Title: The Hundredth Day: Poetry Man Author: Gina Rain (ginarain@aol.com) Category: MSR Rating: PG-13 Spoilers: Teeny one for Triangle. Season 7ish feel. Archive: Sure. Summary: Some days, it's hard for a girl to control her desires. Disclaimer: CC and Co. own it. They were halfway to their destination when they discovered the poetry man. Three-thirty in the morning driving down the deserted highway with little more to do than play with the knob on the car radio. "Stop," Scully said, hoping to halt Mulder's search for 'what else' was on. "You want to listen to ?" "Yes. Just leave it for a few minutes, okay?" They listened to the soft male voice reciting his own poetry over a soundtrack of falling rain. Originally, Scully thought it was as good a station as any. A veritable feast for Mulder's wit and a nice workout for her "I will not laugh and encourage his nonsense" muscles. But soon, the quips died down and they were left with the feel of a cool spring breeze coming through the opened windows, sets of "classic" 70s love songs and evocative words delivered in urgently breathy whispers. She looked over at Mulder. His eyes never left the road and his expression was distant and unreadable. A small niggling feeling stirred in the pit of her stomach as she began to mentally count the days. Ninety-six, ninety-seven. . . As they finally neared their destination, the sun rose so peacefully and clearly, she forgot her momentary sadness over the poetry man leaving the airways fifteen minutes before. She also lost her place in the countdown to the hundredth day. It didn't matter. It really didn't work that way, anyway. It worked more along the lines of averages. Ninety-nine out of a hundred days, Scully had no problem dealing with whatever life handed her. And life was generous in handing out challenges. But on the hundredth day, living was easy. It brought the type of day that most would rejoice in. These were the days Scully found most difficult. Dana Scully no longer knew how to "do" easy. So, when life presented no other challenge, her thoughts wandered to the biggest challenge of all: Mulder. On those days, she wanted to bridge the distance that was always between them--know him completely, uncover any mysteries that remained. She often reminded herself that what she was of little consequence in the grand scheme of things. Ninety-nine out of a hundred days, she accepted that reminder with grace. As she watched him leave the sheriff's office with a big smile, her suspicions were confirmed. The hundredth day had arrived. Acceptance would be about as graceful as pulling a steak bone away from a pit bull. "No case," he said as he approached the car. "No case?" "Nope. Hey--I thought you were supposed to stay the car, Scully. That was our deal. I go in-- you make sure the car doesn't roll down the hill." "It's too nice to stay in the car. Besides, I can jump right in." She punctuated her words by stomping her right foot on the runner below the door on the driver's side. Leave it to fate to give them a car with non-working emergency brakes. "You can make a mad leap as the car rolls down the mountain? Well, it would make for an interesting visual, at any rate." He shrugged his shoulders. "Mulder? The case?" "There is no case. In the words of the sheriff, it turned out to be a 'fraternity stunt by someone who watched too much Buffy.' Whatever that is." "It's a television show, Mulder. Right up your alley, actually." "I doubt that. I have very specific tastes in television viewing." "I know. You prefer the literal interpretation of the 'boob tube.'" He smiled. A warm smile--a smile of seven years of shared secrets; shared intimacies dreamed of, yet never acted upon. "So," she said, grasping at straws, "no kidnapping, no abduction?" "Nope. Just three eighteen-year olds holed up in an abandoned building downtown--concocting an elaborate abduction scenario. Unfortunately, the cloud of pot smoke became so thick, it beckoned some homeless addicts. The ensuing skirmish attracted the attention of some local cops. . .and the teenagers are now very, very unhappy. Unfulfilled munchies and massive headaches over the endless lectures they've been receiving. Not to mention their parents collectively deciding to let them stew in the slammer for another twenty- four hours before bailing them out. I stood there representing the strong, but silent, long arm of the federal law as the sheriff expounded the evils of dragging the FBI onto a bogus case." "It should have been me." "What?" "I should have gone in. I have a sterner expression than you." "We wanted to scare them, Scully. Not castrate them. Jeez--their balls would be the size of raisins by the time you were through with them." "Nice reputation I've got." "Hey--you got your reputation the hard way. You earned it." He did a passable impression of a very old television commercial. "So--five hour trip back, huh? I'm not exactly in the mood for that yet. Do you want to have a breakfast picnic or something? Relax for a few hours?" "We should be getting back to work." "What work is that? The expense report? We can knock that together in five minutes. This was our big case of the week. Besides, we've almost clocked in a full day travelling here." "I guess." "We're not breaking any rules, Scully. Live a little. Let's have a picnic." "What is it with the sudden urge to picnic? I've known you seven years and you're not exactly 'nature boy.'" "I keep that side well hidden. Too much testosterone. It's overwhelming, really. Besides, I liked that duck pond we passed on the way up here. Looked peaceful. It would be a nice change." "Are you sure the duckies can take the testosterone, Mulder?" At the exact moment she was thinking of excuses to lessen their time alone together on one of her most vulnerable days, the sun hit him full in the face. Not a bolt of lightning, but a ray of sunshine was her undoing. He had been looking down at her with a soft smile on his face and the sunlight accented the green-gold aspects of his eyes. After all these years, he still had the ability to literally take her breath away with just a look. "Scully?" He asked, his brow furrowing in concern. She shook herself mentally and focused. "I could use something to eat, I guess." Their breakfast was slow and lazy. Mulder had managed to find everything they needed for the quintessential picnic in a local general store. They even managed to provide a nice selection of breakfast pastries. After eating, Mulder laid back on the blanket. He was in no rush to get back to D.C. "You know, I was into poetry once, " he said, momentarily sitting up and flinging leftover danish into the man-made duck pond. Three ducks flapped their wings and scurried over to the floating food. Mulder resumed his former position. "Into poetry?" "Yes. You know, moody teenager bordering on young adult. Seeks words of a poet to soothe his soul. Hoping to soak up the wisdom of the ages." "Did you write any?" She could picture him doing such a thing. Easily. Even now. "No," he said, looking straight up at the sky. She knew he was lying. "You did." "Okay. I did," he confessed. "Let me hear one." She was curious. She had listened to this man's words almost every day for years and still. . .the thought of him revealing something beautiful and straight from his soul gave her a small thrill. As if this was a missing section in the Mulder dictionary. The one that would define everything in no uncertain terms. "Fine." He sat up, cleared his throat a few times, adjusted his shirt over his belt, cleared his throat a few more times and then took a deep breath. "There once was a girl from Nantucket who. . ." "Mulder! Stop." "What? You wanted poetry." "I wanted your real poetry." "That was my real poetry. What? You think that guy on the radio was talking about anything different? I would think all those nipple references would have given the game away. Amidst the pretty language, it still all boiled down to S-E-X." "Ah, but the pretty language makes the S-E-X love- making, which is a higher realm of S-E-X. And why are we spelling things anyway?" "I have no idea. How do you know my Nantucket lady wasn't about to make love with her partner. . .um, significant other. Boyfriend. . .husband. . .whatever." He looked genuinely flustered. It suited him. "It's all right, Mulder. I know there are times when the word 'partner' is used in a context that doesn't quite fit the accepted terms of our unique arrangement." He looked at her. "We have a unique arrangement?" "Well, you know. . ." "No. I don't. What do you mean?" He could turn the tables in one split second. She would not play this game and let him throw her. She stood up and started gathering their trash to throw in the back of the car until they found a more suitable receptacle. With her back half turned to him, she answered his question. "I mean--a mixture of a good professional relationship with a nice interpersonal one." "Ah," he said, closing his eyes and letting the sun soak into his skin. "What is that supposed to mean?" "No one would ever accuse you of having a poet's soul, Scully." She crossed her arms in front of her, clutching the trash to her chest. "Should I be insulted, Mulder?" He opened his eyes and looked at her. She had no doubt he had taken note of her closed-off, defensive position. "No. It's just a more pragmatic way of looking at things. It's just who you are." "And you are the dreamer? The misty eyed seeker of truths. . ." He smiled and she knew the bastard had backed her right into a corner. "You tell me," he said, softly. "Yes. Well, I can see you having a poet's soul. Half of the time they couch what they are trying to express in such language that it takes a couple dozen scholars and a century or two to figure out what the fuck they were trying to say." She turned on her heel to go to the car, and managed to land her bare foot right on the edge of a rock. "Shit, shit, shit," she muttered, lifting her foot up and squeezing her eyes shut as the pain radiated through the sole of her right foot. Mulder was right besides her, grabbing her arm with one hand and relieving her of the trash with the other. "What? Can you move it? Is it broken?" "I don't know. . .give me a minute." He squeezed her upper arm as she waited for the initial pain to subside, then watched as she gingerly put her foot on the ground. She could stand on it and hobbled over to the car. Mulder opened the passenger side door and she sat down, crossed her right leg over her left knee and started palpating her foot. He kneeled in front of her. "Well?" A sharp hiss escaped her as she touched the arch of her foot. "It's not broken." "Are you sure? We'll find a hospital." "No. I'm not spending hours in the emergency room. We'll just go home and depending on the level of pain tomorrow--I'll decide whether I need to see my own doctor. I'm pretty certain it's a strain or sprain in the arch." She continued to touch her bare foot when she realized that Mulder was still looking at her. "What?" "You are one of the most stubborn women I've ever known." "Maybe because I'm the only one whose I.Q. is bigger than her bustline," she countered. "Why did I take my shoes off?" "Because I asked you to." "Strike that bustline comment. Obviously, it doesn't apply." He was still watching her. "You can look all you want, Mulder. No hospital. It's a stupid freak accident. It's nothing. Just a little pain." Two hours into the trip back, Scully closed her eyes. Her foot still throbbed but there was nothing much she could do for it. She knew it wasn't broken and didn't need an x-ray to verify the fact. Mulder was annoyed with her dismissal of his concern. Under the circumstances, things worked out for the best. The pain gave her something negative to focus on and she would make amends to Mulder for her behavior tomorrow. Mulder knew she was somewhat irritable when sick or injured and wouldn’t hold a grudge. Mulder resumed his dance with the radio dial but this time, it didn't pay off. No hidden gem of a radio show was revealed to them. He settled for news radio. The same story, repeated in the same way, every twenty minutes. She found herself drifting to sleep. "My poetry sucks, Scully. It's dark and negative and no longer represents my life." She heard his voice through the haze of sleep. She felt his hand touch her shoulder. "We're home, Scully." "What did you say?" "I said, 'we're home'" "No--before that." "I have no idea. Must have been hours ago." Liar. She could have sworn he said something to her. About poetry. Maybe he just used her unconscious state as an opportunity to finish his dirty limerick. She opened the car door and put her foot out. It hurt more than before and she put all her weight on her other foot as she leaned against the car. Mulder came around to her side and snuck one arm around her waist as the other hit the back of her knees. She was airborne in an instant. "Mulder. This is completely unnecessary." "Yes, I know." "I can walk." "Oh, I know that." "Then why are you doing this?" "Because you are such a delightful patient, I can't contain myself." She smiled a bit and put her arms around his neck. Fucking hundredth day wasn't quite over yet. "Door," he prompted as they walked up the front steps. She turned the handle and he gently maneuvered them through the doorway. "Your keys?" "I'll open the door," she said, as he tightened his grip in an effort to keep her steady as she leaned over and inserted the key in the lock. She had an absurd desire to laugh--at herself, more than anything else. Even in a "helpless" position, she still felt a need to try and call the shots. Finally, they made it through her doorway. He kicked the door closed and moved her close enough to the locks so she could turn them herself. "Couch, bed or bathroom?" "I can take it from here--thanks." "Nope. I'm delivering you somewhere." "Mulder--put me down." "Bed it is." He quietly walked over to her bedroom and placed her gently on the left side of the bed. She felt his hands slide away from her knees and waist. Hers were still draped around his neck. He made no comment, just quietly looked into her eyes until she realized their position. She let him go and watched as he backed out of the room. He promised he would return with ice for her foot. As she made a small tower of pillows to rest her foot upon, she became more conscious of the sounds the linens made as she rearranged them. Damn, it was too quiet. The day was becoming closer--more intimate--by the moment. And there was now a small sadness that was overtaking her more sensible side. It was sad that this man--one she loved so completely--was right beside her, yet worlds away. She flicked the remote and the television provided a nice white noise in the background. Only three payments of $39.95 and she, too, could have an air mattress for all of her many guests. He came in with a bowl of ice, plastic bags, towels and gauze. He had loosened a few buttons on his shirt. "If Scully can't go to the kitchen. . .you'll bring the kitchen to Scully?" she asked. "Something like that." He sat next to her upraised foot and began putting ice into a plastic bag. He pressed the air out of the corner, as he zipped the bag closed and wrapped it in a small dishtowel. He placed it under the injured foot and wrapped gauze around both until she had a makeshift ice cast. Scully leaned up on her elbows to watch him. "How'd I do, doc?" he asked with a grin. She swallowed hard. Why did some tears have an annoying habit of starting way down in one's throat? If the eyes didn't give it away, the voice would. "You did just fine. Thank you," she said quietly. "Do you want me to stay? Help you to the bathroom- -or, whatever?" "No. It's all right." "Then I'll pick you up tomorrow morning. If you need anything. . ." "I'll call." He gently gripped her ankle and stood up. "Mulder?" "Yes?" "I'm so tired, Mulder." There was no streaming sunlight but the green-gold was back in his eyes. He looked at her. She was letting him interpret that statement any way he wanted. She knew he understood what she was actually trying to say. He could accept it or choose to be sensible and. . . "I know, Scully. I am, too. Have a good rest." . . .get the hell out of Dodge. He went to the door. Her heart sank to her foot, so they could ache in tandem. She turned off the bedside lamp, which barely made a difference. It wasn't dark yet. It was just past 6 PM but she found herself tired by the emotional exercise she had been through. She felt the bed dip besides her and her eyes flew open only to see his right above her own. He positioned his left arm over her waist and his right supported the weight of his upper body as it hovered over hers. "Is this okay?" he whispered. She nodded and watched as his face approached hers. She opened her mouth slightly and he needed no further invitation. She was tired of sweet mysteries. Today, she wanted an answer. Perhaps not a complete one but one that at least set them on that path. His tongue was soft and warm and for a few moments, she let him explore as she simply enjoyed the sensations. Then she put her hands to his head and tried to push him closer. He was no longer holding himself above her but lying with his upper body on hers. She began exploring his mouth, groaning as he groaned, then laughing into his mouth at their perfectly timed response to each other. She put her hand on his shoulder and pushed-- hoping he'd follow her request and roll over but as she moved to roll with him, a groan of pain escaped as her injured foot ached in protest. He pulled his lips from hers. "Sorry, Scully. Here--let me," he said, going into full Nurse Mulder mode. "No!" He stopped as she adjusted her foot against the pillows, and lay back in her former position. She closed her eyes in defeat. Reality had returned and the mood was broken. She should be grateful for that kiss. It was long and wet and breathless. It was a kiss filled with longing. . .passion. . . promise. Instead, she cursed her foot injury and felt like a petulant child who had been given a toy only to have someone snatch it back. He snuggled closer--laying his head on her pillow. "I told you I loved you once," he said. "Yes. You were stoned at the time." "Was I? Well--stoned or not, it was--and is--the truth. When I wrote poetry, I wrote flowery stuff about pain. But. . .I don't know. I think love is enough. . .you know? It doesn't need embellishment. Do you need prettier words, Scully? Do you need the poetry?" "No," she lifted her hand to his hair and let the short, silky strands caress her fingers. "Good. Because I wrote dismal crap." "Well, it wouldn't matter, anyway. I don't have a poetic soul, remember?" His put his hand to her cheek and stroked her face softly. "Oh, I don't know. I remember a beautiful spring day by a pond, soft breezes, warm lips. Poetry just doesn't get any better than that, Scully." He leaned forward and placed a small, chaste kiss on her lips. "You are a romantic, Mulder." "I know. And I don't have to resort to using the word, "nipple" twenty seven times." He slowly got up and went to the door. "You going to be okay?" "Fine." "Good. Hey--Scully?" "Yes?" "There once was a redhead from Quantico. . ." he smiled at her. She smiled back. "You didn't stop me, Scully. Your line is, 'Mulder!'" "I don't want you to stop. I want to know how it ends." "It doesn't," he said, and winked at her, "it's a work in progress." She watched the door close behind him. They wouldn't discuss it tomorrow. Any of it. She knew that. But tomorrow, she would begin the countdown again. Only this time, she'd look forward to the hundredth day with a sweet anticipation. the end Author's notes: I'm quite the big mouth lately with these notes. All right. First--this is my last story while the X-files are still on the air so I need to be slightly mushy. Whatever happens in the series finale, the show has had a dramatic and wonderful effect on my life and there will always be a place in my heart reserved for this experience. I'm still writing but I'm just taking a moment to breathe in the entire experience while it's still in "full flower." (You see, now, why my own career in poetry bit the dust). Second--this story is dedicated to a man who did, indeed, recite his poetry every night between the hours of midnight-7 AM on AM radio in the 70s. I send him thanks on behalf of a then young teenager who needed to hear the words of romance. Hot summer nights in New York with no air conditioning were not easy. His voice, and an occasional cool breeze through the window just before sunrise made summers unforgettable. Oh, and thank you to my muse--for being so damned weird that he/she/it decided to take this one second memory that flashed through my mind one evening and let Mulder and Scully react to it.