Date sent: Thu, 20 Nov 1997 01:38:45 -0500 From: Miriam Subject: NEW: Worry Kiss (1/1) Title - Worry Kiss (1/1) Author - Miriam Elizabeth Cooper E-Mail address - squonk@ntplx.net Rating - PG (strong language) Category - V Spoilers - Memento Mori Keywords - Summary - One night in a single motel room, Scully attempts to reassure Mulder when he expresses his concern for her health a startling way. DISCLAIMER: Did you know that every time you buy another Official X-Files Limited Edition Sterling Silver Combination Ashtray/Paperweight, you are helping to pay for Chris Carter's yacht? Think about it. ;) No FBI agents were harmed in the making of this piece. And okay, okay, The X-Files, Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are owned by Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and The Fox Television Network. This is an amateur, not-for-profit publication and no copyright infringement is intended. Please do not sue me. Thank you kindly. This is my very first piece of X-Files fanfic. Hope it's okay! Thanks as always to Ruth and Catherine for editing and encouragement. Very special thanks to Katrina for helping me resolve some major verb tense issues - and for liking it. :) I BRAKE FOR COMMENTS. Feedback is deeply appreciated: squonk@ntplx.net Worry Kiss by: Miriam Elizabeth Cooper This was the second night. It was so unfathomably meek, so feather-light, that I couldn't be sure it happened the first time. It's like when you're standing in line and you could swear you feel someone tap your shoulder; but when you turn around, the person behind you is wholly engaged elsewhere, seemingly unaware of your existence. Did you imagine it? Maybe they just brushed up against you by accident? Or did they have every intention of speaking to you, then suddenly change their mind? And why are you standing there wasting your life away contemplating something so utterly inane? But this was the second night. The second time. And I knew it wasn't a mosquito, because I checked for the bite. A kiss on the back of my neck. I'd gotten in the habit of wearing my hair up to bed because--God--right after the first round of chemo, I'd started to discover small clumps on my pillow when I woke up in the morning. It's not that I was naive enough to believe that securing my hair to my head as tightly as humanly possible would hinder its falling out. The sense of comfort there was entirely false, I know. But at least I could sometimes make it to the bathroom sink before the clumps tumbled down from under the elastic. I am nothing if not practical. At any rate, to be perfectly blunt, the point was that my neck was exposed. And I slept on my side, of course, so as not to disturb the elastic that--oh, hell, I've always slept on my side, actually. So my back was to him, and he... This was far from the first occasion on which we'd had to share a room. Even borderline-sleazy roadside motels can get overbooked, and we'd also had plenty of reservation mistakes--either or both of which had at one time or another amounted to one room, one bed, and two FBI agents with a major gender barrier. What to do? For the first couple years of our partnership, Mulder took the chair. He insisted, and this incensed me at first because I had decided that it was chauvinistic. But after awhile I wised up--I mean, who wants to sleep in a chair? And it seemed to work out okay, being that Mulder could fall asleep standing on his head. Still, he would wake up groggy and go through the rest of the day with a sore back and there was no living with him, so one night when we were stuck in a single room I finally convinced him to just get in the fucking bed, already. He'd made some Mulder-comment about my choice of words, and it was weird for about two minutes; but in the end we were both so exhausted it really didn't matter. We'd been fine about it ever since. So now here we were, the second night in a single room at The Middle of Nowhere Motel, in God Only Knows Where, Pennsylvania. And I'd put my hair up and turned off the light, and we'd said goodnight. A minute passed, and then two, and then three, and then... A kiss. Unfathomably meek, feather-light. On the back of my neck. What I thought I'd felt last night, but dismissed. This night, I turned over. Mulder was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and for a moment there were all those fluttering, tapped-on-the-shoulder doubts. Had I imagined it? Maybe he'd just brushed up against me by accident? Or had he...changed his mind? But this was Mulder, my partner, not some stranger. I could talk to him, usually. And it wasn't like I had the time to waste contemplating anymore. "Hey," I said, and waited until Mulder looked at me. "Did you just kiss me?" I wasn't in the mood to pamper his ego. The barest of pauses, then, "Yeah." He held my gaze levelly for another second, then went back to stucco-gazing. I felt my breath hitch in my throat unexpectedly. Ask a simple question... I swallowed, cleared my throat a couple times. Tried to slow my heartbeat. "Oh," was what I eventually came back with, and rolled over onto my side again. I knew this discussion needed to be pursued at least to the point of encompassing multi-syllabic words, but I wasn't ready yet. My pulse felt like it was going to jump right out of my skin. So, okay, he kissed me. On the neck, like a vampire or something. I fought the mad impulse to giggle. No, no, this wasn't funny. This was...what the hell was this? I rolled back over again, propping myself up on one elbow. "Why?" I asked. His eyes flitted toward me, then away. "Why, what?" Oh, right. So much for succinctness; back to the old cryptic Mulder. Whoopee. "Why," I said, my voice dripping with patience, "did you *kiss* me?" Surprise flashed across his face for a moment, as if he genuinely didn't understand how I could have known he'd done that; as if he thought I'd been asleep the whole time. But his expression cleared quickly, head drooping a little. He shrugged. I hate his shrugs. "Does that mean you don't know, or does that mean you simply don't want to tell me?" Shrug. Damn. Perhaps some histrionics were in order here. Rolling over again, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up, arms crossed at my chest. Then I gathered in the good, strong breath necessary for the purposes of expelling some good, strong hot air, and began, "You know, Mulder, I don't particularly appreciate being treated like--" "Okay, okay." He was up and sitting beside me in the space of two seconds. I arched an eyebrow at him, unsure whether to be annoyed or pleased with myself. Mulder sighed, his eyes dark and tired. And I, the one who had just dragged him over there, began feeling achingly shy all of a sudden, my own eyes flying downward. "So, um, I'm sorry, what were you going to say?" I could hear him smile slightly. "If you'll recall, I wasn't going to say anything." "Yeah." I echoed his sigh; and then I made myself look at him, made myself smile. "So what was that about, hmm? Just..." I waved my hand in the air in an all-inclusive gesture, letting it come to rest on his knee. "Horny?" He chuckled, thank God. "Always." "Okay." I squeezed his knee gently to convey to him that I was listening. "I...Scully, I just want you to listen to what I'm going to say, and don't..." A deep breath, and he seemed to start over. "Scully, I don't think you should be working." He was looking at me in that way I so loathe and love, his face practically pulsing with intensity. And those impossible eyes, wanting so desperately to see right through me, to know precisely how every fiber of my being is functioning, feeling, responding to him. He wants me to be an open book, I know, when he himself has to be the most cloaked and enigmatic man I have ever met. Then again, I suppose that probably cuts both ways. For the moment, though, there was nothing for him to see, because I wasn't really reacting. I mean, it wasn't as if he'd dropped some monumental bombshell. So I shouldn't be working. What was his *point*? "What is your point, Mulder?" The impossible eyes blinked. "What's my point? That was my point. My point is that you shouldn't be on this case. You should be resting, taking care of yourself." I took my hand away, putting it in my other one and clasping them hard. "And exactly what is it that you believe qualifies you to draw this conclusion?" I demanded, but it was weak; I was blowing smoke and we both knew it. God, all you had to do was look at me. "You want me to say it?" Mulder shook his head, obviously pained, obviously prepared to push as far as he felt was needed and wishing himself dead the whole way. "I'll say it, Scully. You look like shit. You can't be feeling much better. This is not where you should be now, and I can't believe you don't know that. You're a doctor. *You* should be the one drawing that conclusion." "I feel fine, Mulder," I told him, mostly to get his goat. Not that I was lying. I did feel fine, at that particular moment. "Are you saying you don't trust me to back you up?" "Oh, fuck you," he said, not unjustly. I blushed, and hoped that was apology enough. He seemed more despondent than angry, turning his gaze up to that precious ceiling of his. I wondered what he saw up there. As it was, I thought that If anyone had the right to be angry here, it was me. And God knows I wanted it; there was nothing I would have liked better than to throw an all-out rip-roaring fit, to just be as royally pissed off at him as I could be for daring to pass judgment on me that way, for having the audacity to question my most fundamental personal and professional choices. I wanted that rage so direly it made my mouth burn. But when I reached for it, I was surprised to find nothing there, that familiar dark place inside me empty and echoing. Like he had kissed all the anger out of me. "Mulder," I said, my voice unwittingly, almost intolerably soft, "I want you to know that I appreciate your concern--" "No, you don't." "--but that I am going to continue to work for as long as I'm physically able. You must also know that I would never risk jeopardizing your life--" His head snapped up. "Christ, this isn't--" "I know it isn't. But I need to say it. If there's ever a question about my health interfering with my ability to perform an agent or as an equal half of this partnership, then--" I looked down at my hands, still clasped tight in my lap. "--then I will step back, I promise you. It's just not an issue right now, Mulder. I feel *fine*. You have to trust me. When it's time to call it a day, I--I'll know. I'll *know*." He didn't say anything. My ass was getting sore from sitting on the very edge of the bed, but I didn't move; it gave me something else to concentrate on. Finally Mulder emitted a sort of combination groan and sigh, and he flopped backwards into the blankets. "Whatever," I thought I heard him say, and I smiled a little, twisting around to watch him wriggle back to his side of the bed. His hair was falling into his face, and I just barely resisted reaching over to push it back. The worst was over, for now. The glaring question remained, however, and if Mr. Cryptic over there thought he was going to get away scot-free, he could forget it. I slid farther onto the bed and crossed my legs under me, eyeing him, letting him sweat. "So, Mulder. Getting back to the original issue." "Original issue...?" "Yes." I ran one hand meaningfully along the back of my neck, and I swear to God his ears went pink. I did take some pity on him then; not enough to let it go, but enough to make it a bit less painful. "All that just to tell me you don't think I should be working?" I asked, gently. Mulder turned his cheek into the pillow. "I don't know," he muttered. I thought for a minute. "Were you, like, trying to get my attention?" "No--maybe. I don't know, Scully, I just--" "I mean, a simple 'hey, Scully' would have been sufficient." "I know. I wasn't--" He paused, licking his lips. "I was just--worried. Okay? I'm just worried about you. And I know this is something you're aware of, something I've expressed to you. But sometimes I just need..." And then he stopped, rolling over onto his back; his dark eyes affixed themselves to the ceiling, and I knew he wasn't going to say any more. Oh. Okay. Wordlessly, I slid down onto my side, keeping on top of the covers as Mulder had. I edged myself next to him until our bodies were touching, and when he looked at me, I made my face go still, letting him read my eyes--something he knows how to do better than he realizes. He turned toward me slowly and I rested my head against his chest, feeling his arms come up around me, letting him hold me because that was part of what he needed. I felt his heart going fast, his hands on my back, lips against the top of my head; then suddenly his chest lifted sharply, and I heard a tiny, stifled cry. Oh, God. Please don't let me have lied to him.