Premise:  Scully reflects upon the aftermath of going away with
C.G.B. Spender; she never counted on their being such a
heartwrenching repercussion.


Title:    Smoke Gets In Your Eyes - 1/1
Author:   Sue Littlejohn
Rating:   PG
Category: LGM/MSR, Scully POV
Spoilers: En Ami
Summary:  Somewhat alternative mid-episode
fic.  Not exactly a strict to the script effort,
but, hey, this is fanfic, after all, and to
those of you who actually read my stuff, all I
can say is, I really appreciate it.  There are
no guarantees with fanfic, I've come to appreciate,
either way.
Disclaimer: All the X-Files characters and references
are property of C. Carter, 10-13 Productions and FOX.
Infringe?  'Moi?'  I could never wield such power.



"This place secure?"

"Is this place *secure*?"

"Don't get testy, G-man."

                 ---Lone Gunmen, Skinner - "En Ami"

* * * *

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes


That's the fourth time; the fourth straight time
I've tried to make eye contact, but he's having
none of it.  Here I sit on this stained couch, on
tenterhooks; the knot in my stomach won't unravel
until the contents of that disc vindicates me and
my seemingly rash, egocentric actions.

Wouldn't he have done the same given the
circumstances and setting?  Hasn't he done so in
the past; on whatever pretext for his finding out
his truth?  I squelch the impulse to snort
when the answer to the obvious fairly smacks my
already smarting face.  I had to play it C.G.B.'s
way.  Didn't I?  What would dear Spooky have done,
over there hanging onto that door jamb like he's
some kind of hangman?  Never thought the tables
would be reversed like this, one day.  Well, maybe
in some small way he realizes how I've felt
throughout these touchy years of now you see me,
now you don't.  So I semi 'pulled-a-Mulder' and he
gets all bent out of shape.

What I had decided to do was in no way an
attempt to cause him any more pain than he has
already endured.  I did what I did for me, my
predicament; and for the good of many; millions,
billions.  Didn't I?

What I fully did not count on, is his anger.
Yes, it's undeniably there; pure and
unadulterated in its consistency.  I blink,
and the use of that word in this syntax nudges
my sensibilities.  Unadulterated, and alone with
the enemy; willfully trusting, my curiosity
calling the shots.  Nobody else was along for the
ride; had to be that way, I make no apologies.
At the time, it was the only logical route; what
he told me, gospel, according to the change-of-heart
benefactor.  I believed him; I trusted, I went...by
myself.  I had a choice--mine.

If, and even now, I'm not one hundred percent sure
if he did, undress me, what are the implications?
(Drugged?  I don't see how.  I never took so much
as that LifeSaver he offered.  Too exhausted to
know what I was doing, or allowing to be done?)
I'm not sure I want to examine any of the loaded
stuff in any depth for the time being.

He expected me to wear that dress, and I did.  I
told him it was beautiful, but I know that was
what he wanted to hear, and I'm more than certain
he knew I couldn't wear the wire, in that skimpy
frock, if he had undressed me and saw it.  When
he said he looked forward to dinner that evening,
I had shuddered, disturbed by the glint undeniably
there in his eyes.  I knew what I'd seen; it had
been there.

What was I thinking, though?  When we toasted,
what was I toasting to?  Being won over to a
so-called lonely man's shadowy side, a legacy, or
his bed?  Without question, he puts the 'power' in
powerful men, but surely even he has a master?
How do I like being thought of as a power-nympho?

What were you thinking, Dana?  Were you thinking?

I can feel the emotion raw and naked in my partner's
brooding, yet compelling eyes, writhing within them.
Though grappling with, and reflecting the conflict
raging within, they are ever beautiful, but
purposefully blind to mine, which seek his
recognition.  Atonement is not what I'm after; I've
nothing to atone for; I'm not a child, although
Mulder might beg to differ in this instance, running
off like that on some myopic whim.

Justification?  That's a little warmer, perhaps.
Maybe it just might be I don't really know myself.
Who knows the reason why we do what we do all the
time?  I've never said I was incapable of putting
trust in the highly untrustworthy.  I wanted to help
others.  Did he use that as bait?  What I acted upon
was more than careless hunch, far more.

I glance over at Mulder again.  Nothing's changed.
His eyes are boring holes in the back of each
Gunmen's head.  I'm usually the one who's the
expert when it comes to erecting walls between us.
Usually.  With set jaw, and the grinding of his
teeth, he's making it painfully clear that what I
did is beyond his realm of comprehension.  Clearly,
he's in no mood for letting me back in, anytime
soon.  I betrayed nothing.

When you see the contents of the CD, Mulder,
you'll know why...

"There's nothing on this," Frohike declares, a
good deal of deadpan mystification tugging at the
corners of his voice.

"It's empty," Langly broadcasts.  I hear the echo
of dismay mixed with disbelief in his dry tone.
You usually are the next to take your place in
my corner, Scarecrow; right behind Frohike.

"Completely," Byers vocally tamps down with a
shake of his head, and a slack jaw.

I'm up off the couch like I'm a shot fired out
of a cannon.  "No!  It can't be--that's impossible!"
Wedged between Frohike and Langly, who, for some
unknown reason, is wearing gloves without any
fingers, and still plunking away on the keyboard,
I exhale again, "It can't be."  Summoning up the
tenacity of a bulldog, I will data to show itself.
"It's got to be on there."

"Empty," Frohike confirms again, reading the
confounding 'volume empty' message aloud.

I feel myself sag between the shoulders of my
now silent friends, and feel Frohike pat my
hand; he whispers something comforting close
to my flushed face.  I force an anemic smile
which lasts seconds.  Again I chastise myself,
and somehow the courage to face around leaves
me.  But I fight the quandary off, feeling my
anger spark, to face Mulder, still suspended on
the door jamb like some wiry, death defying
trapeze artist.  I look askance, and am haunted
by the sensory imagery of the trusting, having-
been-duped Scully, coupled with the imaginary,
yet oppressive image of Spender.  The pair are
over in the opposite corner dragging off the
same malodorous cigarette.

Is it my imagination?  Or, can I actually smell
the cancer stick's stench?  Their mockery rips
unsightly gashes in my armor.  All my positiveness
and cocksureness come crashing down around my
ears.

"He lied to you," Mulder says hollowly.  He's
looking me straight in the eyes at last, but
what I see in them courses a chill through me
clear to the bone.  I lied to you, Mulder.  He's
not mocking; in fact, I'd trade that, for his
tragic, pitying look.  Involuntarily, I shudder,
but dictate that I tender his gaze true.  I may
have been tricked, but I wasn't undone; not by a
long shot.  "He used you..."

"Hold up, lemme try something, else," Langly
interjects.  Bless you again, Scarecrow.  I'm
back sandwiched between the guys, and I squeeze
his shoulder, wanting him to know that so much
is riding on this.  I dare to hope that his
techno mastery and focused aplomb will turn the
tide to save the day, and my face.  "Even if
it's been licked clean as a whistle, there's a
way we have of tellin'..."  His free-flowing
fingers fly as his voice trails off several
moments later.  Somberly, what seems all too
quickly, he mutters in that one-of-a-kind,
laconic turn of phrase he has, "Sorry, Scully.
There's bupkis here; zippo, zilch, 'nada.'"

The Gunmen and I commiserate in silence, with
Byers saying then in a hushed, low-key voice,
"It's virtually a brand new disc."

I mutter some choice curses, and the trio nod.
"Sorry, girlfriend," Langly reiterates.  "Wish
it could have been what you wanted..."

"Yeah, me too," I mutter, in kind, sounding as
defeated as he.

Frohike tags C.G.B. what I'd just called him
blistering moments ago, with several of his
choicer maledictions.  The four of us hang
our heads what feels like an eternity.

"Hey, guys, mind packing it in sort of like
right now?" Mulder intrudes, breaking up our
mutual bemoaning society.  "I'd like to speak
with my partner in private.  Are ya down?"

"No prob, Mulder, man," Byers and Frohike
fire back in compliance.  Langly already has
the laptop's screen closed down.

The Gunmen make quick work of dismantling their
technology on the run hardware.  As I watch them
scurry about, unplugging this, and disconnecting
that, I realize that they never fail to amaze
me more and more of late.  Guess our three stooges
really have grown on me over the years.  I'd hate
to think where Mulder and I would be if availing
ourselves of their expertise was no longer an
option.

"Thanks for trying, guys," I say as gratefully
as I can muster, considering my current
disposition of mind and heart.

"Anytime," Frohike assures.

"We've always got your back, Scully," Byers
supports, touching my shoulder.

"Don't take any wooden CDs, next time," Langly
cracks, in what I sense, is high good nature,
trying to make the best of a galling situation.

"Don't remind me," I return in a lowered voice,
giving his blond-haired, bleach-white arm a
light swat.  After he leans down, following my
indication that I want him to, I whisper in his
ear, taking acute care that Mulder does not hear,
"There won't be a next time.  Do me a favor in
future?"

"What?" he replies softly, in kind.

"Keep a casual eye on my e-mail?  I know I'm not
asking the impossible..."

"No sweat," he assures.  "We'll do the nosy without
being obnoxious about it."

Before they're out the door, and despite my subdued
mood, I can't resist.  "Uh, Langly, what's with
the fingerless gloves?"  He starts wriggling his
digits.  "And Byers, who's doing your 'do these
days?  That's quite a look; you look punk in a
gentlemanly-retro sort of way."  He gives me a
self-aware grin.

I wasn't away *that* long that I can't let them see,
along with Mulder, that CSM may have 'played me,' or
is the correcter term, 'played with me'--maybe--but,
he cannot--and never will--hoodwink me out of my
sense of humor.  And still having the ability to
take in the bigger picture, if indeed there is one.
No, sir!

Frohike gives me a generous nod along with a sly
wink.  "Owing to our near-apprehension by certain
highly questionable authorities, which necessitated
re-inventing ourselves, and, being the masters of
dis--"

"It's a long story which I've already heard," Mulder
nips in, giving them prodding looks of let's
get-the-lead-out, guys, I need to speak with her
*now*, now beat it.  "Next time we drop by I'll
remind them to tell you all about it."

"'Bye, Scully," Byers and Langly chime.  The latter
gives me a farewell salute, as though the firing
squad is my next stop.

"Don't let this big galoot bully you, Scully, or
he'll answer to me," Frohike promises.  "Unlike
Mulder, I know you wouldn't have run off without
having a hard-line reason.  Oh, and it's not like
I don't think you can't take care of yourself like
Mul--"

"FRO-hike," Mulder grouses, and the communications
expert desists, taking a step back from Mulder who
advanced on him.

"Thanks, Frohike, I'll keep it in mind," I tell
him with a chestnut of a lilt to my voice.  I
think back to, and harp on, my being a sitting
duck in that outboard motorboat.  I had thought
about jumping overboard, but didn't; can't explain
why I didn't.  I wasn't frozen by fear.  Frozen
never entered in.  Somehow I just knew that if I
got that motor started, I'd be all right.
Thankfully, the shooter missed his or her mark in
my case, and I rocketed out of there as though I
was manning a hydrofoil.

I also have no explanation for this either:
suddenly, I don't feel as downcast as I did moments
ago, when the knowledge that the disc was a fraud,
and being royally had, a real possibility, was
sticking its tar and nicotinic-coated tongue out
at me.

"See you guys soon," I say to their retreating
backs.

"Yeah, Frohike," Mulder muscles in.  Seconds
before semi-slamming the door, he flings, "catch
ya later..."

We stand toe to toe, regarding each other for
several up in the air minutes.  I'm tired, and
not spoiling for a row over this right now; not
ever.  Truth be told, I did what I did, period;
over.  I survived the close encounter of the C.G.B.
kind, so let's just drop it.  Okay?

I don't need my head handed to me, Mulder; least
of all from you.  Why is it when, in this instance,
I did one of yours, you're ready to rake me over
the hot and toasty ones, but when you strike out
on your own for parts unknown, it's the maverick
maneuverability factor you get the luxury of
falling back on?  Well, I'm a maverick at heart,
too, as a matter of fact, in case you never noticed,
and I'm too old for being turned over your knee
like I'm some flighty, bad little gir--

"Scully..."

"Mulder..."

"Well, now that there's no doubts in our minds
what our names are--"

"Mulder, if you're going to tell me how--"

"Just hear me out, okay?"

I huff, but go back into the living room;
without further word, Mulder follows.  I flop
down on the couch again.  "This feels deeply
weird, to coin a Langlyesk phrase.  Why do I get
the feeling we'd both be more comfortable if you
were on the other side of this lecture I sense
you're preparing to give me?"  I look up at him,
standing over me, not in a menacing way; rather,
a contemplative way.  The instant his expression
changes, I feel it for the first time today.
How it must have felt having no notion where
I was, and what was happening to me.  I know
that feeling, I've lived it too many times.  It's
never a good one.

"No lecture, Scully, just a word of advice."
He flops down practically smack dab on me.
When I try to pry myself out of the depression
he's just made, his hand snakes around my waist,
and as it cinches me tighter, I know this isn't
what I was expecting at all.  

"'A word of advice?'  A single, solitary word of
advice, Mulder?  Oh, this promises to be a first."

"Promise you'll trust me enough to never--"

"Mul-derrrrr."

"Okay, okay.  No promises, and I'll try to avoid
the use of the word, 'never.'  An understanding
then."

"An understanding...but, Mulder, we've always
had that, haven't we?  Don't we?"  Why do I
sound as if I'm about to apologize?  If that's
what he thinks he's going to get, I can be
just as stubborn as he can be when he's pulled
a boner.  Boner?  Is that what I really think
I did?

Bringing me closer, suckering me in, he says
into my ear before nuzzling it, and the thought
of how not fair he's playing this dawns on me,
"Humor, me, Scully, humor me.  If you gave ol'
Smokey the benefit of the doubt, why not me?"
His lips start their inexorable trek across
the plains of my burning cheek.  Incredibly,
I wonder if his lips will get scorched.

"Mul-derrrrr," I drawl somewhere between a
whine and a plea, succumbing to his masculine
wiles, not wholly against my will.

"Mulder what?"

"Mulder, what do you think you're doing?
Mulder, you don't play fair?  Mulder what
are you trying to prove?  Mulder..."

"Mulder, I love you?" he inveigles.

"*That* you already know," I insist,
knowing that much for a certainty myself, and,
for once, not annoyed that he knows.  At least
at this late date, he should.  He's got to.

"I do; yes, I do.  The only thing I need to
know now is, are we in this together?"

"In what together?" I murmur, as his lips
dance across my nose.

"Everything."

"Be specific," I barely manage to churn out,
as his lips sear mine.  My mind skips back
a few intervals to that question I asked
myself as the Gunmen pored over their
hardware trying to dredge up my justification.
What was I thinking?  I might not have known
at the time, but there's more than a fractional
chance I believe I know now.  I break the
embrace, ever so gently.  "Mulder,"

"I am, Scully.  Specifically, everything means
everything; I'm not working you over with
semantics."

No, not semantics, just your electrically-
charged lips, partner, and there's no stopping
them.  Just when I think I've got you figured
out, Mulder, you have the nerve to get mushy
on me.  And I thought it was either going to
be the cold, silent treatment, or just the
opposite; the towering inferno.

Well, come to think of it, I am feeling pretty
steamy myself, right now.

"Honestly, I can honestly say I know what
I've put you through all those times I ditched
you, and I'm working very hard not to do it
anymore.  Won't you do the same for me, if
something like this ever rears its ugly head
again?  Could you find it in that loveable,
trusting, and that's trusting in a good way,
heart of yours to bring me in?  Not leave me
out?  It hurts deep being left out in the
cold.  It hurts more than I could ever imagine
it could."

After we kiss another bodily heat-increasing
time, I stammer, "Deal, then.  You drive a hard
bargain, but I accept."  Ummm...a very hard
bargain, and I'm blushing.

"Sorry I got so mad.  You know me when I feel
powerless..."

Powerless, I consider; then reconsider C.G.B.'s
observation regarding my taste in men.  "Mulder,
I wasn't as up-front with you as you would have
liked.  I acknowledge that.  I'm not always as
open-minded when it comes to you as I should
be.  Frankly, if you asked me what got into me,
going off with Spender, who, by the way, divulged
he's dying of a brain abnormality, drawn like
a moth to a flame, as I seemed to behave, I
wouldn't take offense.  I--"

"But, I'm not asking, so we'll leave it at
that.  I trust your judgment; always have,
always will.  Just please don't shut me out.
Deal?"  I just stare at him, feeling my eyes
mist; no carcinogenic irritant involved.  He's
so beautiful, being so Mulder.  "Oh, and as far
as ol' Smokey's days being numbered, I'll believe
that when the air stays smoke-free in our airspace
for a good long while."

"Deal; a second time."  I chuckle a little
into his collar, liking the way this has
turned out after all; amazed actually.
"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"  His arms are my stronghold now; a
cuddling, protective fortress.  Why would
I seek another?

"Tell me the part about your knowing you
love me."

"Ah, Scully, that's a genuine piece a cake.
See, words aren't necessary for something
as fundamental; primal, as that," he breathes,
and avows, "only this..."  Then tenderly,
consummately, as though he's preparing to
transport me to his special, secret place,
the rest of the huddled masses know nothing
about, he shows me why words are superfluous.

* * *

The next afternoon, while standing in that
unbelievably empty office, in that pervious
building, what was hazy clears.  When I peer
into Mulder's sincere face, following his
voiced thoughts, gradually I allow an
inconspicuous smile to test the waters.  I've
always trusted my partner; despite Spender's
presumptuous allegation, and my own misgivings,
at times, to the contrary.  Why would I stop
now?


End