From: theidiosyncraticstanwyck@yahoo.com   
      
   Title: Spectrum   
   Author: the idiosyncratic stanwyck   
   Email: theidiosyncraticstanwyck@yahoo.com   
   Category/Keywords: AU, MSR, A (not too much)   
   Rating: PG-13; R or NC-17 sections will be marked   
   Summary: A woman meets a man who opens her eyes to a vast,   
   unexpected spectrum of beautiful, terrifying possibilities.   
   Please note: My Mulder is *not* color-blind. This is very   
   important; otherwise the story doesn't make sense. Beta thanks   
   to the unflinching Tali and Jen. This is not a WIP; I will post   
   two sections per week for the next five weeks. More notes will   
   follow at the end of the whole damn thing.   
      
   SPECTRUM   
   Chapter One: Beige   
      
   "The color of the universe is not an intriguing pale   
   turquoise, as astronomers recently announced. It's actually   
   beige - and a rather ordinary beige at that." - a report   
   from Johns Hopkins University, March 2002   
      
   **   
      
   The District of Columbia had fallen victim to a coquettish   
   late-October heat wave that had lasted almost a week, and   
   had awoken this morning to the renewed chill of waning   
   autumn with a certain half-jaded, impotent fury. An   
   unwillingness to leave home and hearth and fuzzy slippers   
   filled the air, and ribbons of traffic unfurled sluggishly   
   from Arlington and Alexandria and Silver Spring.   
      
   He was going to be late.   
      
   John looked down at the almost-imperceptibly ticking hands   
   on his knock-off Rolex, and fumbled slightly as he fitted   
   the unwieldy brass key into the lock. A telephone stopped   
   ringing as the heavy wooden door swung inward with a put-   
   upon groan. He had reached for the light switch, fine-   
   boned, well-manicured hands pulling away from immaculately   
   pressed cuffs, when his cell phone rang.   
      
   "You're late." The teasing voice of his caller brushed   
   aside the opportunity for greetings. "It's 8:18. Where are   
   you?"   
      
   "I just walked in the door. And I might point out that   
   you're not here either."   
      
   "You might, but you're too much of a gentleman." From her   
   end of the conversation he heard squealing tires and   
   honking horns, and she hurled a string of softly-spoken   
   expletives. "I'm taking Lola to the vet. That ridiculous,   
   murderous Siamese the Mastersons call a pet attacked her   
   this morning, and this sweet, dumb baby just took it -   
   Didn't you, mutt?" she cooed. "Mom will kill me if I don't   
   treat this dog like a queen. So I'm going to be a little   
   late."   
      
   "Sure, no problem. It's a light morning. We've got that   
   writer friend of Melvin's at nine, but I can handle him."   
   More squealing tires. John cringed. "Be careful," he   
   admonished.   
      
   She sighed, drawing him a picture of her grim, cool facial   
   expression. "I'm always careful. Bye, Johnny."   
      
   Now sitting still in hopelessly snarled rush-hour traffic,   
   Dana Scully ended the conversation and tucked her small   
   black phone into the console. Her compact was trapped   
   between a semi and a minivan. Tip-Top Vegetables, the   
   Capitol's Freshest! bright yellow paint enthused. She   
   couldn't see a damn thing. Lola, her mother's shih tzu,   
   whined pitifully from the back seat.   
      
   "It's okay, girl," Dana soothed automatically, sipping her   
   coffee from a silver travel mug. She thought with a mixture   
   of fondness and exasperation of her business partner - he   
   ended every conversation by telling her to be careful, to   
   take care, while she was certainly one of the most cautious   
   people ever to walk upright. Somehow she'd earned a place   
   in John's book as a mixed breed: half sophisticated career   
   woman, half little girl who couldn't take care of herself.   
   The irony didn't escape her.   
      
   Traffic pushed forward again, and she followed gratefully.   
   Her mind wandered, picturing her apartment - tastefully   
   decorated, spartanly neat, everything in its place and a   
   place for everything, in a trendy feng shui-esque way.   
   Magazines stacked neatly on the coffee table in   
   chronological order. Her wardrobe color-coded and itemized,   
   leaning heavily toward black and beige-the new black, she   
   thought sarcastically. She folded her underwear, for   
   Christ's sake. She sighed, feeling vaguely annoyed and a   
   little sad, without knowing why.   
      
   Traffic. Must be the traffic. It was barely 8 a.m. and she   
   was already in desperate need of a cigarette. She glanced   
   into the backseat and imagined that Lola was eying her   
   reproachfully.   
      
   "I know," Dana sighed. "I'm quitting. But just one, huh?"   
   She fumbled in the console, extracting a lighter and one   
   slim Marlboro Light from the package she'd tucked beneath a   
   stack of tissues. She flicked the lighter and inhaled   
   deeply as the end of the cigarette glowed to life, then   
   slumped into her seat with relief. "Dog-sitting, hell. The   
   next time Mom goes out of town, she can board you."   
      
   She jerked to attention just in time to slam on the anti-   
   lock brakes. The lid of the travel mug came loose and   
   coffee sloshed down the front of her beige jacket. Lola   
   barked furiously, and Dana swore.   
      
   **   
      
   She reached the two-story Arlington brownstone that housed   
   Over the Moon Image Consulting and Public Relations a   
   little over an hour later. Lola's paw was bandaged and she   
   was safely ensconced in the vet's kennel, and Dana, feeling   
   considerably more cheerful, had stopped to pick up a fresh   
   batch of artery-clogging pastries and lattes from the   
   corner coffee shop.   
      
   "Good morning." Her quiet greeting carried throughout the   
   studio. John looked up from his desk and smiled. Langly,   
   their resident computer whiz kid, was immersed in something   
   - probably another round of Doom - and didn't spare her a   
   glance. "I brought food," she added, which really got their   
   attention.   
      
   "Coffee, Mistress?" Langly asked hopefully.   
      
   "Of course, Ringo." He slithered over to claim his cup,   
   looking like a rejected surfer boy in his Green Day t-shirt   
   and straggly blond hair, rather than an Ivy League grad.   
      
   "Don't call me Ringo," he said, digging for a jelly   
   doughnut.   
      
   "Don't call me Mistress," she returned calmly. "Here's   
   yours, John."   
      
   "Flavored?" he asked distastefully, holding the cup with   
   two fingers as if it might contaminate him.   
      
   She nodded firmly. "Hazelnut."   
      
   "I don't like flavored," he pointed out in his patient,   
   long-suffering, "I've-said-this-a-hundred-times" voice.   
      
   "You'll have to learn. All gay men like flavored coffee,"   
   she reasoned simply, only the tiny quirk of her lips   
   belying her serious expression. "Besides, they messed up my   
   order. It's all hazelnut." She set her briefcase down on   
   her own desk and shrugged out of her overcoat and stained   
   blazer. "How did the meeting with the writer go?"   
   "He had to reschedule, actually. He's coming in at 11:30.   
   I've got that lunch with Jack Porter, but I told Luder   
   you'd be here. He shouldn't be any trouble - sounded like a   
   nice guy."   
      
   "Nice, or nice?" She suggestively arched one copper   
   eyebrow.   
      
   "Nice, Dana. Personable. Simpatico. Oh, you've spilled on   
   your jacket, and I'm all out of Shout wipes. It will   
   stain."   
      
   She waved his mothering away, looking emotionlessly at the   
   forlornly crumpled blazer. "It's all right," she said. "I   
   never liked the color anyway."   
      
   Langly never left the office for lunch. He put on a pair of   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)