TITLE: Picnicking and Nit-Picking, or: The Psychological Ramifications of Dod Kalm (1/1) AUTHOR: the idiosyncratic stanwyck E-MAIL: theidiosyncraticstanwyck@yahoo.com - don't be afraid of the long email address) CATEGORY: MSR RATING: NC-17 AUTHOR NOTES: A Dod Kalm post-ep written for the Fando Season of Smut challenge, and inspired by my chief problem with this episode: the absolutely appalling "old-age" makeup Scully and Mulder are made to wear. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Dana Scully had always excelled at math; consequently, certain problems were too simple to provide even the merest challenge to her intellect - such as, for example, the following basic equation: Ringing phone + 11:30 p.m. = Fox Mulder "I'm hungry," her partner said without preamble, and she half-heartedly wondered just when the hell she had become his confidante, analyst, social-planner, and now, apparently, dietician - but her feeling was much more, say, idle curiosity than reproach. "Well," she murmured, eyes still focused on the black and white images flickering on the television screen, "you've lived this long. Surely you know how to find enough nourishment to sustain yourself." His heavy sigh drifted over the phone lines. "Nothing tastes good." Onscreen Greer Garson gazed longingly at Ronald Coleman. Scully snuggled more comfortably into the soft, spring- scented warmth of her sofa cushions. "What have you tried?" she asked. "Pizza. Sunflower seeds. Chips. Doritos. Fried chicken." He enumerated each item as if it were a separate statement, an individual monument to his gastronomical integrity, rather than part of a list. Scully stopped him, nauseated. "I hate to suggest it, but maybe you should try something containing vegetables, or perhaps fruit." "You didn't let me finish, Scully. I did. And then I tried ice cream, a Snickers bar, and Dentyne. Everything tastes like salt. Unusually salty. In fact, it's like I'm licking a giant cube of salt. I feel like a damn cow." The conversation was ludicrous, but redeemed somewhat by Mulder's extremely mournful tone. "Hmm." Scully considered the evidence that had been presented to her. Mulder's symptoms could conceivably have been related to the elevated salt levels in his endocrine system; but since they had both received a clean bill of health earlier in the day, and he hadn't been experiencing a salty taste before their rescue, it seemed more likely that this was psychosomatic - didn't that fall under his purview? - and not a residual effect of their little outing to the North Atlantic. She sighed softly. "I'm sorry, Mulder. But you can't possibly be really hungry after eating all that. Drink a lot of water and try to sleep, okay?" "Okay," he agreed. He fell silent but seemed disinclined to hang up. He and Scully listened to one another breathe. She let herself drift. Ronald Coleman, his memory jolted from a decade-long amnesiac stupor, began to retrace his steps through a small English town, wending his way back to happiness. "I love this movie," Scully sighed. "What are you watching?" "Random Harvest. Channel 38. Ronald Coleman is a soldier in World War I, and Greer Garson -" "I've seen it. Did I miss her big number?" "Ages ago. They're about to be reunited." Mulder switched channels, and Scully heard the characters' dialogue as if in stereo, from his living room and hers. Neither of them spoke until the music swelled and the MGM logo filled the screen. "I'm gonna go to bed," Scully said softly, unwilling to break the spell. "Aw, c'mon, Scully. Mutiny on the Bounty is next." She snorted. "I think that would hit just a little too close to home this week, but thanks." He chuckled. "I know what you mean. I'm never going to Norway again." Mulder paused. "Scully, I never thanked you for -" "Stop, Mulder. There's nothing to thank me for. There was really no choice to make; you would've done the same thing in my position, and you know it. Just don't ever buy me a snow globe." Mulder was smiling; she could tell. "I'll remember that... Good night, Scully. Sweet dreams." ** Mulder wasn't the only one suffering some interesting and rather idiosyncratic results from their latest case. For one, Scully had been confirmed in her desire never to take a cruise; she'd also had to get up four times during the night to go to the bathroom, because she'd drunk enough water to float an armada. Now, guzzling a glass of filtered tap water as radiant ten a.m. sunlight streamed through her bedroom window, Scully was feeling positively too shallow for words. Drink more water, cracked her inner comedian, who sounded like Benny Hill and was, unfortunately, even less amusing. Scully set the glass down in disgust and admitted that she had just wasted twelve minutes staring at herself in the full-length mirror. Why couldn't she and Mulder develop normal dysfunctions for once? Or wasn't that an oxymoron? It was Sunday, and she'd agreed to go to mass with her mother and then to brunch, but she would've had to leave home fifteen minutes ago to have the slightest hope of being on time, and that was if all the lights were green and there was no traffic. Instead she was still standing in her bedroom, wearing only her silk robe, her wet hair making the fabric adhere unpleasantly to her back. She'd have to call and tell Maggie she'd overslept, which was a blatant lie; she'd been up for three hours, had eaten breakfast, read the newspaper, and ambled around the apartment. She had no plausible excuse, and was embarrassed to confess the truth even to herself: she didn't want to get dressed. Her mind flashed back to Sundays of her childhood, to her childish voice protesting against ruffled dresses and scratchy white tights and shiny little-girl dress shoes. Scully peered again into her closet at the earth-toned array of suits, tea-length skirts and cotton blouses, then looked back at herself in the mirror. She'd never felt so frumpy in her life. A glance at her reflection reassured her slightly: there was the same Dana she always saw, the tightly muscled legs, gently rounded arms, and full cheeks in a heart-shaped face that always made her wonder when she would finally get too old to have baby fat. Then a strange thing happened, the same 'strange thing' that had kept her riveted to her reflection for a quarter of an hour now. She blinked, and another body superimposed itself onto the one to which she was accustomed, a shrunken, wasted body with a hollow, emaciated, ancient face, and she found herself cringing in horror. Damn it, this was ridiculous. So what if Mulder couldn't eat his daily quota of junk food? Her psyche was playing nasty little tricks on Scully and her vanity, making her see herself as some old hag who looked like nothing so much as the product of a bad Hollywood production. This was not only damaging to her self-esteem, but injurious to her cherished conception of herself as a straightforward, practical person who didn't devote too much thought or attention to physical appearances. "Damn," she said to the silence, just to test her youthful alto, and was again reassured. She made a snap decision and, resolutely turning her back on the mirror, began to dress. Scully would always be the first to point out that, throughout her life, she had moved in circles that held fashion and trends in particularly low esteem. As her earliest example, she would offer her own family, where, due in equal parts to the tightness of the Scully budget and the pathological orderliness of both Scully parents, neatness had always been the prime factor in the family dress code. Did it fit properly? Was it ironed? These had always been Dana Scully's criteria, to which she had been forced to add, Did it comply with Bureau regulations? Lately, even before her trip to North of Everywhere, Scully had begun to question this wisdom. Possibly, shoulder pads, blouses prominently featuring dozens of stars, and trench coats three sizes too large didn't particularly flatter her petite, curvy figure; perhaps, in fact, they made her look like nothing so much as a barrel on legs -- short legs. Still, she hadn't been able to work up the enthusiasm necessary for a bona fide shopping expedition, and had filed this idea under her mental "We'll See" column, reasoning that a trench-coated, starry, short-legged barrel would get respect anyway as long as she was carrying a gun. Now, though, she found herself in need of an emergency image overhaul, even if it proved only to be a quick fix. She needed to feel young and reasonably attractive, not like a wasting, feeble centagenerian. (Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the glass doors of the main entrance to the mall, Scully allowed herself the frivolous hope that that was *not* what she would look like when she became a little old lady, as if her flesh were a raisin dried too long in the sun and slowly sliding off her bones.) Scully glanced at her watch. Mass was starting now and, shit, she'd forgotten to call her mother. ** "Mulder, it's me," said his answering machine, and the aforementioned Mulder dropped a sweat-soaked towel on the carpet just inside his apartment door and loped over to scoop up the phone before she could continue. "Hey, I'm here. Just walked in the door," he explained. "Oh," she said, sounding mildly disconcerted, the way everyone sounds when, having reconciled oneself with the idea of speaking to an inanimate machine, one is suddenly confronted instead with a live being. "Oh, hi. Are you busy?" "Nah, I just got back from a run." "Do you have plans?" "Uh, only to take a shower. Nothing beyond that. Why? Want to go crash some military installations?" "Hah-hah, funny," she deadpanned. "How are your tastebuds treating you today?" "I'm pleased to report that they're doing admirably, thank you." "Glad to hear it. Would you like to go get some dinner?" He glanced at the clock and frowned. "Sure, but it's kind of early." "I didn't mean now, Mulder. I don't plan to eat my evening meal at 3:30, nor do I expect you to do so. I'm doing errands right now, and then I need to go home and change, so I'll pick you up around six. You can decide what you're in the mood for." "Ooh, Scully -" She cut him off. "To eat," she clarified. "See you then." ** Mulder's first thought was that his partner must have been replaced by some sort of alien clone, followed by the thought that whoever had perpetrated such an elaborate hoax hadn't done a very good job. Scully would never show up at his apartment dressed like this. Scully wouldn't show up anywhere dressed like this. "Hey," said not-Scully. He didn't respond, and her expression turned slightly wary. "Mulder, can I come in?" Hmm, this was an interesting development: either They had expertly replicated the raised eyebrow and look of disdain combination, which Mulder thought would be a tremendous challenge, or this was the real Scully. Both possibilities intrigued him, so he let her inside. "What's the occasion?" he asked. She turned back to him and frowned, blue eyes inquisitive. "Occasion? For dinner?" "No, I meant -" Suddenly he felt uncomfortable and began to question his wisdom in addressing the issue. "For the outfit." She dipped her chin and blushed lightly, and Mulder was struck by how - well, how pretty she was, with her blue eyes and tidy hair and that soft, rosy flush on her cheeks. Scully smiled and murmured to his shoes, "It's just a sundress, Mulder. Women wear them all the time." What she said was, he supposed, basically true. It was a simple white dress with a scooped neck and a barely flared skirt that ended just above her knees, and was decorated with tiny cornflowers. Her blue cardigan matched exactly. At the same time, his conscience rebelled: surely it was unfair to call this "just" anything, with Scully inside it looking impossibly young and soft and, damn it, pretty. Part of her hair was combed back smoothly and fastened in a barrette, and on her feet were strappy straw sandals, and she was still rosy, and still smiling. "Yeah, well," he countered, "I've never seen *you* wear one before." She shrugged. "Where would I put my gun?" she countered. "Are you ready to go? And where are we going, by the way?" The day had turned out to be one of those rare gifts, a perfect snapshot of early spring, complete with a high, cloudless sky arching above like the inside of a cathedral dome and twittering birds, and its brilliance, though waning, hadn't been extinguished. Scully had arrived twenty minutes early, and the evening air was still warm. Mulder had planned to go out for Vietnamese, but he changed his mind and instructed Scully to drive to a nearby sandwich shop. She raised her eyebrows as if to say, "I invited you out to dinner, I'm wearing a dress, and you want a hoagie?" but made no comment, and Mulder reflected ruefully that she must have extremely low expectations of him. Mulder ordered a turkey on wheat and a salami special to go. Back in the car, sipping a Diet Coke through a straw, Scully regarded him inquisitively from behind her sunglasses. "Take a left at the second light," he instructed, settling back and telling himself that he would soon be redeemed - or else he'd look like a total fool. Their second stop was a liquor store. While Scully stayed in the car, Mulder jogged inside and reappeared moments later with a bottle of wine. Their final destination was the nearest place that bore a passing resemblance to a park. Properly speaking, it was a soccer field adjacent to an elementary school, and at one end of the grassy expanse stood two tall swingsets, a brightly colored tubular slide, and the regulation jungle gym. Scully parked next to the flagpole, sans flag on this Sunday afternoon, right in front of the deserted school building. They both got out of the car, and Scully turned to Mulder over the roof of her Audi. "Picnic?" Her tone and face were neutral, and her eyes were hidden behind her sunglasses. Mulder contemplated the very real possibility that this had been a stupid idea. "Yeah. It's so nice today, but we're supposed to be in for another cold snap later in the week. They're predicting snow for Thursday - I thought we could take advantage of the reprieve from winter." Scully's mouth smiled. "Good idea," she said. As they walked down the sidewalk that skirted the west wing of the school and led to the field and playground, childish voices reached their ears. Mulder gave the unlatched gate a gentle nudge, and Scully caught sight of a little girl hanging upside down on the jungle gym while two boys scrabbled in the dirt below her. The three children glanced toward Mulder and Scully, then turned back to their play, their curiosity satisfied. Mulder stopped at the edge of the newly mown field, sandwiches in one hand, wine tucked unceremoniously under one arm, and looked from the grass to Scully. "I think I forgot one important item on the picnic checklist." "Cups?" she suggested wryly. "Uh, okay, two. I didn't bring anything for us to sit on." Scully prodded the grass with one toe, then shrugged. She sat down, propping on one hand. "Oh well," she said with aplomb. Mulder collapsed next to her, Indian-style, elbows resting loosely on his knees, and presented her turkey sandwich to her with a flourish. "Your repast, your ladyship." "Thank you, Sir Spooky." She nodded toward the bottle of wine. "Are you planning to gnaw the top off of that? Because I doubt you have a corkscrew in your pocket." "Don't need one," he said smugly around a large bit of salami, and Scully looked more closely at the bottle of wine. "Spumante?" she questioned. "With dinner, Mulder?" He felt the tips of his ears pinken with embarrassment. This sort of rag-tag picnic, put together piecemeal at the last minute, had probably been a lot cuter the last time he'd done it, when he and Judith were nineteen and backpacking across Switzerland. "I should've taken you to a nice restaurant." "No!" She snatched up the bottle and twisted off the metal cap that protected the cork. "Step back and see how an expert pops a cork." They ate in silence, passing the bottle back and forth to sip the sweet, bubbly wine while they watched the sun plunge below the horizon. Finally Mulder wadded up his sandwich wrapper and turned to Scully. "Are you cold?" "No, I'm okay." She leaned back on her elbows. "This was a great idea, Mulder. I haven't done anything like this in a very long time, and I think it's been just what I needed." "I haven't done this for a while either." "Aww, shucks. I bet you say that to all your lady friends." He chuckled. "Scully, you're my only 'lady friend.' You know that." "Well, Mulder, we don't really talk a lot about what we do outside the office, so how would I know? There's the Big Dipper." He tipped his head back and contemplated the emerging stars and what she'd said. Scully was right; familiarity had lulled Mulder into the belief that he knew everything there was to know about his partner, but now he saw how unfathomably arrogant such an idea had been. Today he'd met a whole new dimension of her - less Scully, more Dana, he realized. "You look really beautiful, Scully," he heard himself say. "Thanks," she answered softly, sounding shy, and then they subsided once again into silence. Mulder had never commented on her appearance before - well, once when they'd been undercover he'd told her that her gun was visible, but that hardly counted - and it made her a bit uncomfortable. It also made her fingertips tingle in a manner that was frighteningly pleasant. The grass pricked at her legs and she shifted restlessly. I might as well tell him, she thought, resigned, and took a deep breath to firm up her courage. "Mulder." He looked down at her, questioning, but she continued to gaze up at the sky as she spoke. "You're not the only one who has been feeling a bit, hmm, out of sorts since we got back from Norway." He nudged her playfully, and she wondered when he had gotten so close. "Think it's jet lag?" She bit her lip to control a smile. "I've been experiencing... psychological ramifications." "Yes, Dr. Scully?" "I'm having trouble with, ah, with my body image." She sighed, and her tone turned self-deprecating. "God, this is embarrassing. I can't believe I'm telling you this, Mulder. I sound like a damn adolescent. You saw what I looked like on the ship, and in the hospital. I've never cared much about my appearance - hair, makeup, clothes, whatever; those have never been my priorities. The inside is what's important, and if people don't like the wrapping, that's too damn bad. But when I look in the mirror now I see that horrible face, and I feel - ugly. And old." The touch of his fingers on her cheek was unexpected, and she jumped, startled. "You don't have anything to worry about," he murmured. Her cheeks flamed, and she sat rigidly, staring out into the darkness, while his thumb molded her jaw. "I needed to hear that," she admitted after a moment. "That's what today has been about, I guess. I bought a new dress, got a manicure, took extra time with my hair and makeup because I wanted to feel pretty." She sounded as mortified as if she were confessing the eighth deadly sin. Mulder petted her hair as if she were a tabby, then curled his fingers around the back of her neck. She could feel his eyes on her, but didn't dare turn to look. Her skin was covered with gooseflesh, and she was breathing too rapidly, trying to catch up with her heartbeat. "This is awfully intimate," she said, and thought her voice sounded parched. If he'd even heard her, he ignored the comment. His intense gaze bored into her as he moved closer. She felt his breath on her cheek; it too was fast and harsh. "So why are you here with me, Scully? You could have found a dozen men - or women - to tell you how gorgeous you are. I see you every day." She swallowed. "*Because* you see me every day. I wanted you -" His nose grazed her cheek and she jumped again, breaking off her sentence. "You wanted me," he repeated encouragingly, nuzzling her ear while his hand stroked along her collar bone. His lips brushed her cheek repeatedly, offering small, chaste kisses. I didn't know I did then, she thought, but I do now. "I wanted you to tell me," she finished, and turned her head, determined, to cover his mouth with her own. Later Scully would think that she was glad the children on the playground had already go home, and would wonder how much alcohol there had been in the spumante they'd consumed with their dinner - because in a matter of minutes after their first kiss, she and her partner were eagerly consuming one another. Scully found herself half under, half beside his body, divested of her sweater - had she taken it off or had he? - while he sucked at the tendon at the side of her neck. Their hands had been even busier than their mouths: Mulder's large, warm hand fondled her breast, his thumb rhythmically grazing the nipple through the fabric of her dress and bra, while her open palm, wedged between their bodies, stroked his length as best as it could through the fabric of his pants. Mulder's mouth moved from her neck to her breast, not deterred by her two layers of clothing; his back bowed sharply in order to keep from dislodging his lower body from her touch. As he nipped lightly, he peeled her hand away from his cock, yanked his fly open, and guided her hand inside his boxers. She reveled in the knowledge of blood pulsing below the smooth, hot skin, and he grunted and clutched her shoulder at the first light touch of her fingers. Oh, yes; this would be nice. It had been quite a while since she'd given a hand job, and the angle was awkward, but really, it was like riding a bicycle, wasn't it? She smiled and Mulder grunted and thrust into her hand with increasing vigor, and she was almost quite content. Almost. Scully urged his mouth back to hers and spread her legs, hoping Mulder would take the hint. He responded instantly, and she would've smiled again if her lips hadn't been otherwise occupied. They hadn't made him a profiler for nothing. For a moment his whole hand simply rested comfortingly between her legs, pressing up against the damp crotch of her panties. Only for a moment, though, and before she could grow impatient, two fingers slipped neatly beneath the material to trail across her clitoris, which felt tight and needy. She squirmed on the grass, her hand moving faster, and spread her legs wider as Mulder trailed slow, gentle fingers to her opening before slipping just one fingertip shallowly inside her. More of his weight descended on her as the hand that had been supporting him came down to circle her wrist. "Scully," he moaned, trying to tug her hand away. "If you don't slow down - I'm close - " She bucked against the finger teasing her, pushing more of it inside. "I don't want slow," she whispered. "God, Mulder -" She continued to writhe, and he obligingly sped up. "Rub my clit - make me come now -" Under the right conditions, Mulder was very good at taking direction. For her part, Scully was always in favor of equal opportunity. So, a few minutes later they lay in a sweaty, tangled heap on the grass. No professions of undying love or everlasting commitment followed, but neither did they jerk apart from one another as if burned and suffer crippling shame as they attempted to right their clothing. No, Mulder and Scully were in no hurry to move, and as Scully stroked his hair, Mulder mumbled, "Scully, the next time you need a confidence boost, please let me know." Scully laughed. "Yeah, well, the next time you want to go on a picnic, let *me* know." He sat up reluctantly, and she picked herself up off the ground, pulling blades of grass from her hair and clothing. They gathered the rubbish left from their meal and began to make their way back to the car, leaving their patch of grass rather the worse for wear. "Hey, Scully," Mulder began, looking at her over the roof of the car as she unlocked the driver's door, "your dress has grass stains all over it. Did we ruin it?" She laughed cheerfully. "No, it's machine washable, so they should come out. Besides, grass stains aren't the only thing on this material." Mulder slid into the passenger side and closed the door. "What do you mean?" he asked as he fastened his seatbelt. "I mean, you idiot," Scully chuckled, "that you left a very personal stain on my dress, and I'm glad it doesn't have to be dry-cleaned. Poor Mr. Lin would be scandalized." As they drove away, Mulder found himself craving sunflower seeds, and Scully young at heart and in body. End