About Face
By JHJ Armstrong

Summary: Moose and Squirrel's connection transcends the physical.

Category: MSR. Angst? Some. Smut? Yah. Humor? I tried.

Rating: NC-17, I suppose. Mostly suggestive; I believe in the
power of your imagination, dear reader.

Spoilers: "Dreamland II." Bits and pieces elsewhere.

Archive: Anywhere. Usual stuff about keeping my name, etc., attached.

Disclaimer: Somewhere over the rainbow, they're mine. But until
that pot of gold appears (complete with leprechaun), I guess
they're CC's, DD's and GA's. *sigh*

Feedback: <armstrong31@earthlink.net> As this is my very first fanfic
effort ... pretty please with a cherry and sprinkles on top! I'll
even let you lick the whipped cream and fudge off the back of the
spoon.

To TBishop27, who put up with my electronical fumblings to perform
a slam-bang beta. And hey, Fred and Ginger: Never did an author
have a nicer rejection. :P


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Somewhere in Nevada
10 p.m.

She is so beautiful, even in the dark. And she's walking away, and maybe
we'll never have another chance. So I'll try to take this one.

"Hey Scully."

She turns around. For an instant, the headlights illuminate her face,
and I see the weariness, the apprehension and, yes, the fear of what might
happen with this time distortion thing.

I wish I could tell her that everything will be OK, that we'll get back
into place without any problems. But she knows, and I know, that's a
promise nobody can make right now. I can tell her, however, that I'm
still me and we're still partners. I have to.

She's stopped, waiting for me to say something. I take my hand from
my pocket and hold it out until she extends hers. Sunflower seeds
click softly into her small palm. I don't speak, but we've never
needed words.

She looks at the seeds, fingering them gently. Then she looks up,
and offers me a tiny Scully smile.

Message received.


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I'm standing in the middle of the Nevada desert looking at a
handful of sunflower seeds, and I think I'm going to cry.

If I don't get Mulder back -- and I mean *my* Mulder, not
the asshole in an Armani who's sitting twenty yards away --
you can bet somebody's gonna get shot.

Sometimes in this partnership, I've felt like Mulder and
I were on parallel moving sidewalks, zipping back and
forth but never quite stopping in the same place.

Right now, however, I feel like those sidewalks are in
slow motion; one of us has only to jump across and we'll
be bound so tightly they'll never get us apart.

I can't rely on Mulder's face -- or eyes -- right now to
tell me what he wants me to do. They're over there in
the Taurus. All I have here is our souls. Can I do this?
Does this handful of sunflower seeds mean what I think,
I hope, it might?

Mulder is waiting, watching, wondering.

Carpe diem, Agent Scully. Now or never.

"Wait here for me?" I ask him. "It could be a while ..."

He simply nods. "I'd wait for you forever, Scully."

My eyes close; again, I fight back sudden tears. "The
feeling's mutual, Mulder. I hope you know that."

I walk back to the car, get in, and we drive off. I
don't look back, but I do let one tear fall.


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Same place
Four hours later

I don't question whether Scully is going to return.
She asked me to wait, so wait I will until she arrives,
I die or Elvis comes back. With Vegas nearby, you never know.

While I'm waiting, I ponder the current situation. The whole
deal's rather hilarious, actually: I'm playing possum
at Fletcher's job while he's a wolf in Fox's clothing.

I also ponder what made Scully ask me to wait. I know
I put my heart in her hand along with those sunflower
seeds, but she's held it before, and it's never affected
her quite this way.

Could it be that the thought of losing me unnerves her
so? To be sure, I'd still be around in effigy. But
Scully's not superficial, and it wouldn't be *me* with her.

Hope springs eternal, or so says the proverb, and I have to
admit I've always hoped there might be a time for Scully and me.

I usually keep the feeling buried deep, deep inside. Oh, it
surfaces from time to time, most recently in a hospital
room in Bermuda. I blame the Demerol. So does she.

It's not that I think Scully would so lightly dismiss the
thought of us. I mean, we're together, just not *together.*

But our relationship is so precariously balanced at times,
I'm afraid that adding another component would throw it
permanently out of whack. We always skirt the issue of
how we feel about each other; at some level, we know we're
inseparable, but we'll be damned if we voice it.

And last summer, when we stood on the precipice, a
genetically mutated Africanized honeybee and then
half a planet got in our way. Not to mention several
muckety-mucks and a little thing called being taken
off the X-Files. No, I'm not bitter.

Can you blame me for just being tired of denying the
obvious? History proves I only get in trouble when I do.

The sound of a car interrupts my musings. She gets out
and heads toward me.

I could go running over like an eager beaver, but
the little profiler's voice inside my head tells me she
needs to control this situation. If there's one thing about
Dana Scully, it's that she needs to run the show. Not
always a horrible trait; in fact, on her it's downright
arousing.

She stops a foot from me. "Hi, G-man."

It's pitch black out, but I don't need to see her to know
that she is a five-foot-three dynamo in four-inch heels
and a Donna Karan pantsuit. But tonight, the dynamo
is ... nervous? Maybe a little levity will help.

"Hey, Scully. Wanna get back in the car? All we'd need
then is a parking garage." This earns me a wry smile,
followed by a huge sigh.

Gathering her thoughts, she turns away, then back. "Mulder,
that's in the past. I want to talk about ... about right
now. And maybe the future."

"I don't think The Stupendous Yappi can help us here."

"No, probably not. But we have no idea how whatever happened
to you and Fletcher ... happened. Nor do we know if, when or
where it might be reversed. All I know is that you could, as
you said, wind up with your head in a rock, and I ... I ... "

"You could be stuck with that bottom-feeding mouth-breather
for a partner?"

"Yes." She speaks through clenched teeth, and I feel the waves
of aggression at the thought of the man rolling off of her.
God help him if they ever run into each other again and she's armed.

Suddenly, she grabs my hand, tugging until I walk with her to my
car. Fletcher's car. Whatever.

Scully opens the door and sits down. I climb in on the driver's
side, wondering what she's got on her mind. She looks straight ahead.

"Mulder, what do you think of me?"

Careful, Mr. Special Agent. About five billion layers of meaning are
hidden in that question.

"Well, Scully, I think you are a brilliant scientist, an excellent
field agent, a trustworthy friend and an all-around good person
who's handy to have around in a pinch." The high road first.

Her eyes find the hands clasped in her lap to be fascinating, and
she manages an "Oh" in the quietest tone imaginable. "I -- I'm flattered."

I take her hand in mine, and we study the stars for a few minutes
before she decides to speak again, pushing the matter further.
"But do you -- I mean -- well, is that *all* you think of me?"

Time to cash in your chips, Mulder. "What do you mean, Scully?
Are you asking me if I think you're the most wonderful person
I've ever met? If you make me a better agent, a better man when
we're together? If knowing you are by my side makes me believe,
however infrequently and fleetingly, that the nameless men we
struggle against will see justice someday, I'll find my sister,
and you'll discover the truth about your abduction?"

"Is that what you're asking me? Because if it is, the answer to
all of it is yes."


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What can I do after that but kiss him, no matter how damn ugly he is?

Before I can act, though, he has a question of his own.

"So, Scully, what do you think of me?"

His words are mine, spoken in hushed tones, but I hear in them
the longing of a little boy who grew into a man without knowing
the simple, steady assurance of unconditional love.

I, however, had that in spades, and I want to share. I square
my shoulders and face him, putting my hand over his. Trust and
truth are all I need, and I've found a good measure of both
in this man. It's time I told him.

"All my life, Mulder, I've run from my emotions, thinking they
only make me vulnerable when I need to be strong." He shakes his head.

"Scully, you're the strongest person I know. And it's because
you can feel so deeply you -- "

"No, Mulder. Strong can very easily become cold and uncaring.
Don't you see? It's because of you I find the strength and courage
to keep feeling. Your convictions, your commitment, they help me
through when I want out.

"This ... this time distortion, or whatever it is, it threatens
me and you. And that scares me, because, somewhere along the way,
having you in my life became a necessary part of living. I need
you, Mulder." I take a deep breath.

"And I ... I love you."

There, I've said it. Please be gentle with me, Mulder.


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"And I ... I love you."

Scully loves me. Scully loves me? Scully loves me!

As fate would have it, I look like anything *but* me
when I am informed of this.

Fate and I will have a chat later. Right now, I very
much want to kiss my partner. So I do.

Scully is the object of so many of my fantasies, I'm
not sure what I expected in reality. I know I never
really thought there'd be a reality, so there's a bonus
right at the start.

Her lips are warm, soft and supple. I keep the kiss light,
playing a little with my tongue, feeling her respond,
feeling me respond ... but I have to stop. This isn't right.

I pull back, searching for the dome light and flicking it
on. She blinks, looking confused.

"What? Mulder, why did you stop?"

"In case you haven't noticed, Scully, I'm not myself this
evening. And as many times as I've pictured this moment,
it sure as hell wasn't this way."

Every other part of my body is screaming shut up, this is
Scully, you know she knows it's you, but the finely honed
guilt center that is my brain won't turn off. So I sit back
in the driver's chair, drumming my fingers on the steering
wheel, wondering if she'll leave and hoping with all my
might she won't.


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His face may not be Mulder's, but the familiar visage of
MulderAngst has appeared.

I sympathize with him, I really do, but does he think I'm so
shallow? Okay, maybe he looked better when he was infected
with the alien virus, but he's still MULDER.

Another day, I would back off. I would make a teasing comment,
or maybe ruffle his hair and trail my hand down his arm. Or
simply smile. But not today. I have decided that retreat
is not an option.

"Mulder, look at me." He complies, sullenly, after a moment.
"Do you know what parts of you attract me the most?"

Well, he can still leer. That's saying something.

Anyway. I tap his forehead and say, "This. Your brain."
Then a tap on his upper left chest. "And this. Your heart."
I have to make him understand that there is an intangible
quality in him that says "Mulder" as nothing else can.

"You may *look* like Morris Fletcher," I say, "but you *feel*
like Fox Mulder to me. Do you understand?"

"Your heart, your brain, your intellect, they are *you*. No
one can imitate that, least of all some Area 51 peacock. I
don't love your eyes, your nose, your cheeks, your neck, your
hands" -- I kiss each body part as I name it -- "I love *you*."


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As always, I am helpless to defend myself against ScullyLogic.
I feel the tears falling, and she leans in to kiss them away.

I turn my head, and our lips meet again, parting to let our
tongues roam. We continue the kiss, tasting and discovering
each other until we are both breathless. We rest our foreheads
together and try to remember how to inhale and exhale.

"You know, Mulder, I've pictured this moment, too."

"Oh? And how does your fantasy go?"

"Believe me, we'd need much more space than we've got.
*Much* more."

"Then how about we take this party outdoors?"


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Before I can answer, Mulder is out of the car and
rooting around in the trunk.

"Let's see if ... I don't believe this." He walks toward
me, his arms full of blanket and ... picnic basket?

"What is that, Mulder?" I peek inside the basket. One
bottle of wine, two glasses. Three candles. I'm sure
Mr. Fletcher is no Boy Scout, but he certainly seems
to be prepared.

I lean against the car as my partner spreads the
blanket out, lighting the candles and motioning for me
to sit when he's finished. "Shall we sample the vino?"
he asks me, wiggling the bottle a little with one hand.

"How could we not?" I reply. He grins, and pours. A sweet
Riesling, fruity and flavorful. We sit in companionable
silence for a bit, sipping.

"Mulder, what do you think is going to happen?"

"Well, Scully, I'd say there's a pretty good chance one
or the other of us is gonna get naked."

It's dark, but I bet he can still tell my eyes are
rolling. "Not what I meant."

"I know." He reaches out in the dark and takes my hand.
The touch from Mulder's heart but another man's body sets
off a spark inside me at the unfairness of the situation.
I try to tell him how I feel.

"I mean, you and Fletcher could stay this way forever, we
could see a partial recovery, or everything could return
to normal. I hate this uncertainty. I hate that, once again,
we have been thrown into circumstances beyond our control,
with no clues as to who or why or what happened, and we're
just supposed to deal with it and land on our feet!"

I yell the last few words, then yank my hand away, wanting
to get up and walk off some of my frustration. But he won't
let me go.

Instead, he pulls back, and I tumble into him. His arms wrap
around me, rocking me a little. He smooths his hand down
the back of my head, calming me with his touch. "Scully,
just be here with me. Just in this moment. We'll worry about
all the other stuff later."

In a second, my partner has brought me from anger and frustration
to silence and serenity. I sigh. Just this moment, he said.
Okay. I can do that. But first, a promise has to be made.

"Mulder, no matter what happens tonight, or tomorrow, or a
hundred tomorrows from now, I want you to know that I don't --
I won't -- ever regret anything we do together."

His embrace tightens. "Scully?"

"What?"

"Shut up and let me love you."


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Having Scully in my arms is an incredible sensation. She
has an earthy smell, autumn leaves and spring rain and summer
heat. Her hair, a bit tangled at the day's end, shines
even in the night.

I brush my fingertips over her cheekbone, her skin
like porcelain to the touch but with steel beneath.
Again, the reality is blowing the daydreams seven ways from Sunday.

I move us so we are sitting cross-legged, facing each
other. Cupping her face in both hands, I lean in and
capture her mouth, putting years of longing into one kiss.
Her tongue darts out to tease my lower lip, and I shiver
involuntarily, moaning.

Her hands are still on either side of her, keeping her
balanced. I abruptly push them away, catching her as she
falls backward and gently laying her beneath me.

"Close your eyes, Scully." She does, and I realize it's
proof she does think this is me; I know she'd never let
herself be this vulnerable with anyone else. Hell, she's
almost never this vulnerable with me.

Leaning over her, I realize just how small my partner is.
So often, the force of her presence makes her seem larger,
and I think of her as my equal, if not my better half,
in every way.

Right now, I'm thinking of her as a very desirable woman.

I raise her to a sitting position, unbuttoning her jacket
and letting my fingertips caress her arms as I slide it off.
I run my hands up and down her arms, telling her with my
touch how much she means to me.

A shaky sigh escapes her lips as the heels of my hands brush
the insides of her breasts, and I am overtaken by the urge
to see her bared before me. Undoing clasps and zippers, I
remove her clothing, laying her back down when I'm done.
She glows in contrast to the dark plaid of the blanket, and
I can do nothing but stare in awe as I sit beside her.

I have seen her this way before, but she was pale and almost
lifeless. A healthy, robust Scully is incredible to behold.

My brain launches into Scully Appreciation 101. Her slender
neck gives way to sturdy shoulders. Lovely breasts. A parabola
of a waist, then trim thighs and well-muscled calves. A fiery
Aphrodite, ready-made for worship.

I move to kneel at her feet, taking the left one in my hands and
massaging it. As I move up her legs, she starts making
these little noises, not quite whimpers, not quite moans,
that make it increasingly hard for me to concentrate on
the task at hand.

"Mulder, that's really nice ..." Her voice trails off
into a breathy whisper that becomes a sigh as I begin
to kiss my way up her legs. I make broad, slow strokes up
her thighs with my tongue, enjoying the taste and feel of her.

Her breathing is becoming heavier, and it gets positively ragged
as my tongue gets closer and closer to the Scully-scented auburn
curls that beckon so invitingly.

I pause just shy of the goal, taking a moment to breathe her in,
then go for it with all I've got. Her reactions are hesitant at
first, but the sensations sweep over her, washing away layer
after layer of control until she is wide open before me and
writhing, straining for release.

Wanting nothing more for her than pleasure, I bring my fingers
in to join the party. Plunging two in, I curl them up just a
little at the end of each thrust, flicking her clit with my
tongue as I do so. I do this three, maybe four times --

And she goes up in flames. Her back arches completely off the
ground. Her hands grab fistfuls of blanket. A keening cry becomes
a groan becomes a moan. She wraps her legs around my head, grinding
it into her as she pumps her hips. I briefly worry about
suffocation, but then think, What a way to go, and hang on
for the ride.

When it's over, I withdraw my fingers slowly and gather her into
my arms on one side of the blanket, drawing it over her so she
doesn't get cold. She is slumberous, languid, and her voice
has a sleepyrough slur to it that speaks to the area just south
of my belt buckle.

"Mulder, isn't it your turn?" Her hands head for that area, gently
stroking. I don't want to say no, but I have to. And it's for
legitimate health reasons.

"I want to, Scully ... so much ... but, um, I don't want to give
you any unwanted presents ..."

Her brain whirs, comprehension clicking into place. "Mmm-hmm.
We know I'm clean, we know you're clean, but we sure as hell don't
know about Mr. MIB, do we? I see your point."

I've resigned myself to another night of me, myself and I,
but (as usual) Scully is way ahead of me. With just enough
devilishness to make me shiver, she says:

"You know, Mulder -- there are other ways."


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Before he can object, I've unbuckled Mulder's belt, unzipped
his pants and stripped him to his knees.

Despite the animosity I feel for the everyday inhabitant of
this body, I'm impressed. Fletcher's quite nicely equipped, actually ...

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." My eyes snap to his, and
behind the mocking amusement there is a tiny bit of insecurity.

As if. Hey, partner, I've seen you in those perfectly tailored
pants. You've got nothing to worry about.

But I'll tell him later. I've got other things on my mind at
the moment ...

I take his hand in both of mine, sucking on each finger and
swirling my tongue into the palm. I wrap his hand around his cock,
and in what I hope is the sexiest voice he's ever heard, lean over
next to his ear and whisper, "Show me. Show me how you make
yourself come."


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Jesus. I may not believe in him, but this is fast approaching
a religious experience.

My partner has just asked me to masturbate in front of her,
using a tone of voice I've only heard in my dreams. I dare
to look at her; her eyes exude pure lust, which just makes me
harder.

All I can do is take a deep breath, gulp audibly and follow
her request. As my slick hand begins to stroke up and down,
I realize this is gonna be a short session.


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Holy cow, I thought he was going to come with the first stroke.
I can't help but feel a little feminine pride. It might have
been a while, Dana, but you've still got that thang.

I quickly lick my own hands and help the man. While he works
the upper half, I gently caress his balls with one hand and
squeeze the lower half with the thumb and forefinger of the
other. I move up and down in time with him, coaxing and urging
with my eyes and voice.

He shudders, and a stream of hot, pearly come covers our fingers.
I continue to stroke him gently until he recovers, then slide
up alongside his body and kiss him. He opens his arms and pillows
my head on his shoulder, and we drift along, just holding each other.

But reality breaks in too soon and we get dressed, although
not without a few sweet kisses and touches. He holds my
jacket for me to put my arms in, then wraps his arms around
me from behind.

"I love you, Scully."

I smile, even though he can't see it. "I know."

The next day, I forgot I ever did.


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Two days later
Washington, D.C.
J. Edgar Hoover Building

Our little side trip to Nevada seems to have gone unnoticed
by Big Bad Kersh, but I can't help feeling there's something
I'm forgetting about the time we were there.

I called Mulder as I was tidying up my desk drawers, making
sure he got home okay. As I hung up, I found a penny and
nickel that had been fused together. Very weird.

Then Mulder called, telling me to get over to his apartment
posthaste. Wouldn't say why.

So here I am, on the way to Alexandria, thinking of things
that might be wrong and knowing, with my partner, I'm
probably not even close.

I knock on No. 42, and my partner's voice calls, "It's open."
Once inside, nothing seems out of place until I turn right
and stop dead in the doorway of ... the bedroom?

Now, I figured Mulder probably had a bedroom. But a bedroom
with a waterbed, mirrored canopy, lava lamp and leopard-print
spread? Uh-uh. No way. My Celebrity-Skin-subscriber partner
puts all his tackiness into his ties.

My face must reveal my bewilderment, because Mulder says,
"I know, Scully. Not at all me, is it? At the very least,
I would have gone with a tiger print." Looking perplexed,
he walks toward me, digging his hand into a bag in his pocket.
"In times like these, I find that seeds help me think. Want some?"

I extend my hand to take the proffered items, but before I
can say "Thank you" my mind is flooded with memories and
sensations of me, naked on a plaid picnic blanket with
Mulder's head between my legs. Then Mulder and myself with
our hands wrapped around his cock. At least I *think* it's Mulder ...

I stumble over to the bed, weak-kneed and reeling. When I
look at Mulder, he seems to be feeling a little brick-brained as well.

Our eyes meet, and in that instant we remember. Everything.

Mulder recovers first. "Scully, do you think I could kiss
you with my proper face on?"

I nod. "But only if you promise to show me your *other*
proper parts."

Which he proceeds to do. And he really had nothing to worry about.


-- 30 --
------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks for playing! Hope you enjoyed it.
Feedback to armstrong31@aol.com

This arose from a challenge on MSR-SMUT, something about how
our favorite agents could know each other even through the body
switch in "Dreamland." Since first seeing the ep, all I could
think about was that sunflower-seed moment, and how nothing
else could have said "Mulder" quite like that. The challenge
was simply the impetus to put my thoughts down on paper.

-----------------
Jodi Armstrong "Moose"
#48, fullback, Minnesota Vixens
Women's Professional Football League
"someday I'll be 18 going on 55" -- Bryan Adams