From: hamilton@intercall.com (Timothy  J. Hamilton)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Smart is Sexier than I thought (1/1 pg)
Date: 21 Apr 1996 03:49:35 GMT


Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
  Flames and anything else you want to hurl at me to TraceyI@aol.com (go
ahead; I'm wearing an asbestos teddy).  I won't ask you to be gentle, but do
keep in mind that this is my first time. 
  Disclaimer:  The X-files and the characters of Dana Scully, Fox Mulder,
Frohicke, and the others are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions,
the FOX Network, and anyone else whose property they are. No infringement is
intended.  Shakespeare's "Hamlet" is in the public domain; that I meant to
infringe.  (Come and get me, Bill!  Life plus fifty, pal!)  
  Warning: A few four-letter words here and there, but pretty much a PG on the
Jesse Helms-o-meter.
                         ****************************
"Smart Is Sexier than I Thought" 1/1
Tracey I. Batt
                         ****************************
    "Damn him," she snorted.  "Damn that Mulder."  Special Agent Dana Scully
angrily tossed back her mane of red hair.  She would definitely have to think
of some special way to seek retribution for this one. Not only had he violated
their friendship, but he had also violated the Thirteenth Amendment in the
process.  He had sold her into slavery. And for _information_.  Her anger
softened a little.  Information that might lead to Samantha.  She sighed
audibly.  But why couldn't he have promised something a little less, well,
_personal_?  Why not a picture of her, or even a lock of her hair?  She
shuddered inadvertently as the image of Donny Pfaster leapt to her mind.  No,
she definitely didn't want Frohicke to have a lock of her hair.  She was
afraid he might try to clone her from it or something even weirder.  But an
actual _date_ with Frohicke.  This was just too much.  And why was she going
along with it?  An expression somewhere between a smile and a sneer curled her
lips and narrowed her eyes.  Because the chance to hold this over her
partner's head was too good to lose.  Mulder had never in his life owed anyone
what he was going to owe her for this one.  She was going to put him on a very
long payment plan.
    She looked at her watch.  6:55 p.m.  Five minutes.  She resisted the urge
to check her makeup.  "I am _not_ going to try to look good for Frohicke," she
said to Clyde the Pomeranian, who cocked his head at her quizzically.  She
looked down at herself.  Black jeans and a sweater.  "Good enough!" she
thought aloud.  
    At exactly seven o'clock the doorbell rang, startling Scully as she
applied fresh lipstick before the bathroom mirror, her vanity having gotten
the better of her.  After all, she didn't get that many dates. She made her
way to the front door, blotting her lipstick and tripping over Clyde as she
went.  Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.  
    "Good evening, Agent Scully," said Frohicke.  "You're looking especially
lovely this evening."  He extended a bouquet of fresh flowers to her.  Scully
mumbled a "thank you" as she took the flowers from him.  She looked at
Frohicke.  Bow tie.  Hair slicked down. Bow tie.  Thick glasses.  Bow tie. 
She fought the knee-jerk nose wrinkling that threatened to convey her distaste
for the man.  
    "Shouldn't you put those into water?" Frohicke asked, nodding at the
flowers.  Scully sighed and held the door for him.  
    "I'll just be a second," she added, hoping he wouldn't come too far into
her apartment.  She looked over her shoulder as she entered the kitchen and
was relieved to see Frohicke standing by the front door with his hands clasped
like a school boy on his best behavior.  Taking a closer look at the flowers,
she was struck by something familiar. Then it hit her.
    "You know," she said casually, "when I woke up in the hospital after . . .
well, after what happened to me, my room was full of wildflowers like these. 
I never figured out who sent them." 
    She looked at Frohicke, who had dropped his head to examine his
fingernails.  Scully thought she could make out the hint if a blush on what
she could see of his cheeks.  "Well, Agent Scully," he stammered without
looking up, "you are much more . . . approachable . . . when you're
unconscious."  His words took Scully completely by surprise, and she felt an
unexpected pang of sympathy for Frohicke; had she really been that awful to
him?  And just how much time had he spent staring at her as she lay in a coma?
 She arranged the flowers furiously, not looking up at her guest.  
    "Well, Agent Scully," Frohicke interrupted her reverie, clapping his hands
together.  "Your chariot awaits."
    Scully sighed again and headed for the door, grabbing her jacket from the
closet as she passed it.  "Please, allow me," said Frohicke as he took her
jacket from her and helped her into it.  Again, all Scully could muster was a
mumbled "thanks" as Frohicke held the door open for her, ushering her out into
the cool evening air without actually touching her.
    Frohicke walked to the curb and unlocked the passenger door of a red, mint
condition '66 Mustang.  Scully was surprised; she had expected one of those
cars men used to compensate for their inadequacies, like a Corvette or a Trans
Am.  Or something more fitting his personality like a Gremlin.  She smiled as
she remembered hours in the Scully family garage, oil and grease smeared on
her overalls, face, and hands, working on old cars with her two brothers.  A
'66 Mustang was  a classy car.  And it looked like he took good care of it,
she thought, taking in the gleaming metal.  Top up, she noted with
appreciation as she absent-mindedly smoothed her hair.  "Nice car, Frohicke,"
Scully said.  "A 289 three-speed six, if I remember correctly."  
    Now it was Frohicke's turn to be surprised.  "Don't tell me you like
classic cars, too," he said.  *Boy,* he thought, *she's even more my dream
woman than I thought.*  Frohicke opened the passenger door with a flourish and
ushered Scully into her gleaming chariot. As he started the car, the
soundtrack to "The Big Chill" wafted gently from the speakers of an obviously
home-made stereo system.  Scully smiled slightly at Frohicke, noticing that,
despite his best Cary Grant impersonation, he was as nervous as a teenager on
a first date; at least he didn't have the stereo cranked up to 11 or burn
rubber as he pulled away from the curb.  All efforts to the contrary
notwithstanding, Scully started to relax.
                               ************
    Two hours later, Scully and Frohicke sat at a table near a roaring
fireplace in a quiet, elegant restaurant, arguing over creme brulee and Irish
coffee.  
    "Come on, Frohicke," Scully challenged him, "you know that kind of
mutation could only occur over a very long period of time, not in one
generation."
    Frohicke kept pushing.  "I'm telling you, Agent Scully, the government
manipulates DNA every day, rearranging nucleotides and scrambling RNA
sequences to produce everything from better tomatoes to Bigfoot."
    Scully sank back into her chair, raising her coffee to her lips and
breathing in the heady aroma.  "You're so smart, Frohicke," she said with a
slight shake of her head.  Ordering dinner for both of them in French, picking
exactly what she would have ordered herself, effortlessly moving the
conversation from recombinant DNA to Smokey Robinson and the Miracles and back
to DNA and Bigfoot.  "Why don't you apply some of that intelligence to
something a little more real than Bigfoot?"
    Frohicke too leaned back in his chair, "There are more things in Heaven
and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Agent Scully."
    She smiled at him across the table.  To her great surprise, she was quite
enjoying Frohicke's company.  He was brilliant and funny, like some sort of
mad scientist.  He had been able to match her every verbal thrust with a parry
of his own, challenging her textbook version of science with his own
unorthodox hypotheses.  Her opportunities to talk science and medicine for the
sheer fun of it were too few and far between.  She finally understood why
Frohicke and Mulder got along so well.
                            ************
    Frohicke eased the Mustang into a spot near Scully's apartment. "May I
walk you to your door?"  he asked as he made his way around to the passenger
side door and helped her out of the car.  Scully smiled and nodded. 
    As Scully opened the door to her apartment, she was utterly amazed to hear
herself ask Frohicke if he wanted to come in for a nightcap.  Frohicke took
her right hand in both of his and shook his head as he lifted her hand to his
lips and kissed it gently.  "Good night, Agent Scully," he said formally as he
stepped back.  "I had a very good time tonight," they said in unison, then
both smiled shyly like teenagers.  
    Scully waved from her doorstep as Frohicke walked down the path to his
car.  "Frohicke!" she called as he was opening the car door.  He looked up at
her.  "Can we have the top down next time?"  A grin spread across his face. 
"For you, Agent Scully," he answered, "anything."
    Scully grinned as well as she turned and closed the apartment door behind
her.  Yes, she thought, she really owed one to Mulder this time.
                        **********************