TITLE: Jukebox Heroes
AUTHOR: TrexPhile
EMAIL: trxphile@mindspring.com
PART: 1/2
ARCHIVE: Yes.
RATING: PG-13
CATEGORY: S,R,H
KEYWORDS: MSR
SPOILERS: None at all.  

DISCLAIMER:  Mulder and Scully etc etc don't belong to me.  Neither does 
Foreigner.  If they did, I'd be somewhere else driving a much nicer 
vehicle, living in a much nicer house and wearing much nicer clothes.

Author's notes at the end

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

JUKEBOX HEROES
by TrexPhile
September 2000

"Tuna on rye.  With pickles.  And onions."

Mulder shifted and cleared his throat.  "Pickles and onions, Scully?  Are 
you... sure?"  He cleared his throat again.

Scully didn't look up.  "Positive, Mulder."  She glanced up at him, then 
back down.  "You don't like pickles and onions with your tuna?"

Throat clearing.  "Actually, I'm more of a tuna purist.  Just tuna with 
plenty of Miracle Whip."

Scully looked at him again and held his uneasy gaze.  "Not Miracle Whip.  
Real mayonnaise.  And just enough to hold the tuna together.  Let it chill 
in the refrigerator for a couple of hours.  That way the flavors are melded 
together just right."  Her eyes smiled at him before she turned her 
attention back to her work.

"So--"  Mulder took a couple of steps toward her.  "Did Mr. Ronald Grayson 
have Miracle Whip or mayo?"

"I can't determine that, of course," she said, her voice tinged with light 
exasperation, as she continued to poke at Mr. Ronald Grayson's stomach 
contents.  "It's really not important."  She stepped back and tugged the 
mask down from her face.  "Mulder, you don't have to be here.  We both know 
that you don't exactly enjoy autopsies.  Why *are* you here anyway?  

Keeping his eyes averted from the carnage on the table, he replied, "We 
have an appointment.  Seven-thirty.  Aranda's Occult Curiosities."

The eyebrow appeared.  "Aranda's Occult Curiosities?  What is that?  Why 
are we--"

Mulder was already halfway out the morgue door.  "Curiosity's piqued, huh?  
I'm checking in with Skinner, then I'll meet you in the office at six-
thirty.  Don't be late."  

"Mulder--"  But it was too late.  The door swung silently, mocking her.

Scully sighed and looked down at Mr. Ronald Grayson.  Six-thirty.  That 
wouldn't leave any time for a quick supper -- specifically the tuna with 
onion and pickle that she'd begun craving.  

And it sounded really good too.

She picked up her instrument with another sigh and continued her work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kimberly was just leaving as Mulder entered the anteroom to Skinner's 
office.  She nodded and motioned to Skinner's door then scurried off.  
Mulder paused at the door, knocked, then entered.

Skinner was standing by his desk, impeccably dressed as usual in crisp 
white shirt and neatly pressed black trousers.  He whirled around to face 
Mulder, mouth open in surprise, hands at his own throat.

"Sir--"  Mulder stopped, taken aback by what he was seeing.

"What is it, Agent Mulder?"  he almost-shouted.  Mulder had a brief image 
of honey-coated gravel being flung at him.

"Are you all right, Sir?"

"Of course, I'm all right.  What do you want?"  His hands still clutched 
something that was draped around his neck.

Mulder took a few steps toward his boss.  "I was bringing you the Brewster 
file and... is that an ascot?"

Skinner closed his eyes for a moment and let his hands drop.  "Yes, Agent 
Mulder, it is."  He took the file folder from Mulder's hand.  "Is that 
all?"

Skinner's discomfort was making it difficult for Mulder to keep his deadpan 
expression in place.  "An ascot, Sir?  That's... a change."

Skinner turned away and yanked the material from around his neck, tossing 
it on the desk.  "Yes, well, it was a bad idea."

"Going somewhere special tonight?"

Skinner turned back around and Mulder noticed for the first time the little 
jambox in the corner.  It was playing an old rock song.  Foreigner's "Hot 
Blooded."

"Although it's none of your business, yes, Agent, I have a date tonight."

Mulder nodded.  That's all he could manage.

Skinner continued.  "An old friend is in town.  We're going to the Ice 
Capades."

*Ice Capades??*  Mulder felt the hilarity rising inside, coupled with a 
growing panic.  He would most definitely NOT reap brownie points if he 
suddenly collapsed in a manic fit of demented laughter right there on the 
Assistant Director's carpet.  However if he didn't leave within the next 
ten seconds, that very thing was going to happen.

With a self-control that would have shamed a soon-to-be-martyred saint, he 
said "Well, have a good time, Sir," turned and, without looking back, said 
"I'd stick with a regular tie, Sir," thrust himself quickly through the 
open doorway and even managed to close the door gently behind him, the 
strains of Foreigner fading away, drowned out by his rapidly increasing 
footsteps.

He was halfway down the first floor to basement stairs when he finally lost 
it. Bizarre visions zipped through his mind -- colorfully plumed skaters, 
whirling to "You're As Cold As Ice," while Skinner sang along and raised a 
Bic lighter, bedecked in ascot and top hat and tails, a young woman sitting 
by his side dressed like she'd just stepped out of a Merchant Ivory film.  

He finally calmed, wiping away the tears, thankful that the architects of 
the J. Edgar Hoover building had had the foresight to put handrails on the 
basement stairs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mulder."

"Mulder, it's me.  I'm not finished here.  It's going to be another hour at 
least.  Do we still have to do this occult thing?"

Mulder held the phone between his ear and shoulder as he leaned down to 
untie his shoe.  "Yeah, Scully, we do and I'd like you to come with me.  It 
shouldn't take very long."  He grunted a little as he pulled his shoe off 
and shook it, a pebble clattering to the floor.  Little bastard rock.

He rubbed the sore spot on his heel, slipped the shoe back on and bent 
forward again to retie the lace.  "I tell you what -- I have to get home 
and rescue my laundry before it's stolen from the laundry room again.  Why 
don't you drop by and we'll go from there."

He paused, shoelace in hand, phone snug against his shoulder, counting, and 
after three seconds heard "Sure" and the immediate click of the line 
disconnecting.  He grinned as he hung up.  She was only mildly perturbed by 
this occult thing.  Five seconds would have signified moderately perturbed.  
Seven would have meant extreme perturbation.  An immediate disconnection 
with no lag would have meant that he would NOT be seeing her at all, that 
he wouldn't even hear from her the entire weekend, and that he'd better 
make sure that he had fresh coffee and a big fat bagel (with real cream 
cheese) waiting for her on Monday morning.

Mild was good.  He could handle mild.

He pulled the shoelace tight and stood, grabbed his coat and keys and was 
out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully waited for fifteen seconds after her knock, then jangled through her 
keys till she located the one for Mulder's apartment.

The lights and television were on -- obviously he'd just stepped out, most 
likely to retrieve what clothes he still had left in the dryers downstairs.  
He was constantly buying boxers and socks, he'd said -- apparently those 
items were most coveted by the evil neighbor who kept pilfering his.  
Scully had reminded Mulder, of course, that if he'd stop leaving his 
laundry unattended (sometimes for days at a stretch), he wouldn't be 
keeping that unscrupulous person's underwear and sock drawers well-stocked.  
Mulder's response was just to shrug and to start buying these wardrobe 
necessities from Walmart in five-count packages instead.

Scully wandered over to the television, wondering just what she was seeing.  
It looked like... it *couldn't* be...

"Hey, Scully."

She turned to see Mulder kicking the door shut with one foot, burdened down 
with a full laundry basket.

"Mulder -- what is this?" she said, pointing at the television.

He dropped the basket by the couch, dislodging about a third of the pile 
onto the floor.

"That?  That's the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  From 1994, I think."  
He busied himself with stuffing socks and boxers and t-shirts back into the 
basket.  "All accounted for," he said with a grin while holding up a grayed 
sport sock.  "Maybe my detergent caused my neighbor to contract a rash and 
he's too busy scratching the skin off his feet and nether regions to make 
it down to the laundry room to continue his nefarious life of crime."  He 
grinned and toted the basket into the bedroom.

Scully paused, about to ask about the televised parade but suddenly 
distracted by Mulder's utterance of "nether regions."  She saw herself 
gliding into Mulder's bedroom, offering to help him put his laundry away, 
reverently folding his boxers, running the palm of her hand along the front 
of them, right along the fly, pausing long enough to savor the fact that 
soon he would be wearing this very pair, that he would hold the waistband 
firmly in those long fingers, that he would step through, first one foot, 
then the other, pulling them slowly up past those hard well-formed hairy 
calves, past the knees, up, slowly, caressing, hugging their way along the 
skin of those hard firm thighs, the hair more sparse now, the healthy glow 
of golden skin shining in the candlelight, up up, pull the waistband out in 
the back just enough to pass up and over that firm tight so very tight ass, 
rounded just right, perfectly formed, and then his fingers would slide 
around to the front of the waistband as he pulls up, slowly slowly, 
covering it all, but the silk clinging, outlining, she sees it all and she 
licks her lips and reaches--

He reappeared in his bedroom doorway.  "Scully?"

*I'm not breathing.  Must breathe*  Before she allowed her gaze to betray 
her and slip downward toward his "nether regions," she turned away from him 
and saw the television again.

Ah, sweet control regained.  "The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, Mulder?  
Last I checked, this was September, not November."

"Yeah, well, I recorded this one.  I try to record them every year."  He 
picked up the remote.

"You... record the parade?"

"Yeah."  His little grin didn't bear a trace of embarrassment.  "I watched 
the parade every year when I was a kid.  I record it just in case I'm not 
up in time on Thanksgiving day.  Brings back nice memories.  Me and Sam -- 
grabbing the Ritz crackers and Jif, plopping in front of the television 
while our parents are still in bed.  Watching to see if there are any new 
balloons, cheering when we see our old favorites."

She was touched by his memories.  She said nothing in response, however, 
just kept her eyes on the screen.  She'd watched the parade every year too, 
although the tradition was one that the entire family celebrated, not just 
the kids.  

They both paused to watch as a high school band formed up and began 
playing.

Scully winced.  "This *is* an old tape, Mulder.  The Macarena?"

"You don't like the Macarena, Scully?"  He grinned at her raised eyebrow 
and pointed the remote at the set as the camera panned through the crowd.

Scully, still watching, almost fell over the coffee table as she lunged for 
the remote in Mulder's hand.  "WAIT!  Don't stop it!"

Shocked by her sudden outburst, Mulder just stared at her.  

"Go back!  Rewind!"

"What is it, Scully?  You wanna dance?"

"Give me that!"  She yanked the remote from Mulder's hand, fumbled for a 
bit, then pressed <REW>.  After a few seconds, she pressed <PLAY> again.

"Mulder, look!"  He was staring at her.  "No, at the TELEVISION."

The band, decked out in uniforms of black and gold, stood at attention, 
instruments blaring out a brassy, syncopated school band version of "The 
Macarena," while smiling, glittering young girls (the dance team, most 
likely) performed the movements that had obsessed a nation five years ago.  
The shot changed to another camera angle, one that panned across the crowd 
-- hatted heads, mufflered necks, gloved hands, all putting hands to 
forehead and waist, swaying right along with the shiny girls.  And as the 
camera passed down the line, Scully hit <PAUSE> and there it was.  

A lined face.  Hooded eyes.  A head bare to the weather, the brown hair 
just beginning to gray.  Obscenely fleshy lips.  And between those lips, 
the white cylinder of a lit cigarette, the smoke creating a thin shroud 
across the side of the face.  His hands were on his hips, and he was 
stilled in mid-wiggle.  

It was the Cigarette-Smoking Man.  And he was dancing the Macarena.

Mulder and Scully stared at the screen for a long moment.  Then at each 
other.  Without a word, Mulder hit <STOP>, the screen went to blue and he 
clicked the power button.  He set the remote on the coffee table, 
delicately.

"Are you ready?" he said, mumbling a bit.

"Yeah."

They left.  Speechless still.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They drove in silence toward the older part of the city.  Scully waited for 
Mulder to say something, anything, about just why he'd dragged her out on a 
Friday night.  She was just about to demand that he give her some sort of 
explanation when he reached into the back seat and retrieved a file folder, 
which he dropped in her lap.

It didn't take long for her to skim through what the folder contained.  
"Mulder, what is this about?  This is an old file, not an X-File either.  
It says here that a David Monroe was convicted of murdering--"  She flipped 
through the pages.  "Of murdering one Rachel Smosky, his ex-girlfriend, in 
an alley behind her apartment building.  That he stabbed her four times, 
left her body in the alley, and immediately turned himself in to the 
authorities."  She read a little more.  "He pled guilty and was sentenced 
to life."  She looked across at Mulder who was expressionless.  "I don't 
get it.  This isn't an X-File."

"Not officially, no, Scully.  Read Monroe's confession."

She sighed and flipped to the right page.  "Monroe was staking out Ms 
Smosky's home, waiting for an opportunity to get her alone so that he could 
'talk to her' about their breakup.  He managed to see her leave her 
apartment building but hesitated, losing the chance to confront her.  He 
then... rubbed a 'magic oil' on his temples, causing time to--"  She 
stopped and looked over at her partner.  "Mulder, he caused time to 'flow 
backward'?"  Mulder didn't answer, just glanced at her.  She sighed and 
continued.

"Monroe then said that after rubbing the oil on his temples, 'everything 
got all blurry and shaky and freaky and then everything rushed past me like 
a tornado for a few seconds and then I knew.  I just *knew* that it was now 
thirty minutes earlier than it had been.'  He then waited for Ms Smosky to 
leave -- again -- and this time, managed to confront her.  He said that 
they began to argue, she hit him, he went 'berserk' and stabbed her four 
times.  He was immediately 'overcome with remorse' and turned himself in 
after calling 911 on a pay phone."

She looked up at Mulder again.  "And what, pray tell, does any of this have 
to do with us, Mulder?"

"Read on," he answered.  "There's a note scribbled in at the bottom."

Scully read.  "'Magic oil purchased from Aranda's Occult Curiosities.'"  
Oh, Mulder..."  She snapped the folder shut and leaned her head against the 
window.  "Please don't tell me that you believe this story.  This David 
Monroe is obviously a seriously delusional young man.  Over here in his 
psychiatric profile, the doctor states that Monroe exhibits signs of 
schizophrenia, that--"

"I know that, Scully, but Monroe was adamant about his claims.  He refused 
to back down from his story about the oil."

Scully just stared at him, stonefaced.

"Aren't you just a little curious, Scully?  Curious about some occult 
'curiosities'?"

"No, Mulder, I'm not.  Not in the least.  It's Friday night and I need to 
be at home.  I've got cleaning to do, and laundry, and I need to call my 
mother before she goes to bed and--"

"Come on, Scully.  Indulge me?  You've still got plenty of time to do all 
that.  I need your professional opinion."

"I've got one already -- Monroe is crazy, and anyone who believes his 
claims is also--"

"Please, Scully?"  He stopped for a red light and looked over at her, his 
eyes mournful.

*There he goes again* she told herself, already knowing that she would give 
in, as usual, and already kicking herself for doing so.

"Fine, Mulder.  Whatever."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Mulder stopped the car in front of a small shabby storefront in a part of 
the city that Scully had never visited -- for good reason, she decided.  
This was not a neighborhood you'd want to be caught in after dark, yet here 
they were, she and Mulder, preparing to leave the relative safety of their 
vehicle into a street where the streetlamps glowed impotently, illuminating 
none of the shadows that lurked, waiting like crouched hungry beasts.

She'd been in worse places, of course.  And she was armed.  She opened her 
car door.

"Well, that's a coincidence," Mulder was saying, the engine still purring.

"What?"  Scully stuck her head back in.

He pointed to the radio.  She listened.  "Foreigner.  So?"

Mulder sang along.  "I'm just a dirty white boy... dirty white boy..."

Scully didn't reply, just stepped back and shut the door.  "Yes, you are," 
she whispered to herself, then shivered.  It wasn't really cold -- it was 
the darkness, creeping into her bones.  

Mulder cut the engine and stepped out, engaging the locks.  Joining him on 
the driver's side, Scully looked up at him.  "What's a coincidence?"

He opened his mouth to speak then stopped.  "Um, never mind, Scully.  You 
don't wanna know."

He opened the door of Aranda's Occult Curiosities and guided her through 
before him.  

Apparently Aranda didn't believe in the use of modern inventions like the 
electric light.  The interior of the shop flickered with bouncing shadows, 
lit only by the occasional candle.  Scully immediately set her professional 
training in gear, noting exits, doorways and possible hiding places from 
whence any lurking psychopaths could suddenly spring.  She was unnerved 
somewhat to realize that there were a great number of such places in the 
small shop.  

Mulder strode fearlessly to the counter at the back wall and, after looking 
around, rang the counter bell.

From a doorway behind the counter, a voice was heard, muffled by the thick 
red tapestry that covered the entrance.  "I'll be there in just a moment."

Scully continued to study her surroundings.  Every surface in the place was 
covered with objects -- crystal balls, statuary depicting mythical 
creatures and people, decks of cards, pendants, all sizes and colors of 
crystals.  A bookshelf covered one wall from floor to ceiling and held all 
types of books -- paperback and hardback both, most appearing to be very 
old and covered in dust.

Scully wrinkled her nose.  The shop smelled unpleasant -- a mixture of dust 
and mold and a cloying incense.  She stared for a moment at an old sign 
propped beside the front entrance, the paint peeling, the letters barely 
legible.  "Live Bait."  She wondered what live bait had to do with occult 
practices. 

"Good evening.  May I help you?"  She looked up and saw a woman hold back 
the tapestry and step through the doorway.  As Scully approached the 
counter to stand beside Mulder, she studied the woman.  There was nothing 
unusual or "occultish" about the woman's appearance.  Her face and hair 
were plain, nondescript.  She wore a plain black sweatshirt and jeans.

Mulder opened his badge and made introduction.  

The woman stiffened immediately.  "FBI?  Is something wrong?"

Mulder assured her that everything was fine, that he and his partner were 
simply tying up some loose ends on a case.

Scully was bored already.  Feeling foolish about her presence in the shop, 
she let Mulder do his thing, barely listening as he asked the woman -- 
whose name was not, after all, Aranda, but Kelly -- about the "magic oil."  
She scanned a darkened corner of the shop behind the far end of the 
counter, trying to make out the identity of the shape that seemed to be 
hanging in the shadows.  She crept closer and was startled by a loud squawk 
above her head.

Mulder and Kelly turned at the sound.  "I'm sorry," Kelly said, walking 
over.  "Did Cherry frighten you?"  She flicked a switch somewhere and a 
light -- an actual electric light -- lit up the corner where Scully could 
now see a bird was perched.  It was a white cockatoo sitting on a perch 
which hung from the ceiling.  It was not caged.  The bird bobbed its head 
and preened for a moment, the golden plume of feathers dancing in the 
light.  

"Cherry's my baby," Kelly said, holding out her hand for the bird to step 
on.  "I've had him for three years now."  She held her hand out to Scully.  
"Would you like to meet him?"

Scully stepped back.  "No, that's fine."

"He's very tame.  He won't bite."

Scully glanced over at an amused Mulder.

"I'm sure he's very sweet.  I just--"

"Here."  Kelly turned and got a small bowl that sat at the end of the 
counter.  "Cherry wants to show you a trick."  She placed the cockatoo and 
the bowl in front of Scully.  The bowl was full of fresh cherries, 
beautifully ripe and red, stems still attached.  "Cherry would like you to 
have some cherries.  Here -- take him."

"No, I don't think--" Scully began but Kelly had taken her arm and was 
pulling her hand toward the bird.  She almost jerked her hand back when the 
bird stepped calmly onto it -- somehow she managed to keep from bolting.  
She looked over at Mulder again who was now grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"I'll hold the bowl," Kelly was saying.  "All you need to do is hold your 
hand next to the bowl and when Cherry gets a cherry, move your hand toward 
your face and open your mouth and stick out your tongue."

"This isn't necessary, Miss... Kelly, is it?  I just--"

But the woman wasn't listening.  She'd already offered the bowl to the bird 
who had, with delicate precision, plucked a cherry by its stem and stood 
patiently looking at Scully, the cherry dangling from its beak.

"Come on, Scully," she heard at her ear.  "Be a sport.  Take the cherry."

"Muld--"  She stopped mid-word.  The bird had begun climbing along her arm 
toward her shoulder, intent on performing his task.  Panic rising, Scully 
did the only thing she could do -- she turned her head toward the bird, 
opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue.  She also closed her eyes, 
suddenly overwhelmed by the soft white feathered breast that was way too 
close to her face, memories of Alfred Hitchcock and Tippi Hedren paralyzing 
her with anxiety.  She stuck her tongue out as far as it could go, uncaring 
about how ridiculous she knew she looked.  She had to keep the bird as far 
from her eyes as possible...

And then something landed on her outstretched tongue.  Instinctively, she 
rolled her tongue to keep the cherry in place and positioned it between her 
front teeth.  She opened her eyes as she felt the bird scurrying back down 
her arm.  Two faces were smiling at her.

"Wasn't that the neatest thing?" Kelly said, grinning like a proud mama.  
"He's the only cockatoo I've ever seen who'll do that."

"That was great, Scully," Mulder said, and she could see that he was on the 
verge of breaking down in hysterical laughter.  She started to speak but 
the cherry was still in her mouth.  Bird still perched on her right hand, 
she retrieved the cherry with her left and spoke.  "Thank you, Mulder.  I 
think."

Kelly set the bowl down, smiled and beckoned at it, then returned to her 
conversation with Mulder.  "Now, Agent Mulder, could you explain to me 
exactly what you're looking for?"

Scully looked at Cherry.  Cherry looked at Scully.  The bird was still 
perched on her hand, and she didn't know whether she should just set the 
bird down on the counter or call Kelly back over to take it.  She really 
wanted Mulder to finish up his "investigation" so they could leave and if 
she interrupted, it would be just that much longer... 

Scully looked at the cherry.  Might as well not let it go to waste, she 
thought, and ate it, chewing carefully around the pit.  As she swallowed, 
her stomach seemed to leap up and grab the fruit, replying with a delighted 
grumble.  She was immediately ravenous.  She eyed the bird again.

She picked up the bowl and held it under the bird's beak.  Cherry 
immediately dove in and came up with a dangling cherry.  Scully brought her 
hand to her face, opened her mouth, stuck out her tongue and was rewarded 
with another luscious treat.  This time she kept her eyes open and, while 
she chewed, studied the cockatoo.  He really was a beautiful bird, very 
healthy, his feathers glistening and well-groomed.  He tilted his head as 
he stared back at her, and she almost giggled.  

"What a good boy you are," she murmured, barely audible, and brought the 
bowl up again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were in the car again, driving back to Mulder's apartment.  Scully sat 
back in the passenger seat, relaxed and contentedly full.  While Mulder and 
Kelly  had searched the shop's stocks for the mysterious "magic oil," 
Scully had stayed in front and bonded with Cherry, allowing the bird to 
feed her the entire bowl.  Afterward she'd petted him and cooed to him, 
sorry to leave him behind when Mulder finally emerged from behind the 
tapestry.  Kelly had taken Cherry and waved goodbye as they'd exited.  

She settled into her seat as they took off.  "Did you find what you were 
looking for?"

"Nah, I don't think so.  Monroe was just what you said.  Kelly didn't know 
what I was talking about -- she inherited the shop from her grandmother, 
THE Aranda, but she never did learn much about just what it is she's 
selling in there.  She just considers all the occult stuff a novelty.  She 
has no idea what 'magic oil' is, said she didn't remember selling it to 
Monroe, doesn't even remember seeing him in the shop."

"I'm sorry, Mulder.  I guess you're disappointed that you didn't find the 
'magic oil.'"  Scully was surprised at herself -- she actually *was* sorry 
for Mulder.

"It's okay.  Although, that would be pretty neat, huh?  Being able to turn 
time back thirty minutes.  Better than in 'Galaxy Quest' -- Tim Allen was 
only able to go back thirteen seconds with that Omega device.  But that's 
all he needed -- thirteen seconds, right?"

"Didn't see it," Scully replied, starting to drift.

"Oh.  You should see it.  Great flick."

Silence.

"I did get something, though."  He fished in his breast pocket.  "This."  
He handed it over to Scully.

"What is it?"  She flicked on the reading lamp and studied the tiny 
stoppered flask.  "It looks like a perfume sample."

"It's a scented oil.  Kelly didn't know what it was."

Scully squinted at it in the light.  "Doesn't look like there's anything in 
here.  I think you got ripped off, Mulder."

"I didn't pay for it -- Kelly just gave it to me.  And there is something 
in there.  Just a drop.  Smell it."

Scully carefully removed the plastic stopper and sniffed.  "Hmmm.  It's 
okay.  Kinda spicy."  She recapped the flask and handed it back to Mulder, 
then settled back into her seat.

Silence.

"You and Cherry sure did hit it off."

She stirred and smiled.  "He's sweet.  I'm thinking about getting a 
cockatoo now.  Of course, I'd have to have someone take care of him while 
I'm on a case."

"You can train him to feed you cherries too," Mulder grinned.

"Maybe... or maybe I can train him to make me a tuna on rye with onions and 
pickles."

"Ugh, Scully.  You've just ruined my appetite."

She chuckled, lazy and comfortable and strangely euphoric.  At this moment 
in time, she was right where she wanted to be.

Mulder flicked on the radio.  

"I've been waiting for a girl like you..."

He sat back in a posture of openmouthed amazement as he slowed for a stop 
sign.  "Scully, can you believe this?"

"Believe what?"

"The song.  It's Foreigner again!  I haven't heard this many Foreigner 
songs in one day since I was in high school."

Scully shrugged.  "Maybe they're planning a comeback and the radio stations 
are pushing their music."

"I don't think so..." he answered, accelerating through the intersection.  
"I think it's a sign, an omen."

"I think you're making more out of this than necessary," she yawned.  "Two 
songs does not an omen make."  She thought fleetingly, lazily, that she was 
starting to sound like Yoda.

"No, it's three songs.  I heard another Foreigner song in Skinner's office 
earlier."  

That woke her up a little.  "Skinner listens to Foreigner?  I'd pegged him 
as more of a jazz/blues type."  She sat up more.  "And when did he start 
listening to music in his office?"

"Trust me, Scully -- you don't wanna know."

"Mulder--"

"We're here."  He braked to a stop half a block from his apartment 
building.  "Get your shoes on, we're going to see Grandma."

"Ha ha."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I can fix you a sandwich or something."

"Tuna?"

Mulder grinned.  "Well, no... but I have some bacon.  And some tomatoes.  
No lettuce, though."

Scully sat up quickly.  "Really?  I love bacon and tomato!  It's my 
favorite!"

Mulder stood in the kitchen doorway, arms braced against the facings.  "I 
thought tuna--"

"I like tuna fine but bacon is my favorite sandwich."  She rose and 
skootched under Mulder's arm, surprising him.  "Are they *real* tomatoes?"  
She opened the refrigerator and started opening bins.

He approached warily.  "Real.  Well, yeah, I guess.  A neighbor got them 
from a friend who grows them."  He stepped up behind her, entranced by the 
view of her shapely behind stretching out the dark skirt as she reached 
into the fridge.  It would be so easy just to reach out and take her by 
those firm hips, smooth his hands down and around and back, to cup that 
luscious roundness in his hands, to move up even closer and press himself 
against her warmth, her warmth becoming heat, molding to him, pushing 
toward him, welcoming him...

She turned around suddenly and he practically leapt backward.  She held a 
large tomato in each hand.  Her smile was dazzling.

"Yum," was all she said, and he answered under his breath, "Yum."

The appearance of the unopened package of bacon elicited another ecstatic 
Scully response -- apparently thick-sliced peppered bacon was another of 
her favorites.  He filed all this information away as they sliced and fried 
and toasted, hoping beyond hope that some day soon he would be needing this 
information again. Perhaps on a lazy Sunday morning they would do just what 
they're doing now, only this time they would risk the skin of their bellies 
and do it all while nude.  Or maybe Scully could wear one of those aprons 
that covered her whole front, only just barely so that when she turned 
sideways he would see the side of her breast peeking out, bouncing just 
enough when she moved, and when she turned around, he could see the whole 
of her pretty white ass, the apron's sash tied daintily above it, and she 
wouldn't object at all if he placed his hands on her hips and moved against 
her and they'd probably end up burning the bacon because they'd managed to 
get distracted once again but they wouldn't care, no, they wouldn't care at 
all...

Soon they were seated on the couch, plates balanced on their laps, two 
thick sandwiches apiece.  Mulder removed the Macy's tape from the VCR and 
they sat back, feet on the table and ate their sandwiches while the last 
half of "As Good As It Gets" played on TBS for the umpteenth time.  

A little while later, Mulder heard Scully moan.  

"God, I am so full... that was wonderful, Mulder."

He looked over at her, drinking in the sight, nodding.  "I didn't know you 
could eat like that, Scully."  He used the remote to flick over to VH1 and 
lowered the volume.

She laid her hands on her tummy.  "I rarely *rarely* do.  And I better not 
do that again for another six months."

"It won't hurt you every once in a while."

"You're right, but can you imagine how I'd look if I ate like that all the 
time?"  She puffed her cheeks out and looked so adorable that he felt 
faint.

"I wouldn't care, Scully.  I'd still love you."

Silence.

She wasn't looking at him.  She seemed engrossed in the condition of her 
pantyhose-covered toes.

"Scully?"

"Yes?"  Spoken very softly.

He should say it:  Please ignore what I just said, Scully.  I didn't mean 
it *that* way -- you know what I meant:  that I would still "love you" 
meaning that outward appearance doesn't matter, that it's what's inside 
that counts, that I respect your intelligence and training and insight and 
ability.  Because if I tell you that when I said what I just said, I meant 
exactly that -- that I love you passionately... intellectually, 
spiritually, physically, with every damn molecule of my body and mind, that 
I would give anything just to know that you feel the same, you'll get up 
and say it's time to leave and it will be our last chance to finally be 
normal, to finally make sense, to finally be perfect.

"Scully?"

"What?"  This time louder, her face turned toward his, that little crease 
beginning to form in her forehead.

"I..."

Godhelpme.

"I meant just what I said.  Really."

She was still silent but her mouth was slightly open, her eyes were focused 
somewhere past his right ear, the crease was deepening.  She was about to 
say It, make The Speech.  The one that would break his heart for good. 

She took a breath, preparing to speak.

Here it comes...

He tensed, preparing for the blow.

She turned away suddenly, sitting upright, a finger raising to point at the 
television, looking back at him, saying his name.

He focused on the screen, not realizing what he was seeing and turned up 
the volume with the remote that he still held in his hand.

He dropped the remote.

VH1 was showing old concert footage.  It was Foreigner.

They were singing "I Want to Know What Love Is."

Scully was staring at him, biting her lower lip, her eyes sparkling, and he 
realized that she was holding back laughter.  And then he was laughing and 
so was she and they both fell back against the couch, clutching their 
bellies and moaning and laughing some more.  

And when they were finally done, Mulder told her about Skinner and the 
ascot and the Ice Capades and "Hot Blooded" and they were laughing again, 
weak with the exertion, the strength draining from their bodies and they 
had to clutch each other just to stay upright.  And they sat back and 
Scully snuggled against him under his arm and it was just right, it was 
natural and made sense.  And when she turned her face up to his and 
whispered "I love you too" it too was natural and made sense.  And then she 
pulled his head down and kissed him.  Natural.  Made sense.  Was perfect.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A long time later, Scully stretched, pressing the palms of her hands 
against the headboard, toes reaching for the crumpled sheets at the foot of 
the bed.

"Oh God, woman.  Do that again."

She giggled and turned on her side and ran her fingers across his chest.  
"You liked that?"

"Mmmm," he groaned.  "There's nothing more sexy than a naked woman 
stretching like a cat in your bed after you've just made the best love of 
your life."

She ducked her head, flattered and happy and a little overwhelmed by the 
emotions that were rising up inside her.  "Thank you, Mulder."

"For what?"

She shifted, laying her head down so that she could breathe in the heated 
scent of his chest.   

"For all of it."

"I'm not the one you should thank, Scully."  His voice rumbled against her 
forehead.  She wanted to touch his voice, caress it with her hands.

"Oh, really?"  His chest hair tickled against her lips as she spoke.

"Really.  You should be thanking Foreigner."

She laughed at that, couldn't help herself.  It wasn't even funny but she 
was just so full of joy, languid with it, floating in it, buoyant, 
sustained by the joy that this man gave her.

"I was right -- it *was* an omen."

"Mmmm hmmm."

She started to drift off, and was only vaguely aware of Mulder getting up 
and leaving and coming back and lying back down.

"Scully, I want to try something."

Her eyes shot open.  "Already, Mulder?  Don't you need time to recuperate?"

He moved down so that they were face-to-face.  "If this works, I won't need 
time.  Sit up a bit."

She did so and he touched his fingers to her right temple, then to her 
left, and she smelled spice.  She watched as he touched his own temples 
then he pulled her into his embrace and they lay back.

"Mulder, what are you doing?"

"Sshhh.."

And then the room began to shift and she felt a rushing, a movement but 
that wasn't possible because she was lying still on a bed yet she was 
moving, she *was*, but no, it wasn't her it was everything around her that 
was moving and ohmygod what's happening is it a tornado is it a hurricane 
is it the end of the world 
what'shappeningwhat'shappeningwhathaveyoudoneMulder?

And then all was still and she knew, just knew without a doubt that time 
had reversed itself, she could feel it and knew that it was an hour ago.  
And she knew that David Monroe had been right.

What would she and Mulder do?

She wasn't frightened and that surprised her.  Perhaps her fright hadn't 
taken the journey with her.  It had been left behind and she would catch up 
with it again, but right now she was grateful for its absence.  

"Mulder?"

"Scully?"

"It's an hour earlier than it was."

"Yes, I know."

"Why an hour?  Monroe said thirty minutes."

"Yes, but Monroe was only one person.  I think that accounts for the 
difference."

"What do we do now, Mulder."

She could feel his smile.

He turned so that he was over her and kissing her and touching her again.  
She sighed with the pleasure and when his mouth came near her ear, she 
heard him sing softly.

"Feels like the first time..."

And she laughed.

<end>

And now, for the author's notes.

This was written in answer to an improv fic challenge issued by the O3P 
list.

The list of improv elements are:
1. Time flowing backward 
2. Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade 
3. Tuna on rye with pickles and onions 
4. Skinner on a date 
5. Sign that says "Live Bait" 
6. Someone feeding Scully cherries 
7. CSM dancing the Macarena