Possibly, Probably, Absolutely
Part One
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

Classification: SA, tiny bit of H, M/S UST
Rating: PG-13
Timeline: Season 7, sort of post-Tithonus
Disclaimer: One thing I *am* sure of?  Not mine,
no sir.

Summary: He quite possibly misses her... most
probably loves her... absolutely pisses her off.

Thanks to Mistress Galia, my fic has a home. 
It's lovely, peaceful and when I visit, I'm
simply amazed that I actually do this, and
moreso, that Galia puts up with me.  Really. 
Come visit with me...

http://sf.exit.mytoday.de/visionsoftruth/mishfic
.htm

Note: Musea improv fic involving adverb use and
abuse.  Read at your own risk. <g> More notes at
end.


Possibly, Probably, Absolutely
Part One


'Where you did not sow, do not reap.'  Ancient
African proverb, his mind intones in a quasi-Yul
Brynner voice.

The Talmud: Because what is yours is not yours,
how can what is not yours be yours? *That* one
echoes in his grandmother's voice.  Ouch.

Finally, the Koran: As for the thief, both male
and female, cut off their hands.  It is the
reward of their own deeds, an exemplary
punishment from God.

Good thing he isn't Muslim, or his hand would be
a distant memory, gone from his arm and forever
bothering him with phantom itching.  Bad enough
he now sees in his mind Nana and Yul Brynner
standing over him, shaking their heads at his
intrusion.

Digging is part of his job, something he'd
perfected a scant two months out of the Academy,
under the tutelage of Bill Patterson.  Before
he'd realized that dipping your fingers in
someone's psyche could save innocent lives, he'd
frowned upon sticking his nose into other
people's business.  He'd felt curious eyes
stabbing at his back since the day Samantha had
disappeared.  Heard the unspoken prying in his
neighbors' thinly-veiled questions about his
Mom's health and his Dad's job.  And he'd once
vowed to never let himself become like those who
thrived on unearthing secrets and spreading them
like fertilizer on burned, dead grass.

But then he became a profiler.  Made his living
by looking into a killer's past... finding that
one defining moment that made a human into an
animal.  A second-grade teacher that made a
child sit in soiled pants until recess... a
father that emptied beer bottles only to use
them as batons... or, in some cases, finding
nothing at all.  Sometimes a monster was born
from an abyss, just like God pulled the universe
from the black hole of his mind.

Which is why he feels like he's sprung from
God's head today.  It is not the first time he's
ever put his hand to her things without her
permission... the job demands little or no
privacy at times.

However, it is the first time he's made it
personal.  The first time he feels guilty for
doing it.

Worst of all, he did it for the possible... or
the probable.  Makes no difference, though. 
Possibles and probables are good reasons for
poking into serial killers.

Not for sticking your nose into your best
friend's business.  All in the name of the
elusive 'absolute.'


**********

An hour earlier


He doesn't realize it, but the bag has been in
his car for weeks, ever since he'd succumbed to
her pleas and helped her escape from her
mother's overprotective arms.  In the happy
confusion of settling her back into her
apartment, they'd forgotten it was there.

As he fumbles for the morning newspaper, his
frustration at the stalled traffic growing by
leaps and bounds, his long arm stretches to the
back of the car and he feels it on the floor
behind his seat.

A brief flash of that day weeks ago... he picked
it up with her other things when they left her
mother's.  Its contents must not be that
important, or she would have asked for it by
now.

It isn't her briefcase... too yielding to his
touch. Not her clothes and personal items... it
doesn't smell of clean, lemony Scully when he
brings it to his face.  It's travel-sized and
obviously weatherproof, made for use and abuse.
The lumps concealed by its black nylon are sharp
in some places and soft in others.  The handles
are sturdy but frayed at the grip spots.  Its
stiff bottom speaks of travels indoors and out;
a green stain creates a fantasy of her lying
under a shade tree with the bag as her pillow. 
A bit of mud creates a frown at the thought of a
careless motorist splashing her with street
grime.  Dust from the basement floor - has to
be, her apartment is spotless - completes the
slide show of its journey.

A dot of red caught in the teeth of the zipper
makes him suck in a painful gasp.  Lipstick, has
to be lipstick.  As quickly as it comes, the
grief leaves, breathed into the warmth of the
car with moist relief.  No more.  She's okay. 
Recovering from the gunshot wound in record
time.

He ponders the bag for a minute or two, his eyes
hardening to look up at the sea of stalled
traffic before him, then softening to gaze at
the treasure chest of Scully gold that rests
under his right hand.  Should he?  That she will
be angry if she learns of his prying is an
understatement.

But it isn't every day that an opportunity like
this comes along.  Stuck in a mid-winter snow
storm - nine inches or more, according to the
weather report droning on the car radio -
nothing to do but sit and wonder why he's even
bothering to go to work this dismal Friday
morning.  Scully is due back from the mandatory
one month sick leave Monday and he doesn't feel
like facing his last day alone with just the
faceless voices of the background checks for
company.

Does he miss her that much?  Due to her absence,
he's had to put in extra hours, shouldering her
workload as well as his.  He hasn't seen her in
three weeks, seldom has time to call.  He knows
her mother is taking care of her needs;
shopping, errands, followup appointments.

Truth be known, he's avoided speaking to her. 
She's left messages, and he did return her calls
the first few times.  But since then he hasn't,
can't make himself sit there and listen to her
voice.  Not when it won't say what he most wants
to hear.

He's said the words before.  He remembers his
drug-induced confession, as well as her non-
response.  In the months since then, he's put
them out of his mind, vowed to never say them
again.  Tried to go back to the easy banter.  It
didn't work.

After New York, which scared him to the point
where he found himself wanting to burden her
with his feelings once again, he's tried a
different tack.  Avoidance seems to be working;
keep it low-key, keep it professional.

But it's not only death that comes to you when
you seek its opposite; he knows that now. 
Proven to him every time he seeks out her voice,
every time he savors the sound of her slightly
lisping plurals.  Loneliness took hold because
of the phone calls, so he stopped giving in to
the urge to hear her voice.

Yet, despite his resolve to prove to himself -
and her - that he can keep her at a distance,
it's possible that he misses her.

Inching the car forward, he caresses the bag
with one hand and drums his fingers against the
steering wheel with the other.  Is she still
sleeping?  Lost in peaceful slumber, though it's
approaching 8:00 a.m.?  Blissful and healthy,
dreaming of sinking her toes into the white sand
of a Jamaican beach?  Or is her last free
workday sleep-in disturbed by a nightmare of
returning to the uncertainty of her job...
partnered with a man who throws breadcrumbs of
concern her way only when she's on her deathbed?

Self-flagellation is routine for him; constant
thoughts of why he should leave her alone have
intensified since her hospitalization at the
hands of Ritter.  Her near-death is not his
fault, he knows.  But it weighs on his mind just
the same; it could have been him that pulled
that trigger.  God knows he's pointed a gun at
her before, stopped from ending her life and his
only by fate or luck or the alignment of the
stars.

Through the years, she's shown him that her
decisions are her own and he's slowly accepted
that the flap of his wings is not responsible
for the changes in her climate.  But the cloak
of guilt still fits and he can't help but try it
on now and then. Just as he can't stop his
sneaky fingers from stealing into her mind and
unwrapping another layer from the woman he
possibly misses very much.

Quite probably the woman he still loves, despite
his vow to never think of it again.  He denies
himself this certainty, but embraces the
trappings that fringe it... the curiosity, the
revealing... the aching.

The absolute is just beyond the reach of his
fingers, hidden somewhere in the opposite.  It's
a chance he must take, because she'll never
offer.  Could be nothing in the bag to give him
the proof he seeks, but....

Possibly... probably... the only way he'll know. 
He'll never ask, never confront the issue again,
that's certain.

The zipper glides with ease.  It is well-oiled
with Scully use and he imagines it humming with
pleasure and welcome every time she opens the
bag.  He drags in a hitching breath at the scent
that wafts from the dark interior of the bag...
a hint of ink-stained paper and comfortable
memories of apples and expensive, yet subtle
perfume.

He was wrong; the outer shell of the bag may not
have been her, but the inner scent is.  It's
her, in the car with him.  He closes his eyes
and hears her murmur his name in playful
warning, tweaking his ear drum with a pleasant
buzz that settles low in his belly.

He shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be looking
into her while the specter of her slight form
sits in the seat beside him, shaking her head
with chagrin at his intrusion.  He's seen that
look a hundred times and it hasn't stopped him
before.  All it ever seems to do is spur him on,
making his hands dig deeper.  This time is no
different.

Spreading the opportunity wider, his heart
thrums with excitement.  An undiscovered country
waits for him within that gap and he dismisses
his remaining guilt.  She'll never know.

The first thing his gaze lights on is a journal;
as soon as he peels back the cover, he realizes
it's the one she began in Allentown.  The words
she'd never meant for him to read.  Like a gate
at a railroad crossing, it slams across the
wandering of his hands.  He doesn't want to look
at the book again, has no desire to dredge up
those feelings of futility and despair.

With trembling hands, he lifts it and puts it
aside in the passenger seat.  He wishes to never
see it again.

One good thing about it, though.  Its removal
tears the lid off a volcano of delightful
things.  A time capsule of Scully's life and
warmth.

A battered, dog-eared paperback... 'The
Godfather.'  An edition printed in 1980, he
imagines a teenaged Scully poring over every
word, fascinated by the inner workings of the
Italian Mafia and the angst of Michael
Corleone's futile repression of his heritage. 
Has she ever been a rebel?  Ever wanted to break
the cycle of militaristic expectations of
excellence and duty?

Ed Jerse.  The name answers his stupid question
for him.

The yellowed pages are smooth under the pads of
his fingers and he stomps the name down to
instead allow himself the luxury of her
sixteenth year.  A year of testing her father's
authority and smoking her mother's cigarettes. 
Time spent sneaking out of the safe confines of
the family unit to possibly explore a world of
sexual discovery with smug boys in leather
jackets.

His groin tightens; it's amazing how quickly his
musings degenerate into lustful yearnings. 
He'll never learn, he thinks, shaking his head
at his lapse.  Such thoughts about his partner
are supposed to be forbidden, according to his
self-imposed 'after Diana' guidelines.

His quest for the absolute is romantic, not
carnal, he assures himself with a nod of his
head.  He can be strong while wading through the
opposite.

The book joins the journal on the seat, to be
dealt with later.

A pair of well-worn gray socks are next.  He
brings them to his face, taking a chance on
their cleanliness, though he expects nothing
less from Scully.  He envisions her tiny feet
encased in those socks, folded under her legs
while she sits on her couch and watches
television - maybe 'An Affair to Remember' or
some other girly movie.  His mind travels from
the slouched ankle cuffs up her bare legs to the
feminine curves of her waist and hips, covered
in just a cotton jersey, perhaps with 'Navy' in
cracked, ironed-on lettering hiding the shadow
of dusky....

A horn blares behind him and he jumps.  Gasping,
he throws the socks at Vito Corleone's face and
moves the vehicle forward a few feet.  Saved by
an impatient asshole.

Swiping a hand across his warm face, he looks
out the driver's side window at the steady
stream of snow, feeling as if the flakes are
watching his every move.  They pile at the edge
where window meets door, tiny white eyes
sticking to the glass and accusing him of spying
with cold, icy purity.  Despite his now
burgeoning warmth, he flips the defroster fan on
high, curling his lips in a sneer.

Die, you bastards, he thinks.  That'll teach you
to snoop.

That he should melt along with them doesn't
cross his mind.

With renewed purpose, he dives into the bag
again, brought up short by the brush of yet
another soft Scully thing.  This time, he lets
his fingers curl around it before lifting it
out, issuing a challenge to himself.

Another pair of socks?  No, too round.  Fur
tickles the spaces between each grasping
knuckle.  Ear muffs?  No, he's never seen Scully
in ear muffs.  She isn't the type to worry about
cold ears anyway.  Too much that needs to be
heard.

Fur-lined bra?  That guess is discarded, too. 
Not that he doesn't suspect she has a streak of
sensuality hidden under those black suits. 
Nope, it just doesn't feel right.  No underwire.

He pauses for a moment at the beaded cold of
something under his thumb.  No, it can't be....

But it is, he discovers as he frees it from the
confines of the nylon.  A stuffed animal... a
kitten to be exact.  He holds it up, bringing
his other hand from the bottom of the steering
wheel to cradle it above his lap.

A smile takes shape at the myopic, slanted blue
eyes that stare at him from under the tattered
ears.  It was once white all over, that much he
can tell.  With a pink fabric nose, now pilled
and dull from wear.  It lies in the palms of his
hands, no bigger than the combined breadth of
his two fists.  One set of whiskers has been
clipped and he pictures a Scully pair of toddler
hands doing the deed with safety scissors.

The owner of the kitten is confirmed when he
spies a row of neat, black stitches on its
stomach.  She must have run out of black thread
at one point; the scar on its back is deep
purple, as is the knot that secures the tail.

He wonders if Bill made her cry when he pulled
the tail off.  He is as sure of her brother's
taunting of little Dana as he is that she
retaliated by sprinkling red pepper in Bill's
Little League jock strap.

He laughs now, bringing the kitten up to rub
against his stubbled cheek.  So glad he hadn't
bothered to shave this morning, the fur soothes
his prickly skin at the same time it creates
friction, making him feel alive.  He imagines
Scully's hair silking over his neck like the
furred kitty, dreams of her purr into the hollow
of his throat....

An incessant sputtering rouses him from
dangerous pretense.  Damned defroster is acting
up again; with an angry growl, he flips it off
and resigns himself to sitting in the cold.  It
doesn't matter anyway; he has kitten warmth.  He
takes a last, longing look at the one piece of
Scully gold that *isn't* going back into the
bag, then gently stuffs it into his breast
pocket, telling his heart it has company now.

Yes, he's a thief.  But he wants a piece of her; 
after all, she's been stealing pieces of him for
years now, though she doesn't realize it.  It's
possible that he no longer belongs to himself,
he thinks with regret.  He's not sure if it
really matters.  However, it seals the kitten's
fate.  If he can't have *her*....

Sighing, he pursues the material and leaves the
abstract alone.  Not much left to explore...
he'd suspected the kitten was the prize from the
moment he'd laid hands on it. 

A half-eaten roll of Certs... wintergreen. 
That's why her arguments always smell of a tart
north wind.  A crinkle of something wrapped in
plastic-like fabric... at the last second, he
decides not to pull it out.  A little *too*
personal for his masculine tastes.

But you don't have a problem with a stuffed
kitty in your pocket, do you Mulder? an inner
voice taunts.  Laughing once again at his
foolishness, a stain of embarrassment floods his
cheeks and he shakes his head, letting his foot
off the brake to squeeze a bit closer to the SUV
in front of him.

None of what he's done today really bothers him. 
It isn't like he's found anything to write home
about; Scully would probably laugh along with
him if she ever found out about his mining
expedition.  Just to be on the safe side,
though, he makes a promise never to tell her. 
Just to be safe.

A hair brush with several strands of red-gold
hair peeks out and he almost leaves it alone...
until he sees a few hints of darker hair mixed
in the plastic needles.  Brown?  He grips the
handle and an unwelcome rush of jealousy clouds
his vision.  This means something he doesn't
want to explore.  But he knows he must.

Of course, she'd been staying with her mother
for a while after her release.  Maybe it's her
mother's.  But surely Mrs. Scully has her own
hair brush?  It has to be her mother's; he won't
consider any other possibility.

Dropping it back into the bag, he reaches again
for the small plastic pouch he had been too
chicken to open moments earlier.  The brown hair
has planted a seed of doubt; now, he wants to
know *everything.*

The pouch is palm-sized and sprinkled with faded
blue flowers.  Upon weighing it in his hand, he
realizes that there is no way it contains...
'feminine hygiene products'... as the television
commercials of his youth have taught him to name
them.

It's a rosary.  Delicate pearls, worn dull by
the caress of womanly fingers.  Generations of
Scully women have prayed with this, he realizes. 
Reverently, he takes his leave of it, placing it
back where he found it.  Mulder fingers are not
meant to touch sacred Scully beads.

One last sweep of the bag's interior brings up a
zippered calculator case.  At least that's what
it looks like; what else can it be?  Maybe an
electric razor?  Or something far more intimate?

Nah, can't be... Scully wouldn't own one of
those... it's against her religion, isn't it? 
As his hands roam over the blue tyvek, he
groans, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, the
carnal stealing up his legs to displace the
romantic.  Even Scully, despite her disagreement
with the majority of Catholic rules, wouldn't
keep a rosary in the same bag as a -

No, no.  He can't open it.  Certainly not in
view of the cars to either side of him, though
the snow pretty much makes visibility poor.  He
scans the immediate area to either side of him
and makes a quick, deceitful decision.  One
peek.  Just one.

It doesn't matter that what's inside could
possibly stay with him the rest of his days,
intrude upon his thoughts every time he looks at
Scully.  The torture would be worth every
painful, unfulfilling moment.

He brings it to his lap and slides the zipper,
the rasp vibrating into his rock-hard thigh. 
One look, one look only.  Gulping, he parts the
edges and bends his head, not caring that to
anyone nearby who dares to look, he seems mighty
perverted.  Hell, he already feels perverted,
why not look the part?

With a giddy chuckle, he admonishes himself for
his sinful thoughts.  It's a Palm Pilot, truly
no bigger than calculator size.  The mother
lode.

When had she gotten it?  He's never seen her
with it at work; it's probably filled with
appointments and grocery lists and workout
dates.  Her laptop is the bible she carries out
in the field.  This is her personal agenda, a
record of her life when she isn't with him.

Which makes him all the more desperate to delve
into it.

He starts slowly, watching the small screen jump
to life as he thumbs the switch on.  An address
book beckons first and he gives into its pull,
scanning the names of what he assumes are
friends and acquaintances...  but no Fox Mulder.

Swallowing back his disappointment, he reasons
that she has everything she needs to know about
him memorized.  Quickly, he skims for the names
of her mother and brothers.  Also missing, he
notes with satisfaction.  Why record any of
them?  Especially his.  He knows he could find
her apartment even if he were blind, deaf and
paralyzed.  Stands to reason she could do the
same, right?

An unfamiliar name stands out in stark, alarming
contrast.  Who the hell is Rafe?  'No last name'
Rafe.  Does Rafe have dark hair? With a clenched
jaw, he digs past the kitten in his pocket for
his pen and scribbles the telephone number on
his palm.  His memory is flawless, but he's not
taking a chance on forgetting *this* little
piece of information.  Frohike will take great
pleasure in unmasking the mysterious man that
enjoys a first-name-basis entry in Scully's
address book.

Just a precaution, he tells himself.  We can't
trust anyone but each other.  Scully would
understand.

Calendar-hopping comes next.  Shit, he's
forgotten her birthday is just around the corner
- *again.* Some flawless memory.  Pen  in hand
again, he writes 'SBD' under Rafe's number.

Another grating horn blares through his back
glass; he tamps down the urge to flip off the
irate motorist.  Instead, he lets his vehicle
creep slowly forward, knowing how his
inattention to the ebb and flow of traffic is
pissing off the man in the Lexus behind him.

Your frustration is nothing compared to mine, he
silently transmits to the man with a narrowed
glance in the rearview mirror.

Through the frosty glass, he sees the bland,
perfect man look away, apparently intimidated by
his stare.  A surge of testosterone at his
victory in 'traffic showdown' makes him puff up,
bolsters his determination to continue his
investigation despite his growing anger at the
secrets he's uncovering.

Retirement party for an Admiral Johannsen
tomorrow night.  Looking ahead, he notices the
mysterious 'Rafe' at two week intervals,
beginning in April.  All of them workday
scheduled, some as early as ten a.m., some late
evening.

Backing up a bit, his mouth drops when he sees
an 8 a.m. 'Rafe' for this very morning.

He's pretty damned sure her doctor's name isn't
Rafe.  Neither is her physical therapist's. 
He'd done background checks the moment they'd
returned to Washington.

A low rumble of jealousy emerges from his throat
and he erases them all.  Appointments with Rafe? 
Over his dead body.

He fumes as he ponders whether or not he should
put them back in.  Scully isn't seeing someone
named Rafe.  He would know about it, wouldn't
he?  An affair is not an easy thing to hide. 
And besides, she doesn't have the time.  He
knows that better than anyone, right?

So he puts them all back in... well, not
*precisely* as he remembers them.  His memory
isn't the best these days;  Scully's near-missed
birthday is proof of that.

Moving on, he absently notes important dates. 
Easter at Bill Scully's.  Annual physical in
April.  He'll have to remember that date,
because she damn well won't tell him the results
unless he asks.

The months past May are empty; looks like Scully
doesn't like to plan more than a few months
ahead.  He can understand that.  The job isn't
conducive to vacationing every summer like
normal people do.

Closing the calendar menu, he opens the option
he's saved for last.

"Things to Do."

He shuts his eyes for a second or two, hoping
beyond all reason that 'Mulder' is at the top of
the list.  A guy could be an absolute sleaze and
go through his best friend's stuff and still get
lucky, couldn't he?

But no.  Number one on the list:

Call Rafe.

Holding off his anger, he skims the rest of the
list.  Shopping, dry cleaning, taxes... very
routine, very Scully.  Even a somewhat
surprising list of 'Things to Give Up for Lent.' 
The usual there - chocolate, bubble baths, ice
cream.

And Rafe.  What the hell is going on?

No mention of 'Mulder' at all.  Not in the
address book, or the calendar, the "Things to
Do" list or the fucking "Lenten Sacrifice" list.

The least she could do is 'give up Mulder' for
Lent.  In the maze-like logic of his mind, he
figures that Scully's abstinence from his
presence would signify that he really, truly
*meant* something to her.  A luxury, an
indulgence that she looks forward to seeing
every day.

But he doesn't even rate a mention, while Rafe
hits for the cycle. 

Shutting it off, he stuffs it and the rest of
her things back into the bag.

Jealousy makes him tremble and he almost howls
with frustration, banging his head against the
steering wheel.  A little voice in the back of
his mind is telling him that it's nothing; Rafe
is just a friend.  But another, louder voice is
saying that Scully quite possibly has a lover. 
She owes him nothing, certainly not an
announcement of the fact that she's getting
laid.

He's cold.  He's fighting miserable, deadlocked
traffic to get to a job he hates.  He hasn't
even spoken to her in days; granted, he hasn't
called, but she knows how to use the telephone
too, doesn't she?

Unless she's too busy with Rafe to call....

After a minute or two of guessing, he raises his
head to find the traffic easing along ahead of
him.

But he can't go to work.  He almost hits three
cars in his creep toward the next exit ramp,
pulling out his cell phone.

Forget the Gunmen.  Time to go straight to the
source.


**********


End Part One

Possibly, Probably, Absolutely
Part Two
Disclaimer, etc. in part one



"Mmm... hello?"

*Tweet!*

He waits a second or two; what's that noise in
the background?  Rafe's beeper going off?  Late
for his next gigolo gig?

"Who is it?"  Her voice is sleep roughened and
it scrapes his sore heart, urging him to a
harshness that is foreign, but satisfying.

"Who the hell is Rafe?"  That isn't how he wants
to broach the subject, but his mouth isn't
listening to his brain at the moment.

"Mulder?"  The rustle of bed linens tells him
all he needs to know.  As does the murmured
aside, "Stop already."

Who is she speaking to?  As if he doesn't
already know.

"Oh, don't stop on my account," he sneers,
turning on to her street.

"What?"  Confusion colors her soft reply and
though her voice is more alert, it still retains
a husky quality.

"Didn't get much sleep last night, did you
Scully?"

"No, as a matter of fact I didn't."

*Tweet!*

He hears the annoying chirp and ignores it,
deciding to home in on the issue at hand.

"Why haven't you called, Scully?"

She sighs.  "Mulder, what's wrong?"

"Too busy to talk to me?"

"You haven't exactly been burning up the phone
lines lately yourself, Mulder."  Her voice is
dry.  "Seriously, is there a problem?"

A problem?  He chuffs at the understatement of
the year.  "Why aren't you giving *me* up for
Lent?  Or have you given me up altogether?"

"What?"  Incredulity shades her reply.  "Mulder,
I'm not following -"

"Chocolate, bubble baths and Rafe.  Just where
the hell do I fall in that list, Scully? 
Somewhere between ogling Skinner and the
vibrator?  Or am I just a notch above the
beloved 'I'm fine'?"

"Mulder, have you been drinking?"

Just like her to assume he's under the
influence.  He hears her muffled moan; she's
scrambling from the bed at last.  He pulls into
a parking spot right in front of her building
and kills the motor, content to make her sweat.

"Mulder, where are you?  Are you okay?"  At his
continued silence, she practically screams,
"Mulder, answer me!"

His ire fades to cold indifference; though he's
upset, he balks at making her worry needlessly. 
"I'm parked right outside your building,
Scully," he replies, in a voice the texture of
oatmeal, smooth and bland.  He watches as her
bedroom curtains fly open.  Through the driving
snow, she's a hazy vision in royal blue,
surrounded by a halo of white window frost.  "I
have something for you."

"You have - what are you talking about?"  She
rubs her free palm over the glass, trying in
vain to see him sitting in his car. He knows she
can only make out his silhouette and he revels
in the advantage he holds.

"This."  He rolls down his window and tosses the
bag onto the piling drifts of her front lawn. 
"Figured you might need it... after all, Lent
starts next Wednesday.  Wouldn't want you to
forget your list."

"Mulder?"

"Have a good Lent, Scully." He rolls the glass
back up, then switches the phone to his left ear
to start the car engine.  "Oh, forgot you were
giving up Rafe.  Have a shitty Lent, then.  Do
your penance like a good Catholic girl."

"What are you doing with my mother's travel bag? 
At least, I think that's what you just tossed
out into the snow."

Slamming his eyes shut, he turns the engine off.

"Your mother's?" he wheezes, loosening his tie
with a trembling hand.

"Does it have a rosary in it?"

Sighing, he whispers, "Yes."

"And a pair of socks?"

"Uh-huh."  God, he had sniffed Maggie Scully's
socks.  Bile rises in his throat.  That's like
some sick form of... partner-in-law incest.

"And my journal... the one she won't let me
burn?"

Scully wanted to burn those words?  Why?  Much
as he doesn't like the aching reminder of that
horrible period in her life, he wouldn't want
her to burn it...

"Mulder?"

"Uh, yeah.  Yeah, it's in there."

"You've been snooping, haven't you?"

Finally, he looks up at her window.  She's no
longer there. That is a bad sign, as is the
disappointment in her voice.

"I can't believe you went through my mother's
things."

"I didn't know they were hers -" Too late, he
breaks off, his teeth clenching in a grimace.

Chilling silence. Then - "You thought the bag
was mine, didn't you?"

Regret and sadness vie for dominance in his
reply.  "I - I assumed it was, yes."

"I can't decide which is worse."  Stone cold
like granite, her anger rumbles through the
line, hitting him square in the chest.  "Either
way, it's an invasion.  I can't -"

He interrupts with the beginnings of an apology
before she can move into 'I can't forgive you'
territory.  "Scully, please listen -"

The click of her disconnection stabs at his
heart.


**********


He sits for an hour or more in his car, chilled
to the bone with the outside weather and her
more fearsome refusal to pick up the telephone. 
The desire to set up camp at her front door is
more pressing, but he doesn't dare insinuate
himself further into her morning.  Instead, he
calls and calls, schooling his rampant anxiety
into ten-minute intervals of allowing only five
rings before he leaves her in again in peace.

The bag is now almost lost under the snow and he
knows he should have retrieved it from possible
ruin.  It's ridiculous to admit to himself, but
he likes the way it disappears, as if by its
burial his indiscretion is slowly being entombed
as well.  But he knows he can't let what he's
done be forgotten, can't let it drown only to
surface again when she chooses.

Has his life without her become so uncertain
that he lets irrational thought overtake him so
easily?  Did he really *need* to know the
absolute?  No.  He knows all he needs to know as
far as she's concerned.

He won't ever bother her again if she'll just
forgive him and be the one absolute he needs in
his life... his friend.  As for the other
absolute?  The one that involves love and desire
and the overwhelming need to be physically
intimate with her?  That it has probably become
an impossibility is something he can live with,
if he can always have the other.

His wipers clean the windshield again; a phantom
movement at her bedroom window catches his eye. 
Is it her?  He can't tell, but cuts his ten
minutes to seven to find out.

Before he can hit redial, his phone rings. 
Breathless, he thumbs two buttons incorrectly in
his search for the right one.  His fingers are
numb with cold.  Don't hang up, don't hang up,
he prays.

At last, success.  "Scully?  Scully, I'm so
sorry... I'm such an asshole... please forgive
me.  I don't know why I... the traffic, Kersh,
the cold..."  He trails off, knowing the excuses
are lame as well as disjointed.  "Scully?  Are
you there?"

"Mulder, go home."  Her request is edged with
fatigue.  "Go to work.  I don't care.  Just quit
sitting in front of my apartment or one of the
neighbors will call the police."

"Not until you talk to me."  It *is* her
standing at the window; she's still in that blue
thing... has she been trying to go back to
sleep?  Shit heel, he screams at himself.

A sigh melts across the line.  "About what?"

"I want to explain."

"Explain what?  How you invaded my mother's
privacy?  How you invaded *my* privacy?  For
what possible reason, Mulder?"  She pauses, then
adds, "And don't tell me you thought there was a
bomb in the bag, or some other paranoid crap. 
That bag has been sitting in your car for weeks,
I'll bet.  Mom probably doesn't even know it's
missing."

Gulping, he barrels forward, the truth spilling
from his chapped lips.  "I was bored.  I was
lonely.  I wanted a piece of you with me."  He
brings his hand to the lump of kitten over his
heart.  Much as he wants to keep it, he'll have
to give it back to her now.  "It - it smelled
like you.  I missed... I -"

He can't say it; his fumbling words are
ridiculous and embarrassing.  Closing his eyes,
he realizes now that he *wanted* it to smell
like her, wanted to have her near.  His lonely
mind told his nose it was Scully.

It is no longer possible to deny it.  He misses
her.  God, does he miss her.

And most probably... most definitely... without
a doubt... can't even make himself think it. 
But it's still there, though he's tried so hard
to pretend otherwise.  Absolutely.

"You could have called me."  The hurt in her
words is palpable.  "I left a few messages for
you, but when you didn't return my calls, I...."
  
As if he's right before her, he nods and opens
his burning eyes.  "I know.  I'm sorry," he
whispers.  He realizes how much his silence this
past month has hurt her.  "I couldn't hear your
voice, Scully.  It made - *makes* me ache."

She doesn't answer... just a small hitch of
breath that warms him and makes him bold. 
Chancing a look at her window, he makes a
decision.

The car door is icy and he uses his shoulder to
shove it open, stepping into the slush before
shutting it behind him.  He has a better view
now, but she skitters away, putting more than
driving snow and glass between them.

Slowly, he walks forward a few feet, tentative
in voice as well as body.  "The bag... it was
like you were there with me.  It was *your*
socks, Scully."

"Mom keeps a bag packed with extra things just
in case...."  It's a start, and he stops cold at
the tingle of her possible forgiveness.  Just as
his heart lurches as she trails off, leaving the
perils of their lives unspoken.

"Sometimes my feet get cold," she explains,
ignoring the unfinished previous statement.  He
decides to ignore it as well; she's not blaming
him for that, so he won't blame himself either.

"Did you use them in New York?" Rationalize, he
tells himself.  Investigate and prove your
theory.  Still won't let you off the hook, but
it may explain your attraction to the bag.

After a pause, he hears, "Yes."

Thank God, he thinks.  He wasn't sure if he
could ever look at Maggie Scully the same way
again.  He plunges ahead, still ashamed, but
wanting her to hear the truth.

In possibly the only way he can ever give it
voice.

"It was *your* handwriting... do you know how
much I've missed those looping 'L's'?"  He
murmurs the toll her absence has had on his
life.  "*Your* hair in the hair brush."

"Hospital grooming.  She's always on the lookout
for young, single doctors..."

It's on the tip of his tongue to quip, "For
herself?" but he knows better.  Best to ignore
that, too.  He doesn't want the idea lingering
in her mind any longer than necessary.

"Though she knows better than to pry into my
life."

That one, though half expected, stings.  It's
deliberate and signals her determination to make
his apology difficult.  In spite of that
knowledge, he finds himself cautiously proud of
her antagonism.  She always makes him work for
it.

So he throws his back into it, his confession
incomplete until she's heard it all. "It was
*your* copy of 'The Godfather.'  I thought I
could feel the impressions of your fingers on
its cover.  It felt like you, Scully."

"Mom has read that book a dozen times.  If the
bag was mine, it would have been -" She breaks
off as she realizes just how much she's giving
in.  But he won't let her slide back behind her
wall of stony anger.

"Would have been what?" he urges quietly,
stepping up a pace or two onto the lawn.  His
eyes never leave the window.

"'Breakfast at Tiffany's.'"

He wants to laugh with joy at the small part of
her he's just been gifted with.  All he has to
do is ask, he knows that now.

"Good choice."  The smile on his face brightens
his words and his heart skips a beat at the
flash of blue at the window's edge.  Keep going,
he tells her silently.  I want to know
everything.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"  His teeth are chattering and his hair
is matted with snow, but he doesn't care.  He
will stand out here all day if it means her
forgiveness.  Wiping an impatient hand across
his icy eyelashes, he keeps his gaze on the
window.

"Rafe is my mother's hairdresser."

Laughter bubbles from his chest and he can't
help but falter in his vigilant watch, doubling
over for a moment or two.  He's stiff from cold
and his skin hurts with what he'd almost done to
them today; his knees pop as relief floods him.

"She gives up her hairdresser for Lent?"

"Don't laugh... you try keeping the gray out by
yourself.  Vanity is a venial sin, you know. 
It's just like her to give up something she
really values."

As he squats to force some feeling back into his
legs, his foot nudges the snow-hidden bag.  He
brushes away the white stuff and chuckles,
"Quite a sacrifice."

"If you're sixty-one, trying to look forty-one,
it is."  Her voice becomes thoughtful.  "I gave
her that Palm Pilot for Christmas.  She doesn't
care much for it; I think she brought it to New
York just so I could see her use it.  Never
thought she'd use it to make a list of 'Things
to Give up for Lent.'"

He knows the happiness at the turn of the
conversation can't last; despite his
trepidation, he feels he must beg her
forgiveness one more time.  Especially when the
object of his transgression is fully uncovered,
reminding him of just how much he hurt her
today.

Hanging his head, he sobers and peers at the
bag, his free hand determined to wipe every
speck of snow away.  "Scully?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry.  Sorry for not calling you... sorry
for disturbing your sleep."  He wants to look up
but doesn't dare; from her silence, he's not
sure he could stand it if she still avoids his
gaze.  "Most of all, I'm sorry for nosing into
the bag.  I shouldn't have... I'm... just
sorry."

After a few moments, he hears her soft reply. 
"Don't do it again."

He raises his eyes to the building door, still
unworthy to look at her form.  "I won't, I
promise."  He stands and picks up the bag,
keeping his eyes in a safe stare of her front
stoop.  "I'll just put the bag inside the front
door, okay?  I won't bother you again."

"Is Snowball in there?"  The question is small
and warm, just like the woman he's sure is now
standing in the window.

"Snowball?" He knows what's she's talking about
almost immediately, but a selfish part of him
wants to hear her say it.  Give him one treasure
that proves he's not a total incompetent.

"The kitten.  Sometimes Mom still thinks of me
as a little girl... she always brings Snowball
to me when I'm in the hospital.  I have to admit
that it's a comfort."

He can hear her invitation through the
admission.  She wants him to look up, so he
does.

She's beautiful, lit in the back glow from her
bedroom lamp, telephone in one hand and the
fingers of the other spread over the glass.  Her
hair is tousled and her cheeks are pink; he
walks closer to make sure he's not hallucinating
this angel just beyond his greedy, itching
palms.  Her lips curl in a grin for a second,
then fall lax as she reacts to the hunger he
feels shining from his eyes.

"He's safe," Mulder whispers, not blinking, not
daring to break the spell.  "Right next to my
heart."

*Tweet!*

It shatters the moment, the obnoxious chirp that
makes her jerk and look away.  He realizes it's
been coming over the line at regular intervals;
he wasn't aware of it again until just now.

"What *is* that?" he grumbles, angry at the
intrusion.  He'll never get the moment back. 
Never.

"The reason I couldn't sleep."  He sees her rub
her free hand over her eyes; her shoulders sag
with fatigue.  "My smoke alarm.  When the
battery is going dead, it chirps as a reminder. 
I called the landlord last night, but he can't
get to it until this afternoon and I can't
stretch high enough to reach it.  It pulls."

On her injury.  Mulder thinks back to his
accusation... Rafe's beeper... and feels even
more like dirt.  "Scully?"

"Yes?"  She moves away from the window just a
bit, giving him her back.  He can feel the
pierce of her eyes at the offending round
disturbance on the ceiling, see her neck roll as
she tries to work out the kinks of the lost
night's sleep.

"In the box marked 'Height' on my driver's
license, it says six foot."

She turns back to the window, the grin making an
appearance once again.  "It does, huh?"

"But I'm really six-one with my shoes on."

"Fox Mulder, math whiz."  She's not being
sarcastic, just... normal.  He loves the way it
feels.

"Put me on a chair and I can touch the ceiling."

"Oooh... math whiz *and* handyman."

If he squints, he can see that eyebrow go up.  A
good sign; he wades out a little further into
deeper water, stretching an imaginary hand out
for the Scully lifeline he knows is there.

"And not that I'm complaining or anything... but
I'm freezing my ass off out here."

"Really?  I thought you'd found Mom's mood
lipstick.  That shade of reddish-blue doesn't do
a thing for you, Mulder."

He smiles, a sincere attempt at one final white
flag.  "Nope, not your mother's.  In case you
didn't know... I'm giving up snooping for Lent."

That earns him a full-fledged smile.  "Mulder,
you're not Catholic."

His smile fades and he clears his throat. 
"Anything for you, Scully.  No sacrifice is too
great."

Her fingers touch the glass again. He sees her
move closer, her words creating a mist that
almost caresses his somber face.  "Come on in,
Mulder.  I'll put some coffee on."

He forces his frozen legs down the sidewalk.

Unwilling to do without her voice for the short
time it will take to reach her apartment door,
he keeps up the chatter.  "So, Scully..." he
drawls as he makes his way through the foyer
doors.  "What are you wearing?"

She laughs over the sound of running water in
the background.  He can see her in his mind so
clearly, her neat hands precisely measuring out
just the right amount of coffee.  "Silk, Mulder. 
Pure silk.  You know I'm a sucker for nice
pajamas."

He doesn't say that he knew that already; she
knows as well as he does that he's seen her in
them hundreds of times, in many seedy hotels and
even worse, lots of hospitals. Shaking the snow
from his coat, he ventures further, his
confidence returning by leaps and bounds. 
"Guess you can't give up your silk and satin for
Lent, can you Scully?"  He knows how much she
treasures the small pleasures in her life.

"Actually, I've thought of something I really
should give up for Lent.  Something that's been
a very bad habit of mine for several years now."

Panic makes him still; despite his earlier
musings of the day, he would never want Scully
to give him up.  Not even for a day.  Not even
if it proved that he was the most worthy
possession she had.  And he *is* hers, body and
soul.

He tries for nonchalance, dreading her answer. 
"And what exactly is that?"

The line crackles as the connection is severed. 
"Scully?"  Has she hung up on him?  In the
frantic four seconds that feel more like four
hours, he's in her hall, still saying her name. 
"Scully?"

But she's gone from the line.  Only to appear in
the frame of her opened door, telephone cradled
in her crossed arms.  Her smile is seductive,
stopping him in his tracks.  If he thought her
beautiful minutes ago through the window, it is
nothing compared to the way she looks at this
moment.

Pajamas?  No way.  It's a nightgown that peeks
from beneath a matching blue robe.  Her bare
feet peek from under the hem and he's mesmerized
by the small white toes.  A hot flush rises
under his collar and he says, "Are your feet
cold?  There are socks in the bag."  He feels
silly, struck idiotic by his good fortune.

"Don't need 'em," she replies, backing into her
apartment, her eyes luring him in.  "My feet are
warm enough, thank you."

He drops the bag inside the door and kicks it
shut, pocketing his cell phone, then reaching
for Snowball.  "How about this?" he asks,
advancing slowly, waving the kitten before him
with a smile.  He's kidding though; no way he's
giving up the furball.

She tosses the cordless onto the couch, then
says, "I think I can do without Snowball, too."

"Giving him up for Lent?"  Curiosity gets the
better of him... he *must* know.

"No, I think I'm giving up something better." 
She meets him halfway and they stop, inches
apart in the warm confines of her living room. 
A heady mixture of brewing coffee and barefoot,
silk-clad Scully makes him dizzy.

"What's that?"  Tell me, tell me, he wants to
scream.  Snowball drops from his suddenly
nerveless fingers as his hands move to her
waist.

She stands on tiptoe and brushes the melting
snow from his hair, her lips millimeters from
his.  Her eyes drop to his mouth, then back up
to meet his for a brief moment.

"Celibacy."

The word takes up residence in his breast
pocket, warming him like Snowball never could. 
At a loss for a response to equal her admission,
he can do nothing but stare at her.

"Of course, it may be a few more weeks before
I'm physically able, you understand."  Her
fingers pluck at his coat and she avoids his
attempt to seek out her gaze.  "I suppose I'll
need some warm-up time... so to speak."

He swallows hard, angling his head to approach
her in just the right fashion.  "Scully?"

"Hmm?" she murmurs, the humid release of breath
warming his cold lips.

One of his hands releases its grip on the silk
to seek out the even softer slope of her cheek. 
"I think I'm giving that up, too."

She allows him to tilt her face up and her eyes
follow a slow heartbeat behind, as does her
reply.  "Feel like joining me in stretching some
of those muscles, Mulder?"  Her cheeks are pink
with traces of nervousness, but he can tell
she's leapt from the possible to the probable
and marched straight into the absolute.

Just as he did when he first opened that bag. 
He realizes that not only did he quite possibly
miss her... and quite probably love her....

He's a second away from *definitely* kissing
her.

So he tests the definitive, touching his lips to
hers in the barest of caresses.  It takes a
moment, but he feels them press back and he
pulls away to smile.

"Absolutely."  He moves in for another kiss.

Like positive to positive, she leans back at his
approach.  "Good," she answers with a nod, then
reaches under his coat to give his ass an
experimental squeeze.  "Feels thawed out to me. 
Grab a chair from the kitchen, handyman."

*Tweet!*

"What?" he croaks.  She squeezed his ass.  Holy
shit... Scully squeezed his ass!

The seductive smile blooms again as she turns to
glide to the bedroom, throwing over her
shoulder, "And bring Snowball with you.  If you
think you're sneaking out of here with him,
you're sadly mistaken."

The tingle under the seat of his pants makes it
difficult to walk... and Lent will probably be
over with before he's allowed into her bedroom
for anything other than changing that damned
battery... and he's positively going to be
groveling at her feet for a hell of lot longer
than that... but he doesn't care.

Grinning, he picks up Snowball and stuffs it
into his pants pocket before walking to the
kitchen, shedding his coat and jacket along the
way.

Contrary to what she thinks, the kitten is
*most* assuredly his.  If she wants it back,
she'll have to dig for it.



END


Elements:

Nine inches of *S.N.O.W.* !!
unidentified chirping noises
a stuffed kitten
A battered copy of Mario Puzo's 'The Godfather'
a palm pilot device
and the piece de resistance....
Mulder is stuck in traffic and Scully is stuck
at home.
(So, he didn't spend the *whole* fic in traffic; 
I couldn't do that to the poor guy.) 

Author's Notes:

I realize the 'Mulder does a bit of snooping'
had been done before, most perfectly in Susanne
Barringer's "Snooping."  This is my take on it; 
also my homage to that excellent fic.

Many thanks to Musea.  To Blackwood, for the
elements (you always seem to inspire me, dear
<g>)... Jintian and Forte for the beta... and to
all my sisters for just... being my sisters.

Now I believe someone is supposed to provide the
RST/smut?  Oh, I hope so. Snowball needs a
little more cuddling! :)

Thanks for reading!
Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com