Category: V, M/S friendship

Timeline: Sixth season, no spoilers.

Disclaimer: Nothing original here, folks, it all belongs to CC and
1013.  Even the computer this was typed on was scrounged from a
variety of former employers.

Feedback: Are you kidding?  I haven't written fiction since I was
forced to in high school (15+ years ago, for those who are
counting).  Please send any and all constructive criticism my way:
haphmeth@hotmail.com.  Anything you liked is due to the marvelous
suggestions and careful beta reading of Amy Seymour and Barbara D.,
whom I believe have despaired of me ever getting my tenses under
control; everything else I can confidently claim as my own. <g>
 
 

***************
Reading Between the Lines
***************
American Airlines flight 1532
Chicago, IL to Washington, D.C.
11:45 PM

Mulder is reading to me.  Another late night, confined to
lumpy seats, surrounded by dozing flyers in the dim light.  I glance
out the window on my right but all I can see is our reflection.
Mulder is slouched into the seat next to me, his leg stretched into
the dark aisle.  He holds the book in one hand, propped open with
his thumb.  I pull the plastic shade down halfway and contemplate
the phone in the seat in front of me.

It's folktales this time. But I'm not listening to the words so much
as the sounds of the words.  His soft warm monotone, the sound of my
breathing, the muted hum of the plane.  Mulder leans close enough to
read without annoying everyone around us, close enough to hypnotize
me with tales of giants, fairies and ghosts.  Resting my head against
the back of the seat, I close my eyes and listen.
 
 

FBI offices, Chicago, IL
5:30 PM

Kersh is jerking us around more than usual lately.  Two days ago
we're ordered to drop everything, fly out here and assist in
interviewing people about events they barely remember.  That was bad
enough but we haven't even finished.  Now we're supposed to get back
to D.C. immediately, just to resume our usual mindnumbing assignment?
What is the point of yanking us around like this?  Just to prove he
can?  Mulder stalks over to the desk, spins the chair around, and
throws himself into it.  Glaring at the screen, he bangs out a few
sentences on the keyboard.  If he had a tail, it would be snapping
side to side.  He grabs the mouse and shuts down the program.

I walk over and touch his elbow.  "Mulder, don't.  Let it go."  We
look at each other.  He looks frustrated.  Yeah, me too.

His eyes flick toward the door when someone walks by and he stands,
pulling the car keys from his pocket. "I'll drive."

One of the friendlier local agents on the taskforce had mentioned an
interesting university bookstore on the way to the airport, worth a
visit if we had the time.  Hell, we have nothing but time these
days, and it's better than nursing a drink under the fluorescent
lights of an airport bar.  Not that we ever do that.  In fact, we
almost always end up waiting for flights in bookstores.  Maybe I
should add this to my list of things to reevaluate, courtesy of
Kersh.

We never would have found this bookstore without stopping to ask.
We park across the street and as I step out of the car, I recall
immediately why I hate snow in the city.  There is nothing quite
like stepping out of a warm car into an icy slushy mess that slops
over the sides of my shoe.  It's a good thing my mother can't hear
me.  I curse again when my foot sinks into a snowdrift thrown up by
a plow. In my next life, I'm going to have longer legs.  Mulder, of
course, waits on the sidewalk already, looking across at the Gothic
university architecture, his back to an old church.

The bookstore is in the basement of the church.  I suppose it was
just a convenient location for a bookstore but it makes sense, in
some strange way.  Faith, grounded by reason.  We pause inside the
door, shaking snow from our shoulders and our shoes.  Dim winter
light smudges our shadows across the flagstone floor.  It's a little
medieval in here for my taste, too gray and remote.  Relief beckons
from a narrow doorway to our left, a warm embrace of light that
illuminates stairs down to the basement.

The bookstore has made good use of the oddly shaped rooms under the
church.  The cashiers are tucked into a grotto at the foot of the
stairs and every conceivable space is covered in books.  No trashy
romances or self-help books here.  I eye four entire shelves near
the cashiers dedicated to different translations of the Iliad.
Strategically placed for those last minute impulse purchases, or so
highly coveted that they worry about shoplifters?

The overheated air smells like damp wool.  Cozy.  Maybe my feet will
warm up a little.  I trail my fingers over the books displayed on a
long wooden table in the center of the room.  They settle on a
sepia-toned painting of bearded explorers in coonskin caps.  The
Lewis and Clark expedition.  I think I read a positive review of
this one not too long ago in the Post.  Out of the corner of
my eye I see Mulder disappear into one of the rooms off to the left.
Psychology or biographies, if I had to guess, though he'll read
anything if he's desperate enough.  I'll bet he has the message from
the American Dental Association on his toothpaste tube memorized.
Judging by the light in his eyes, Mulder is in heaven here.

I open the book to a random page and read until I come to a map of
their journey.  I never realized how long it was.  A dark line
traces their route across the country, cataloguing swamps,
mountains, and Indian tribes along the way.  I have always loved
those old maps you see from the Age of Exploration, dragons and
hydras lurking on the edge of the known universe: there be monsters.
I could map New Jersey the same way, a nice pen and ink drawing of
flukemen and beast women on parchment.  Lovely.

I wonder if Mulder would like this book.  Better yet, I wonder if I
could talk Mulder into reading it to me.  A picture of last week's
late-night stakeout replaces the map in my hands, a mental snapshot
of the two of us in Mulder's car.

I blink and shake my head.  Snap out of it.  I am not picking out
books with my partner in mind.  The image lingers, though.

As usual, we were assigned to the periphery of the case, so it
didn't matter if we took turns watching the warehouse.  I was
reading a funny book about hiking the Appalachian Trail.  I guess I
snickered enough to make Mulder ask what I was reading.  It would
have taken longer to explain than just to read it out loud.  He
laughed, too, and asked me to keep going, a soft request that I
think surprised him as much as me.  So I did, hoping to hear him
laugh again.  When it was my turn to watch, he read.  It was fun.
Relaxing, even.

It takes longer to read aloud than to read silently, to speak every
word in every sentence.  And listening means surrendering to the
unhurried rhythm of the reader, allowing the warm sound to insinuate
its way into the brain and along the spine.  There is something
undeniably sensuous about being read to, drifting in the velvety low
rumble of a quietly amused voice in a dark car.  It's not necessarily
sexual, though it could be.  I did briefly contemplate what Mulder
would do if I had brought the book of erotica Melissa gave me for my
birthday one year as a joke.  Thank God it was dark in the car.

"What did you find?"

Mulder materializes over my shoulder, close enough that I can feel
his breath on the side of my face.  I flip the front cover over to
show him without turning around.

"Oh, I remember reading everything I could find about them when I
was a kid.  So did my friends.  We spent a whole summer pretending
we were fearless explorers."  He pauses, lost in a memory.  "I
haven't thought about that in years.  Hey, if you think about it,
Lewis and Clark didn't have such a bad life.  How would you like to
have had a blank check from the President to explore new worlds?"  I
can hear the smile in his voice.

"Actually, Mulder, I was thinking about the scientific purpose of
their trip.  Did you know they documented 178 previously unknown
plants and almost as many animals?"

"Only unknown to the West."  He moves off toward another of the
small side rooms.  I look back down at the map.  Perhaps that is
what Mulder and I are doing these days, mapping our territories.
Revisiting boundaries marked by the hills and valleys of natural
temperament, and by the strong fences that are less organic but no
less fundamental features of the landscape.

He would probably like this book.  But what am I going to do, buy it
and ask him to read it to me?  I can't even imagine how I would ask.
"Mulder, it's a long flight and we don't have the new case file to
read yet and ..."  No, I don't think so.

We have read aloud to each other before, but only autopsy results or
peculiar astronomical phenomena.  Imparting factual information.
This was ... different.  This was sharing a story for no other
reason than to entertain each other.

We just don't do these normal friends things.  We don't even spend
time together outside of work.  It's one of those boundaries we set
early on, like calling each other by our last names.  We are both
independent people, used to being alone.

I need the time and the space to reclaim my internal rhythm.  Not
that I find Mulder oppressive, but his consuming intensity can't
help but draw me in, his demanding need summoning my persistent
skepticism to ground him.  Alone, I can hear myself think, dance
with abandon, do whatever, unrestrained by how others see me and how
I think I should behave when I am with them.  Daughter, sister,
agent, partner, friend.  I love these bonds, these people, but I
also need the peace that only solitude brings.

These days, though, without the pressure of the X-files, I do feel
less adamant about guarding my privacy.  That still doesn't
explain two hours of reading aloud, of performing and being
performed for.  Then again, technically, we were still at work.

Lord.  As rationalizations go, that was pathetic.

I look at the book in my hand.  Would he pick out a book with me in
mind?  No.  He probably hasn't thought twice about any of this.

This is ridiculous and I have lost my mind, along with the X-files.
I am reading too much into this.  What is with me today?  Not too
long ago, I thought I wanted a job that didn't eat up 100 percent of
my energy.  Now I wonder if boredom isn't just making me demented.

We were bored at work and read to fill up the time.  End of story.
We haven't mapped territories and we haven't crossed any boundaries.
Melodrama doesn't suit me.

I wander past bookcases packed with books whose titles I don't
recognize.  It would be too easy to get to know Mulder on a casual
basis.  But I have to believe that someday we'll get the X-files
back, and I will need the few hours I'll have to myself.  My
insomniac partner has more hours in the day to find the solitude he
craves.  I need more sleep than he does, and it isn't hard to see
where this would lead.  My inevitable withdrawal would be awkward
and, as stupid and contradictory as it sounds, my feelings would be
hurt when he returned to obsessing about work.

I walk back to the table and put the book down, straightening the
stack of books underneath.  I'm starving.  Maybe Mulder will be
ready to find dinner.  I'd rather not eat in the airport.

I find him reading in the next room, kneeling on the floor, sitting
back on his heels beside a small stack of books.  I move close
enough to throw a shadow on his book, to catch his attention without
startling him.  "Ready to grab some dinner?"

"Almost." He looks up, his eyes soft and far away.  I'm not the only
one daydreaming the afternoon away.  I wonder if this place reminds
him of Oxford.  "Just give me another couple of minutes."

"Okay.  Meet you by the cash register in twenty minutes?"

He nods and turns back to his book.

It's too bad this place doesn't have easy chairs scattered around
like some bookstores.  Probably not the most hygienic idea, but that
hasn't stopped me yet from flopping into one.  I'd be asleep in a
second, considering how warm it is in here.  Then we would
definitely miss our plane.

I head for one of the rooms I haven't been in yet.  Religion,
mythology and folktales.  Someone with a very secular sensibility
must have decided how to group topics by room.  I'm too tired for
anything serious, which rules out religion.  Japanese folktales,
Persian, Tibetan.  Are they really all that different?  I thumb
through a thick book with stories from around the world.

"Scully?"

"In here, Mulder."

His head pops around the corner before the rest of him.  How long
have I been in here?

"Hey.  Ready to go.  Did you find anything?"

"I think so.  How about you?"  We move toward the cash register.

"Yeah, I found a couple of books on abnormal psychology that look
interesting and, um, Reading the Forested Landscape."

"Never heard of it.  What's it about?"

"It is about how to read clues in a forest to understand its past.
For instance, if you see a lot of old, tall trees and a lot of small
saplings in a glen but nothing in between, you can work out that
something happened -- like a fire or blight -- around the time the
missing middle-sized trees would have been young and vulnerable.
You never know, maybe it will come in handy the next time we're lost
in the forest."

God forbid.

The thought crosses my mind that the book sounds like something I
would pick out but it passes quickly enough.  I am tired and it's
warm in here and I am letting my mind drift too much.  This is
Mulder, after all.
 
 

American Airlines flight 1532
Chicago, IL to Washington, D.C.
11:40 PM

The plane is dark and quiet now that the flight attendant has
finished collecting everyone's empty soda cans and pretzel bags.
The small circle of light from overhead barely covers both pages of
my book.  Maybe it's a sign I'm getting old, but I think these
lights are getting dimmer every year.

I hear Mulder's bones crackle as he arches his back and stretches
his arms over his head.  He peers at the book on my lap.

"What are you reading?"

"Folktales."

"Any good?"  He settles back in his seat.

"They're not bad.  The writing itself is a little tedious - the
stories are part of an oral tradition, after all, so the language is
kept pretty simple.  What is interesting is how different cultures
developed similar stories, as if the lessons they are intended to
impart are universal.  Perhaps there are certain themes to which we
as humans and not as members of a particular culture return
to over and over.  Then again, they might just have been spread
through trade routes or other contact."

Mulder gives me a look.  What was that for?

I read for awhile longer but I'm getting tired.  My eyes feel
gritty.  I lean my head back and shut them.

"Want me to wake you when we get there?"

"What?"  I open my eyes. "No, no.  I don't want to fall asleep until
I get home.  I'm just resting my eyes for a bit."

"Okay.  Can I take a look at your book?"

"Sure."  I hand him the book, open to the page I was reading.  It
wasn't a hint, I swear.

Again I get the odd look, cut short when he glances down at the book
and back up at me.  He holds my gaze for a moment, strokes it gently
and hands it back.  Takes a deep breath and starts to read.  Aloud.

I think I'll drop by the bookstore tomorrow and get that Lewis and
Clark book.