Title: Touchy-Feely Fortune   
   Author: Gina Rain (ginarain@aol.com)   
   Category: S, UST   
   Spoilers: Mid-season 7. Nothing beyond.   
   Rating: Don't know if we're doing them this week or not   
   but I'm not shooing anyone away with a broom, no matter   
   how young they are.   
   Disclaimer: They aren't my creations, but I love them and   
   thank CC and Company for dreaming them up and letting me   
   play with them.   
   Summary:  Mulder returns to the land of the living.   
      
      
   It was the fortune cookie's fault.   
      
   Well, maybe not. Maybe it was Scully's. In all the years   
   I've known her, she's never had a hunger attack the way   
   she did that night. We had about fifteen minutes left on   
   an extremely boring stakeout when she decided she could   
   no longer do without food. The psychologist in me might   
   have questioned whether it was true hunger or a feeling   
   brought on by lack of mental stimuli, but the self-   
   preservationist in me told her I could go for some Hunan   
   beef. She called in our order and we were off to the   
   restaurant as soon as the next shift arrived to relieve   
   us.   
      
   Yes, Scully was probably more culpable than the mass-   
   produced, crap-flavored inanimate object I originally   
   blamed. Or maybe it was really the fault of Walter S.   
   Skinner, esteemed boss and sometimes sort-of friend, who   
   gave us this assignment. I know he did it with the best   
   of intentions, of course. I think hearing about my whole "my   
   sister is in starlight, I'm free" speech scared the shit   
   out of him. He probably thought I was finally going   
   over the razor sharp edge of reality   
   I normally surfed upon. After I had withdrawn my request for   
   time off, Skinner had countered with this assignment:   
   babysitting a suspected drug smuggler. The only problem   
   was the suspect owned a brain and knew how to use it. He   
   spotted the first tail in moments and laid low in his   
   apartment ever since. That left us looking through high-powered   
   binoculars at a whole lot of nothing.   
      
   The thing is, I didn't much care. The less time I had to   
   think about my losses and the disaster my life had   
   become, the better. And the quest that had been the   
   driving force of my life seemed rather pointless. I was   
   actually relieved that our talents were being put to more   
   mediocre use.   
      
   Yes, it was probably, ultimately, Skinner's fault.   
      
   Anyway, Scully was hungry and she ran into the King Kung   
   Dynasty Take-Out-Is-Our-Life Restaurant almost before I   
   had a chance to fully stop the car. She picked up our   
   order and started handing out the white cardboard cartons   
   as soon as tush met rich Corinthian pleather.   
      
   "You weren't kidding about being hungry, were you?"   
      
   "I never joke about low blood sugar," she said and   
   started chowing down. I ate the spicy beef and took in   
   our surroundings. There was nothing quite like fine dining   
   in the front seat of a dark car, on a dark parking lot,   
   with only two street lights casting eerie shadows on the   
   bare trees and asphalt that surrounded us.   
      
   After we ate, I rolled down the window a little to dispel   
   the once charming, but now annoying, combined scents of   
   my food and the sweet and sour chicken Scully had   
   ordered.  Instead of searching for something more   
   interesting to talk about than the quality of said food   
   or the possibility of following our meal with a Baskin-   
   Robbins run for dessert, I picked up my fortune cookie   
   and opened it.   
      
   I must have smirked as I read my fortune because Scully   
   was suddenly interested.   
      
   "What does it say?"   
      
   "The usual crap."   
      
   "That's not an answer to my question, is it?"   
      
   I looked at her. She was playing with the cellophane   
   wrapper of her own fortune cookie. There wasn't any   
   noticeable change of expression on her face but there was   
   something in her eyes. A spark of annoyance, perhaps? It   
   wouldn't pay to antagonize the only person who really   
   liked me. Most of the time. In spite of myself.   
      
   "It says, 'you will do something nice for yourself.'"   
      
   "And why is that crap?" she asked.   
      
   "Because I do nice things for myself all the time."   
      
   She leaned back against the car seat, holding the cookie   
   between the thumb and forefinger of both hands while   
   playing a kind of tug of war with the wrapper that gave   
   off a steady crackling noise. "Like what, for example?"   
      
   "I watch the Knicks."   
      
   "Big deal."   
      
   "It is a big deal. I like the Knicks."   
      
   "I like Jeopardy. I don't send up balloons in celebration   
   every time I get a chance to watch."   
      
   "That's different. Men have a very serious—almost   
   spiritual—connection to the teams they love."   
      
   "I'm not casting aspersions on the team, Mulder. I'm just   
   saying a man watching a sporting event is not a huge   
   indulgence. Maybe if you flew out to New York, on a   
   Wednesday, checked into the Plaza and bought yourself   
   courtside seats, I'd give you credit for that one. But   
   just watching a game on tv? No. What else do you do for   
   yourself?"   
      
   For a woman who didn't lay claim to loving sports, she   
   sure knew how to play hardball.   
      
   "Okay. I once went to Graceland. As a pilgrimage to   
   Elvis."   
      
   "I know about that trip," she said, with an almost   
   undetectable (except to me) wince, "That was years ago   
   and, therefore, doesn't count. What have you done for   
   yourself lately?"   
      
   "Shouldn't that question be accompanied by a little   
   dance?" Visions of Scully doing Janet Jackson moves were   
   quickly dispelled by her frown. She was serious and since   
   she just referenced another time when I didn't take her   
   quite as seriously as I should have, and the results were   
   . . . oy . . . I straightened up and decided to fly   
   right. "Okay. Since you imposed a random time   
   restriction on this little game, all right. Give me a   
   minute." I closed my eyes and leaned my own head back   
   against the car seat. What nice thing have I done for   
   myself? Lately? I got it.   
      
   "My job. Some say my whole career has been nothing but a   
   self-indulgence."   
      
   "You and I both know it's not. Next."   
      
   Crap. I closed my eyes again. Oh, this was easy. Scully   
   wanted to play hardball. I could play hardball. "I know.   
   My collection of . . .  literature and visual entertainment."   
      
   "Your porn?" Scully took her cookie in one hand and made   
   a dismissive gesture with it. "That's stress relief   
   through moderate titillation."   
      
   I frowned. "You make it sound so . . . clinical. Clean,   
   almost." I faked (or maybe didn't) a shudder. That   
   brought a smile to her face.   
      
   "You can't think of anything, can you?" She asked.   
      
   "This is a stupid conversation, Scully. I'm not a baby. I   
   don't need to constantly amuse myself."   
      
   "You should, Mulder. You really should," she said with a   
   soft, plaintive tone in her voice. And there it was: the   
   accompanying look. There was pity in those baby blues of   
   hers.   
      
   "It's better when someone does something nice for you," I   
   said, mainly because I couldn't think of anything else   
   to get me out of this ridiculous conversation.   
      
   "That's nice, too, but there is nothing wrong with a   
   little self-love."   
      
   "Yes, I know, you already told me that--Oh, Graduate of   
   the St. Theresa's School for the Terminally Titillated.   
   Are you going to open that thing or just drive me crazy   
   by playing with it all night? Maybe your cookie holds some   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)