TITLE: The Taste Test (1/1) AUTHOR: mountainphile RATING: PG EMAIL: mountainphile@hotmail.com URL: http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile CATEGORY: MSR, Vignette SPOILERS: Sein Und Zeit DISCLAIMER: I know, I know...CC and 1013 own Mulder, Scully, and the X-Files. No infringement... SUMMARY: What should Mulder do...when a special message is capable of helping - and hurting – the one he loves...? NOTES: Heartfelt thanks and gratitude to my enduring betas: Blackwood, Nadine, xedout, and Paige Caldwell. ARCHIVE: I would be honored! Just tell me where and keep my name and email attached. Do NOT archive this story from Ephemeral, please! ******************** The Taste Test by mountainphile I'm an observer, a profiler. I notice things, take mental pictures of them, and then tuck them away into my brain. Sometimes they have immediate significance for me or for one of my casefiles, but other times... well, I wonder why I can't shake the picture, the impression, or the words. This happened recently at my mother's funeral. The service took place in a small chapel, attended by a few somber visitors; some of Mom's older friends, a few Bureau people, Scully... and me, the surviving son. I remember, during an idle moment, scanning the pages of a Bible someone had thrown open on the pew next to me and noticing a few random verses. They mean nothing to me, of course, and my mind normally slides over such information and is on to the next thing, but not this time. No, those words stay branded into my brain and for the life of me I can't rid myself of them, or understand their significance. And I don't, not until the moment many weeks later, when I give Scully one of my sunflower seeds and she spits the damn thing out right in front of me. Did I say spit? She gags on it and then hacks it out onto the sidewalk. If I wasn't so struck by that missing piece of the puzzle abruptly slipping into place, I might have complimented her on her admirable and noisy performance. Getting into the car, she gives me a glance from the corner of her eye and shakes her head at me in irritation. "That was a rotten trick, Mulder." I'm speechless as my brain does double duty, processing new information and also watching Scully's luscious mouth working overtime in an effort to dilute the unwelcome taste. "You could have warned me," she snaps, cheeks slightly reddened. "Since when do you eat 'salted' sunflower seeds?" Her tongue glides over her shapely pink lips, working hard to cleanse away the offending flavor, and the sight is so captivating it's all I can do to keep the car in its own lane, much less defend my innocence. At the same time, I'm sobered by what has been unexpectedly revealed to me and the impact it will have on Scully. I watch her with more discerning eyes, and it becomes evident to me, like focusing a microscope, like putting on new eyeglasses and going from cloudiness to clarity, that my partner is different. I'm probably the only one who would notice it, but then I've been with Scully for a long time and know her patterns and rhythms. I doubt her psychologist detects anything amiss. Subdued, lackluster, resistant to change. How could those words describe Scully? But with a twinge of alarm, I see that it's true, and I haven't been aware of the evolution until just now. Until it has taken place, quite literally, right under my nose. So many sinister and traumatic events are sandwiched into the years of our partnership. We've taken on conspiracies, risked certain death, endured the loss of loved ones, survived repeated abductions, and sparred with bureaucracy. Through it all, Scully has been my counterpoint and strength, my touchstone and sounding board. I know that the events surrounding my mother's death have difficult ramifications for my partner, but she seems to have emerged whole from the experience. It has always been her choice and desire to accompany me, to shoulder the X-Files as my equal and match my steps. On reflection, I realize her vitality has been on the ebb for about a year. Her spark burns low these days, even flickers, though she hides it well. Her smile is a fleeting visitation, her humor has hardened, and even her physical appearance has begun to concern me. Don't get me wrong, Scully's a beautiful woman -- my God, I can hardly take my eyes off of her and let's not even discuss where I'd like to put my hands. She's a sharp dresser, has a gorgeous little shape, and combine that with her red hair and blue eyes, it's not surprising that she turns heads wherever we go. Even so, I have to admit I have observed subtle differences in her looks and behavior that only a practiced eye can see. She projects an apathy, a definite sadness. And yes, it's galling to me that all this slipped by me, when I take pride in being an astute observer. And Scully's a trooper. Then there's that undercurrent of sexual attraction that sparks between us. I've lost track of all the times I've been tempted to start a real fire there... and wonder whether it's been a mistake after all, to hold back from such a possibility. I have every confidence that Scully would reciprocate... if the circumstances were right. There's so much history, like a magnet between us, pulling us together. When we park in front of her apartment, I know it's game time. Whether she wants to hear this or not, I owe it to her as her partner and close friend to explain to her what I observe and what has been revealed to me. If I'm selfish to want Scully back to her old self again, then so be it. I'm a man with a burden, itching to take the risk and throw down. I ask her if I can come inside and talk. Scully's apartment. It feels just as much like home to me as my own place. She unlocks the door for us and sets down her briefcase, murmuring, "I'll be right back... " as she disappears into her bedroom. I'm supposed to think she's brushing her hair or freshening up. Whether she knows it or not, I'm perfectly aware that she's gone in there to open every door, to check each closet, to look under the bed, before deciding she can finally relax and let down her guard. Pfaster's damned legacy. When she returns, I can see she's discarded the high heels, now padding across the kitchen in her stocking feet, little pink toenails flashing at me. I lean against the refrigerator and take this opportunity to indulge myself in my favorite pastime of watching her. I doubt she's aware of just how much and how often I look her over. I was hoping she might change into something more comfortable than the suit she wore to work today, the black, single-breasted one. Still, it looks sexy as hell on Scully, incredibly feminine on her trim figure as she moves with poise through her kitchen. Her clothing seems representative of how she holds and projects herself. Smart, self-assured, successful... however, tonight I'm again reminded of the uneasy transformation I've observed; her suit has the look of a uniform, a protective armor she is less than eager to remove. Her hair is the same, untouched and untouchable. A smooth copper shell, shorter than I've ever seen it. So different from the way it used to bounce and swish with the graceful motions of her head, fluffing out a bit, asking to be stroked... "Would you like something to drink?" She is busy at the sink, her back to me, her hands moving deftly over the familiar surfaces. Without her shoes on, she looks smaller, more vulnerable. Which makes it all the more difficult to carry out what I know I must. I decline, but suggest engagingly, "How about going out for something? A little departure, maybe, from the usual routine of eating alone, or carrying-out... or doing without." She throws a curious, almost suspicious look over her shoulder and I get a glint of blue eyes. "Not for me, thanks. I'm really not that hungry." I try again. "Not much on the agenda for tomorrow. We could rent a movie. Your choice." But the gentle shake of her head dismisses that idea, as she runs the faucet, and each suggestion I offer is discarded, sent swirling quickly down the drain with the tap water. "Help me out here, Scully," I say with quiet urgency. "What do *you* want to do?" I wait and the pause lengthens. "Is there anything you feel passionate about right now?" Walking across the kitchen to snare a mug, she seems thoughtful, but her face has settled into its usual polite mask. "Interesting word choice," she comments. "I'll be truthful with you, Mulder. After a long day of meetings, supervising lab research, checking cross-matches, tidying up in the office, finishing *our* report, and then enduring heavy traffic to get back home, there's not much passion left over to play with... " "It hasn't always been that way," I offer, realizing how much like an old married couple we sound. Scully notices it, too, because she lifts her chin to me, in brief defiance, before continuing with her kitchen duties. "I suppose you're going somewhere with this, Mulder...?" She can be a smart-ass sometimes, trying to deflect me. It keeps me on my toes. But right now, unfortunately, the time has come to step on her tender pink ones. My mind's eye sees those verses from the funeral chapel with crystal clarity, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were meant for this time and purpose. They were meant for Scully to hear, that she might somehow be restored. Don't ask me how I know this, but I do. I can only trust that her religious upbringing will serve to pave a smooth enough path, so she might receive this message with grace. "'Salt is good'," I quote slowly, "'But if the salt loses its flavor, how will you season it?' Mark, chapter 9, verse 50, I believe... " Scully halts her tea making and shoots me a mildly incredulous look. "Bible verses, Mulder? I'm impressed. Since when have you had any interest, or knowledge, in that area?" I give a non-committal shrug. "I'm not a complete pagan, you know." That wins me a little smirk as she turns back to the sink and fills the teakettle. "I suppose you can quote chapter and verse by heart because you once read -- " She stops in mid-sentence and her shoulders suddenly droop, both hands hitting the counter on either side of her with little thuds. "I don't believe this... " Turning to me, she asks in exasperation, "Is this because I spat out one of your goddamn sunflower seeds? The nasty, salted ones? Is *that* what this is about, Mulder?" No, Scully, it's not just about that, but it's the first crack in the hull. The time has come to pry open this tough little nut, painfully, and piece by piece. She sees the look in my eyes and knows now that I'm on a mission and she is my objective. Welcome home, partner, I don't want to bruise you, I really don't. I hold her gaze as long as I'm able, hoping she will see the love there first, before I begin walking the narrow line between helping her and hurting her. "Did you hear what I just said?" I say quietly. "For whatever reason, I was given those words at the funeral. Don't ask me why or how. They haven't left my brain yet, Scully, but I'm thinking, I'm believing, that they will when I tell them all to you." She is very still, looking up at me with a hint of fear darkening her eyes, pinching her lovely mouth. I know she's confused and not buying my story. How do I explain the struggle going on in my heart? She's my partner, my friend, and, like it or not, she's the closest thing I have to family now. I groan inwardly, because I can't do a quick fix with a few witty words, or even a hug. Well, I'd be willing to try the hug... "That's a rather cryptic assumption, Mulder. And what makes you so sure I even *want* these words... or need them?" A brave rejoinder, but I see her withdrawing to think and reason it out in her own mind first. I realize that this whole prospect frightens her. When I open my mouth again, her hand flies up in dismissal, to halt my words and warn me off. "That's enough! I'm taking a rain check, Mulder. I really, *really* don't feel like dealing with this -- " "Scully... " "I've made my obligatory visit to Karen's office this week, thank you." Her hand is smooth, adamant as I reach out and take it in mine. I give her satiny palm a light and slow massage with my thumb and she visibly relaxes under these ministrations. Taking her other hand, I give it the same gentle treatment, and she swallows. Too much of this, stroking her soft flesh, and I'll want to touch more than just her hands. "You need to take some time out and enjoy yourself more. All work and no play makes Dana a dull girl," I quip with a ragged grin, trying to elicit a smile from her. "There's nothing wrong with having a little fun every once in awhile." "And this coming from the man who's admitted more than once he has no life... " she retorts quietly. I can see the purse in her lips and the sullen line of her jaw. It's obvious that she is irked and not comfortable with my explanation. Her eyes have been avoiding me assiduously, and when I take her chin into my hand and attempt to direct her gaze up to mine, something within her rebels. "Mulder!" She jerks her face away and scalds me with her eyes, blazing blue. "Please don't treat me like a child or patronize me. I've had all I care to take of your games." To emphasize her point she backs away from me and crosses her arms, reinforcing the barrier between us. The little furrow in her brow remains. There are so many questions I want answered. They may seem trivial, but I find them significant. Like why she's changed her lipstick color... I can't remember when the dark rosy, glossy look was replaced by a paler shade, but I miss it. Her mouth used to resemble a piece of ripe fruit, waiting to be bitten and sucked. I would have volunteered in an instant to do the honors. And her makeup has changed, her eyes are less defined, understated... and sometimes far too wistful. "You've cut your hair again," I observe in quiet appraisal, as she angles her head in that questioning way she has. "I suppose that's become a problem too?" Her voice is even and controlled, wondering where I'm taking all this. It's not like me to pick at her without cause, and her skin is thin right now, thinner than it's ever been to criticism. Her eyes, as I speak, take on a watery sparkle and I see a flush near her nose. Her lips are tight at the corners, her breathing audibly heavier. God help me, but it's time to reach in and pull off another piece of the tough shell... "I've got to level with you, Scully... I've been aware of a -- a depression, an apathy, about you. In the office especially... you seem withdrawn. I'm not trying to be critical, I'm just concerned." I pause a moment before adding solemnly, "And I think *your* salt may have lost its flavor..." "Damn you, Mulder," she spits out suddenly, with as much vehemence as she did the sunflower seed. I see that her eyes are swimming, the tears teetering on the edge of her lashes, ready to fall. "I'm doing the best I can under the circumstances, and your snappy verses and misdirected concern can go straight to hell." And my heart, in spite of my best intentions, breaks just a little when her tears drop hotly and in earnest over her cheeks. She's brave, making almost no noise, and stands with arms tightly crossed. It's too soon to embrace her the way I'd like to. An island of misery, she holds her ground as I reach out my hand and gently wipe the tears from her cheeks. She watches as I bring my fingers to my mouth and lick them. "Salty," I whisper. "Like they should be." My fingers cup her cheek, calling for her attention. "That's the most flavor, the most honest response, I've seen come from you in a long time, do you know that, Scully?" She struggles valiantly to hold back the tears. "I know the LaPierre case was hard on you, more than you've wanted to admit. You stood with me, Scully, and held me up when I couldn't do it myself. I'm grateful to you." She hears my words unwillingly, it seems, because of her deep and unresolved hurt. I can actually see the pain shifting in her eyes as she listens. "God, Scully," I whisper. "The autopsy of my mother. My grief. The missing children... how did you hold up under all that?" She closes her eyes, her brow wincing in pain at the memory. And we both acknowledge that she hasn't really been able to rise above these last hits, that the blows of the last year have taken too great a toll with their deep connection to so many previous losses. Her sister, my safety, her stolen ova, and even for a short time, her little girl... I take her face in my hands so she is looking up at mine, and I feel the softness of her skin, smell her fragrance so close to me. "There's more to that verse," I tell her gently. "'Have salt in yourselves, and have peace with one another'. I know you have the first thing, but I hope that we can share the second." "Peace?" She gives a little scoff, a half-laugh and tries to shake her head from side to side. "Surely not in our line of work. After all we've been through?" Her voice takes on a cynical edge. "Did you know that blood is salty too, Mulder? I think you and I have given more than our share over the years... our heart's blood, the sacrifices we've made on the altar of... oh... shit -- " She hovers on the crest of a sob, wills it under control as I calmly move in to kiss her forehead and pull her tightly against me, all gentle curves and softness. With my hands I knead her shoulders, her upper back, her neck as she softens and yields under my fingers, as her arms reach around me for support. "Scully, listen to me." I close my eyes and see the imprint in my mind of the words yet remaining to be said. "The verse right before that says, 'For everyone will be seasoned with fire, and every sacrifice will be seasoned with salt.'... " As it leaves my lips, I realize that the message in my head has passed on, inexplicably, to its intended recipient. To Scully, to do a work of healing in her. I've seen it through to completion, as unexplainable as it is. And it has left me. "But what about you?" she asks me fiercely. "Do you believe that, Mulder? Look at your own heartache, look at what's been taken from you... how you've been robbed and wounded, and deceived -- " Her words touch my heart and make me smile. "Whether I believe it for myself or not, I still have you. And I also have the strength of 'your' beliefs." My lips move lightly along her brow, circling near the curve of her cheek. "We need to take care of each other. Do you see that, Scully? No one else can do it for us. No one has experienced what we have together." And kissing her soft skin, I taste, once again, the salt of her tears. "Maybe the words were meant for both of us." Her bright hair is mesmerizing. As I listen to her breathing, it comforts me, excites me, and my hand moves underneath its softness. I stroke her head to calm her, combing her hair so the strands separate and lick through my fingers like copper flames. I have every reason to believe that once again, Scully's fire and confidence will rekindle, as we struggle with the questions between us and embrace one another with the answers. It comes as no surprise when she lifts her head towards mine and touches her moist lips to my mouth, the first since that tentative kiss on New Year's Eve. I lean forward and feel the kiss deepen, her fervency hot, fueling my own response. In a surge of desire, my tongue boldly plunders her mouth and I feel hers, like warm silk, stroking against mine in a way that makes my body ache, before I gently, slowly, pull away from her. "Now, tell me that wasn't fun," I whisper, cherishing the lovely smile Scully gives to me, reminiscent of earlier days, happier times. "You know, Mulder," I feel her murmur against my lips, "Underneath all that sunflower seed salt, you do taste very, very sweet." As my partner kisses me again, I am confident in our ability to overcome and be renewed. It's who we are and what we do. And coming this far together, through flames and sacrifice, purified by the salt of our tears, I think we are deserving of it. Besides, I've only just begun to taste her... ********** The End 02/11/2000 Scripture reference: Mark 9:49-50 "For everyone will be seasoned with fire, and every sacrifice will be seasoned with salt. "Salt is good, but if the salt loses its flavor, how will you season it? Have salt in yourselves, and have peace with one another."