that back. He cares what Scully thinks. 

He doesn't seem to be in a big hurry, but I see his expression change a little
when he catches sight of her. A wry smile, and his stride lengthens. Quickly
I spare her a glance. Her own expression is almost neutral, but I see a
flicker of something in her eyes. One corner of her mouth actually lifts just
a little. 

He nods once or twice to people who have stopped dead in the hall and are
watching him. I can't look away myself, though I feel like I'm about to
witness a twenty-car pile-up on the 95. I know that swagger. I know that
expression. He has something planned. Oh, hell. I look at her again. At
Doggett. At Kersh. Shit, I realize too late that Scully's the destination, but
Kersh is the target. A Point is about to be made, and I'm sitting front row,
center. 

It's the best seat in the house. Anyone standing out there would agree with
me. 

I'm just not sure I want it. But I can't look away. In fact, I find myself
smiling. Jesus, if Mulder had any bigger balls, he'd be nothing but a
scrotum with legs.

Thirty people must be watching by the time he finally reaches my office.
Thirty people, but you could still hear the proverbial pin drop in that
hallway. 

Kersh sees him coming and folds his arms in a display obviously meant to
intimidate. "Agent Mulder," he rumbles. Greeting? Uh uh.

"Alvin," Mulder replies, brushing past him. Kersh bristles. Doggett falls
back a step, his expression one of marked irritation. Clearly no love lost
there. The prodigal agent reaches for his partner's hand. "'Scuse us, boss,"
he says flippantly to me, drawing her after him back out to the hallway.
They both grace Kersh with a lingering glance.

Do I dare breathe? I can't imagine what my expression is. I know what's
coming, and it's taking all my inner strength to restrain a belly laugh the
likes of which this office has never heard.

The wind-up: he engulfs her in his long arms and draws her slowly, slowly,
in a close embrace. Is it merely reflex that makes her tip her chin up like
that, or is she onto him? I can just glimpse her eyes from this angle. Yeah,
she's guessed what he's doing, and no doubt *why*; and while she isn't
actively encouraging him, she certainly isn't putting up much of a struggle.

And the pitch: his mouth connects with hers in what I can only term a
Hollywood kiss. It's long and deep, and it has a lot of action. It also puts to
shame the erotic daydreams I've been courting. Her hands hover in the air
around him - she's obviously unsure just what to do. They separate briefly,
and I see her eyes quirk in a silent warning; then he's on her again, if
anything deeper and more possessive, and this time one of her hands make
it to the back of his neck. God, this one lasts a long time. He releases her
with a resounding smack. She's blushing furiously, which comes as no
surprise. Her hand goes up like she's going to belt him, but it hesitates
before gently meeting his cheek and giving it an affectionate shove. He
grins, unrepentant as hell. "Hi, honey," he says. It's far from a shout, but in
that tomb-like hall it might just as well have been blasted through a
bullhorn. "Tough day at the office? C'mon home - I have a roast in the
oven." His gaze drops significantly to her round little belly, and Scully
actually giggles when he addresses it. "Hey, child o'mine. Been giving your
mom a bad time this afternoon? We're gonna have to have a talk about this,
you know: you're never, ever supposed to kick a girl, even if you are one
yourself. Don't give me any lip on this, or you'll be grounded until you're
twelve."

How long have I been standing there? I hear soft murmurs as people
around me find their voices. He drapes an arm around her shoulders and
steers her away. They just about make the elevator when I remember
Kersh. He's still there, looking for all the world like a dark Buddha, chest
pushed out, eyes closed to slits. Clearly he's not amused. I can't help it, and
I really don't care if I offend him: I allow myself a chuckle as I gesture him
into my office. "AD Kersh," I say with a lightness I haven't felt in months,
"you picked a hell of a day for a visit."

Kersh glanced meaningfully at the elevator doors, now closed between us
and what will soon be known as Skinner's Amorous Agents. "Guess I'm not
the only one." He shoots me a hard look as he passes me. "I'm surprised
you can laugh, Walter. You have to deal with the little bastard."
I eye him soberly as I take my place behind my desk. It's just for a few
seconds, but the significance is not lost on either of us. "Yes, I do," I reply.
"Mulder can be a royal pain in the ass, but he's an asset to my department.
He'd have been one to yours, too, if you'd given him the room to
maneuver."

He snorts softly. "I gave him what he deserved. As I said, you're the one
who has to work with him."

I nod once in concession. "I wouldn't have it any other way. Alvin." Shit,
the look he gives me would curdle my blood, if I really gave a crap what he
thought of me.

Hmm. Mulder might have something, here.

Yeah. Interesting day.


~~~~~~~~~
end, Eavesdropping