Improv2000 #1
Jukebox Heroes
by TrexPhile
September 2000

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

"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.  It 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 Wal-mart 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 were still in bed.  Watching to 
see if there were any new balloons, cheering when we saw 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 
glowing 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 hher 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 had 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 their 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's 
happeningwhat'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.

And now, for the author's notes.

The list of improv elements are:
1. Time flowing backward 
2. Macy's 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 

I didn't have this beta-ed.  My regular Trek/XF betareader is, 
unfortunately, out of town till Saturday so any mistakes you find are 
WHOLLY my own fault.  

There's a reference to one of my all-time favorite sitcoms.  Extra 
points if you catch it.

Oh, and I have no idea where all the Foreigner references came from.  
Strange, huh?  I don't even own any Foreigner albums either.  

Thanks for letting me do this!  I had a BLAST!

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