by Livia Balaban
Rated PG13/R (language) = V, H, M/S UST
Spoilers: None
Summary: Mulder's staring again, and Scully imagines, well, almost everything.
He honestly can't be stupid enough to think I haven't noticed him gawking all morning.
What the hell is it with him? Strangers stare at me and I can brush them off. A friend stares and it means something. A colleague stares, and I ought to pay attention.
Mulder stares at me and who the hell knows? It could be anything from simple boredom right on down to a speculation of the purpose of human existence in an expanding, entropic universe.
Some days, I become aware of the entropy. I can feel it, tearing my body down molecule by molecule, disintegrating the wood of the desk, unraveling the invisible fabric of our partnership...relationship, whatever the hell it is. I can almost feel the universe expand, and myself with it, thinning, stretching, the bonds of physical and intellectual coherence distending to near structural collapse.
Maybe it's existential angst. Or that long-awaited breakdown.
No, I think it's gas. Shouldn't have had that veggie pizza at lunch.
So here I am, sitting and - gasp - working, foolishly assuming that it will actually accomplish something. And he's still sitting there, boring holes through me with his eyes, radiating so much antsy energy it nearly fizzes in my peripheral vision.
$8.72, breakfast - check. $12.17, lunch - check. $42.80, motel room - check. Ugh. Oh, it was a bad one. $23.00 even, gas - check. Pumped it myself. I'm very good.
Stare, stare, stare.
No, it's definitely not "nature of existence" issues. It's too personal. I get the creepy, crawly feeling he's going to ask me to elucidate something I said off-handedly three years ago during a boring case somewhere in Nowheresville, Idaho. And he'll likely have spent the last three years mulling it over, and take it - whatever it was I said - completely out of context, hoping to crawl inside my head one more time, thoroughly uninvited.
This is becoming grating. I feel like removing one shoe and poking out one of his offending eyes with its nice, high, chunky heel. Actually, best not. Humid day - the shoe in question is likely to be highly aromatic.
So, mutilate the man, but don't offend his delicate sensibilities?
I am really overtired. And a little punchy, apparently. I wish he'd stop that staring.
I'm suddenly overcome with the image of my sanity transmutating into liquid form and draining away with every moment he continues to stare at me.
Stare, trickle. Stare, trickle.
What kind of insane person would I make, anyway? The raving maniac, ranting, pacing and hollering? The withdrawn, unreachable type?
No. I think I'd probably end up one of those mad old ladies, laughing out of context, smiling at strangers, and conversing with furniture.
I think I'm smiling. I raise my pencil to my lips to feel for the telltale upturn of the corners of my mouth, and with the eraser end, feel said smile happily settled in for a nice long stay.
Good. Serves him right. Make him wonder what's going on inside my teeming brain.
What the hell is going on inside his?
Stare, stare, stare.
If I had the gumption, I'd look up and stare right on back. And it wouldn't be entirely unpleasant.
Really, he's a decent all-around package. Physically speaking. I mean he has a great face. The hazy eyes, squared jaw and tremendous lower lip more than make up for God's mistake of a nose. And when those twin cowlicks over his forehead create that adorable little frame of hair, oh, it's yummy.
What, I'm not allowed to notice?
I can be aware of his physical beauty without degenerating into puerile leering. I simply can't do anything about my clearly unreciprocated feelings of attraction.
I'm not blind, just very, very practical. When a good working relationship is on the line, you don't go around gawking and mooning like a teenager. Because the price you'd end up paying should your feelings not be returned - it could spell disaster for the professional relationship.
It would not be fun:
Me:
Oh, Mulder, you swarthy brute. Take me.Mulder:
Where?Me:
You know, Mulder, where all the swarthy brutes take their willing female hostages in those florid bodice-ripper novels I don't read.Mulder:
You mean the bedroom?Me:
No, Mulder, I want you to take me to the local Moose Lodge. Yes, of *course* the bedroom.Mulder:
Um, Scully, all that flirting, that was really just playful, you know. I actually like my women tall, dark, and laughably easy.
See, no way it could end pretty. Oh sure, there are other options, but really, they're not much more attractive. There's the unspeakable one- sided scenario:
Me:
... Yes, of *course* the bedroom.Mulder:
Ew, Scully. You're like my little sister or something. Gross.
Or, heaven forbid:
Me:
... Yes, of *course* the bedroom.Mulder:
Scully, didn't you know I'm gay? I'm way too attractive and well-dressed to be single at my age. Besides, Skinner and I have been doing the naked pretzel for a while now. But you know, if you'd like to *watch* some time...
So there's simply no way to approach this. Every scenario works out badly. Period. And I think I'm holding that against him.
Well, that's fair, I suppose. He's the one who always flirts. So my frustration is entirely his fault. I'm comfortable with that.
He's still staring, damn him, and it's really beginning to chafe.
Back to work.
$88.93, piece of crap rental car - check. $287.90, damage to motel room. More than the room itself cost. Fucking trouble-magnet Mulder.
Stare, stare stare.
$318.00, airfare - check. Horrible flight. He drooled on my shoulder while he slept. He promised to take my jacket to the cleaner, but it's still hanging there on the back of his fucking chair. If he doesn't take it with him tonight, I'll take the damned thing myself and send him the bill. In the mail. Oooh, nice and impersonal.
Stare, stare, stare.
I can't take much more of this. He hasn't budged in over an hour.
Stare, stare...
"WHAT?!?!?"
Mulder doesn't say anything, merely taps a finger against his lower lip.
"What?"
Again, absolute silence, but this time he points at my lower lip. He is staring at it intensely. Hmmm. The pizza?
"What, spinach?"
He shakes his head softly.
"What about my mouth?"
Shake of the head. Ohhh, this is getting stale pretty damn fast.
"What, my lip?"
He nods.
"What about it?"
He smiles what I can only describe as an evil, consuming grin. "I want it."
Okay, that was unexpected. He flirts harmlessly, so I play along, and lob back with a response of my own, resplendent with attitude. Always the safest route.
He wants my lip. Why else would he want my lip? "What, a transplant?"
He shakes his head again. And smiles. "Applied topically."
All righty then. No mistaking that. This is no longer innocent flirtation. He has said, unequivocally, that he wants me.
And it just now occurs to me: It's reciprocal.
Holy shit, it's reciprocal.
He wants my lip, applied topically. Nope, no way to misunderstand his intent. My mind is briefly flooded with mental images, as the evil, prurient portion of my conscious mind begins to imagine what I could do with said lip and Mulder's mighty fine physique.
*DON'T* do that little dance of joy right now. Don't you dare, Dana. Focus on the conversation.
He wants my lip, applied topically, so I suppose this is as good a question as any: "Where?"
His impossibly broad smile manages to broaden further, and the word melts out of him, rough and breathy, "Anywhere."
Oh dear. I think I might have just inadvertently moaned. It was just a little 'oh', well, more like "mrhph', but the point is I think I just fed his ego.
That will not do at all. No fair making me squirm, Mulder. What to do, what to do.
Confidence, Dana. Be PowerScully. Stare him down and whip him into shape. Make him bend to your will. You are a powerful force of nature. Let 'er rip, woman.
It's time to negotiate. If he accepts the offer, I'll at least have some time to work out my end of the deal. I breathe slowly and deeply, and will my voice to betray nothing of my surging emotions.
"Take my jacket to the cleaners and I'll think about it."
He's out the door, jacket in hand, before I can say another word.
The hour and nineteen minutes he's gone does provide me with the opportunity to finish my work on the expense report. The summary and math would have only taken ten minutes or so on a normal day, but I find my full consideration to the task at hand suffering. That word, "Anywhere," replays again and again, and I find myself increasingly unable to pass that scratch in the groove of my mind. It skips like a record. Smile, "Anywhere." Smile, "Anywhere." Smile, "Anywhere."
Is it hot in here?
I hear his footsteps approaching the office door before I realize I have not formulated a single aspect of my 'plan'. Nary a one. Nada. Nil.
Shit.
I square my shoulders and prepare to improvise.
Mulder returns, looking submissive, and hangs my plastic-sheathed jacket on the back of the office door. He backs up against the door, closing it with this motion, which rustles the paper and thin plastic encasing my black tailored wool bargaining chip. A stark red logo on the bag captures my attention: "Metro 1-Hour Cleaners". I suddenly picture him pacing and gnawing anxiously on sunflower seeds for the entire hour.
<Click>
Mulder's expression suddenly transforms from docile to ravenous.
What the hell was I thinking? He is standing against the closed door of our office, practically hosing down the place with testosterone, and I'm idly pondering his trip to the dry cleaner?
Oh good Lord, he appears to want to consume me whole. And deep inside, where my sexual appetite is currently performing an impressive little merengue, I am goo. This man does things to my internal organs that should be illegal in most states.
Except Nevada. Not much is illegal in Nevada.
His hand is behind his waist, so that telltale click means he's either just cocked his weapon or locked the door. I'll assume it was the lock.
Way to defocus, Dana. Libido officially tamed. For the moment. Time to unleash RationalScully.
I made the bargain, so I suppose I'll have to live with its consequences. This is what I'm willing my eyes to tell him.
I rise and approach. "Where were we?"
"You were about to apply that luscious lip topically."
His voice is killing me. It's all edges and air, gravelled with lust. Oh yes, I like ArousedMulder very much.
I maintain the least expressive visage I can manage. "Hmm. Well, a deal's a deal," I say plainly, attempting to project an air of indifference.
He reaches his hands toward my jaw, and pulls my face toward his, clearly intending to brush that exceptional lower lip of his against mine. Oh boy would that feel good. But hey, that definitely wasn't part of the agreement. I think he will have to pay for the liberty he is attempting to take.
"Whoa, there," I say plainly, pulling away from his encroaching embrace. "You said 'topical'. That was verging toward 'oral'."
Yes. A game plan has formed. Prepare to meet *MedicalScully*, Mr. Agent Mulder.
"Oral?" Mulder asks lewdly.
"You requested a topical administration of the ... uh ... prescription indicated. Generally speaking, an oral administration of a topical medication could be toxic."
His eyebrows arch and his lower lip juts out just a little more. Yum. "So what are my other treatment options, doc?"
"Well," I say, pulling away and relaxing into the corner of the desk, casually dangling the leg that isn't wedged against the floor for leverage, "there are all kinds of alternatives. For instance, you could negotiate for a transdermal application."
"And what are the benefits of a transdermal application?"
I put forth my most practiced effort to refrain from smiling. These excursions into playfulness are always far more fun than they should be for someone of my age and education. But it's taking most of my concentration to consider the slopes and angles of the conversation, so the distraction of the slopes and angles of his jaw and shoulders prove to be a significant hindrance.
The practical upshot of all this is that I have few cognitive resources available to ensure I maintain a casual physical posture.
But I continue, nonplussed. "A transdermal dosage is applied in a manner similar to a topical treatment, but instead of the medication remaining on the surface of the skin, the remedy is absorbed systemically. Its most popular usage is in smoking cessation therapy, otherwise known as a 'patch'."
He smiles and moans a little. "So it affects more than just the immediate area of treatment."
"That's correct. The treatment enters the bloodstream and is carried throughout the body."
"*All* parts of the body," Mulder murmurs roughly, as he sidles closer to me, "or just specific parts?"
Oh, I can think of a part or two. Or three. "Well, that would depend upon the nature of the remedy. Certain treatments do affect only particular portions of one's physiology."
His mind - not to mention mine - is about eighteen feet below street level at the moment and I sit back, enjoying the show.
"That sounds like an interesting alternative. What are my other choices?"
"Well," I think, recalling with absolute clarity the pantheon of drug administration options, "there's always sublingual."
Which elicits a further elevation in the location of his brows. "Does that mean what I think it means?"
"Probably. You've had enough Latin to figure it out. 'Under the tongue'. It's usually used for treatments which need to diffuse into the capillary network and therefore enter the systemic circulation directly."
"In other words, an immediate, body-wide hit."
"Well, in *layman's terms*." I try to sound patronizing, but I'm fairly confident he's taking it as playful again. "But its effect is usually short-lived."
"Well, if I *have* to make a trade-off, I suppose I'd probably choose 'long-lasting' over 'quick-acting'. All right, what else is there?"
"Well, there's the ever-popular rectal administration, but I think we can pretty much eliminate *that* possibility for the remainder of our natural lives."
"I'll second that. Then there's...?"
"Intravascular, Intramuscular, Subcutaneous, Intranasal - also completely out of the question..."
"So it's looking more and more like transdermal is the way to go." He smiles and fixes his gaze even more intensely on mine, as he finishes the thought. "Mmmm, a Scully Patch."
I wonder what he means by that. At first, all he wanted was a topical application. Why have his needs escalated? And what kind of systemic reaction is he expecting? I'd better ask. It would not do to misunderstand at a critical moment such as this. This is starting to feel consequential now.
"Am I to assume, then, that you wish for the application to affect you system-wide, and ... long-term?"
"That would be a safe assumption," he says softly, eliminating the remaining distance between us. This lighthearted exchange has indeed developed into significance, somehow, and I can't seem to make the effort to alter its course.
I'm not even trying. "If that's the case, Mulder, I think we should handle this with less frivolity and take the matter more seriously."
Mulder stops suddenly and looks at me with an expression comprised of equal parts fear and disbelief. "What are you suggesting?"
I will not be afraid. I will not change direction. I will say what I have to say and not run away.
This is SO much easier thought than accomplished.
I will make the offer and place the decision into his hands.
"Well, if there is indeed a remedy to administer, perhaps the best route is to administer it directly to the point at which it will do the most perceivable good."
"I'm listening." The fear is gone, having been replaced by a shimmer of hope. He leans his head toward mine.
"It's tricky, even dangerous," I tell him simply, "if it's not administered correctly. But with a steady hand, this method is certainly the most direct and offers substantial results."
He looks directly into my eyes and asks, "What method of application would that be, Doctor?"
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and prepare to alter my life irrevocably. "Intraventricular."
A little throttled gasp escapes his lips. "Does that mean...?"
I open my eyes and see his, brimming with unshed tears, and smile warmly. "Yes." I always envisioned myself nervous or afraid at this moment. I never permitted myself anything more than hope that it would occur. And yet although I am fully cognizant of the magnitude of my next utterance, I am not afraid.
With the understanding of the full weight of my words, I confirm Mulder's conjecture. "Intraventricular. Directly into the heart."
All he says, in a rasping whisper, quivering into my ear, is "Yes."
=====
End.
Notes: Special thanks to my Editing Deity, SEP, for the drug administration listing. A simple muse, in easy-to-swallow caplet form. Beta and corporate funding was graciously provided by the BFM foundation (namely Lysandra, Shannon, and Paulette).
