In the Blue by JET jetpaine@yahoo.com Disclaimers: Not mine. Spoilers: Ur, let's say, alt-u after "Field Trip" For Sfic/Emuse's Ultimate Songfic Writing Challenge, May 2003. (Rules? What rules?) - - - - - October Thursday 2a No assumptions, he thought, no way to have fantasized this, dreamt it, conjured it with wishes or cobbled it together from prior actions -- an accidental contact, a way he'd held her before, a touch when one of them was hurt or in any way needed to be helped -- and desire. There was safety, contrary to everything they both understood, and there was love, whispered, cradled. They left the bedroom curtains partially open, light striping her left shoulder and arm as she unbuttoned her blouse. He would never have envisioned her this beautiful, this trusting and welcoming. Incomprehensible, he thought, finding her mouth. The world contracted to sighs and gasps and smiles, to silvery, blessed heat. - - - Friday 4p She was humming was she came back to the office, humming off-key with a disconcerting amount of oomph, happy humming like the trip upstairs, to the labs, had energized her in delightful ways he could only imagine. Maybe the geeks were sampling unknown substances up there in the maze of fireproof sinks and countertops, a rave of white smocks and little glass beakers and FBI agents stacked five deep placing papery squares on their tongues, the ADs striking disco poses or flinging tagged evidence bags about with great fervor. He looked up and Scully had clearly been watching him puzzle it over for a few minutes. No more humming, but she seemed amused in his general direction. He couldn't say he minded. "Any news?" he asked. "They're still checking. Bart wants to talk to a Paleoclimatologist before he throws out any theories." "I have plenty of theories." She smirked. "I know you do. Here." She tossed him a snack package of sour cream and cheddar potato chips. "The vending machine's out of seeds." He groaned. "Who does a guy have to kill to get a bag of sunflower seeds around this place?" "Take it up with Skinner," she said, rolling her eyes. She walked to the back of the office. In a minute he heard her snapping rubber bands around the stacks of folders she'd pulled that morning. The humming started again, and she came out to the chair in front of his desk to hum in synchronicity with her actions -- putting files in her briefcase, removing her travel umbrella, tossing a banana onto his book about Himalayan yeti hunters. "What is that tune?" Scully paused mid note. "I cannot remember for anything. I've been humming it off and on for a couple of days." An embarrassed expression glanced across her face. "I've been annoying you, haven't I?" "No, actually. I hadn't noticed the humming until you returned just now." He wondered if he could feel the vibration of hums if his fingertips were resting at the base of her throat, and realized as quickly that, yes, he could feel it, he had felt it. His own throat felt very dry. "You seem like you're feeling extra well today," he said, cringing at his awkwardness. She chuckled. "I am. Listen, you don't mind if I leave early, do you?" "Big weekend plans?" he asked, like he always asked in this routine. "Yes." Hum, hum, hum. Two sentences in and she'd already forgotten her next line. He swallowed. "Doing anything special?" She was repacking the briefcase again -- almost nervously, he thought. No more humming when she looked up at him, looked him right in the eye but with shy discomfiture instead of her usual unwavering confidence. "I'm going on a picnic." He blinked. "Tonight?" "Yes." "In this weather?" "It may end up being an indoor picnic." She wasn't looking at him then at all, cheeks pinked delicately. His throat felt much, much too tight. "Oh." He picked up the book, to change the subject, so she'd go away and leave him to his research. Something goaded him into asking, "Do I know him?" She was quiet now, all closed space and meekness. "You've met him." He nodded, opening the book to the chapter titled "Abominable Discoveries." "Well, have a good time," he said finally, when she didn't leave. He heard her close the briefcase and pick it up, heard her close the door. - - - - - 7p He picked his way up the path to his apartment building. No one had laid down salt this early in the season since in the past no one had reason to. Worst October in years, the weatherman on the radio had said, wetter and colder and darker. Autumn was vengeful under gunmetal skies. Every nerve and muscle in Mulder's body felt strained and tensed. A good broken ankle would round out the evening nicely. It wouldn't be permanent, he told himself. Very few things were. The building smelled like fried sausage and fresh sugar cookies. In the elevator he remembered the fridge was empty save a box of pizza leftovers from August. It didn't matter. He wasn't hungry. On the second floor the elevator doors opened and Mr. Stipple came in with his new mahogany cane. "Got off on the wrong level!" he shouted cheerfully. The doors remained open for a long minute. Down the hallway someone's television was turned up, apparently so it could be heard over an astonishingly loud vacuum cleaner. The tune, shrill alongside the sound of windows trembling, was recognizable suddenly. The doors closed. "That's a good movie Ellie's watching!" Mr. Stipple said. "My wife and I used to dance to that song!" He shuffled a short cha-cha. "'It must have been moonglow that led me straight to you,'" he warbled, tapping his cane. "You don't mind me singing that to you, do you, Mr. Mulder!" The old man laughed hard and slapped Mulder on the arm. It startled Mulder so much that he laughed, and almost felt better. The elevator deposited them on their floor. Mr. Stipple gingerly walked to the first apartment, the one Mulder felt was probably cursed. He'd never worked up the nerve to mention the last tenant. "Goodnight, sir," he said, going to his boring, familiar door. "Have a great Friday," Mr. Stipple yelled. Mulder gave a weak wave. He winced as Mr. Stipple's door slammed shut. Deep breaths, pal, he thought to himself. You'll be fine. Go to bed, spend the weekend alone, forget about it. The key clicked in the lock, the door swung open slowly, and he saw the golden flickering first. When he stepped inside his apartment and his eyes focused, the living room came into view. He walked into it in a thin haze of shock. The room was a square bordered by the usual couch, desk, fish tank and TV, but in the middle the table was missing and the floor was covered with a large ocean-hued blanket. On the blanket there sat two dinner plates, five bowls leaking steam from loose lids, two periwinkle napkins with accompanying knives and forks, two wine glasses, one aluminum bucket with a bottleneck sticking out of ice. Three small lit candles, and more candles on the bookshelves and windowsill. "Hi," Scully said, having exited the kitchen behind him. He turned around. She'd changed into jeans and a sweater. Her feet were bare, and she was staring at them self-consciously. "Hi," she said again, to the floor. "You came here after work?" he asked, feeling stupid and thrilled, his voice watery. She nodded, looking at him with solemn, dark eyes as though she were scared he'd say, Pack everything up and get lost. He held out a hand to her. She took it, moved to him, raised on tiptoe and kissed him. "Is it... Is it okay? If we do this?" He kissed her nose, her forehead and cheek before answering. "It's very okay." "Yesterday, I didn't know what to say." "Me neither." Scully laced her fingers through Mulder's. "I don't know what to say now either." "You're here. That's enough." She smiled, pulling him into her embrace. "Mulder." "Hmm?" he hummed. "Would you like to have a picnic with me?" - - - - - an end - - - - - It must have been Moonglow way up in the blue. It must have been Moonglow that led me to you. -- "Moonglow" (Theme from Picnic)