Kinesthesia

by Amy

Part Six

SUNDAY, AUGUST 31, 1998 9:14 AM

Shivering on the front steps of the office trailer, Scully took a scalding sip of bad coffee and told herself she really needed a break from her stupid job. At this point, however, she wasn't sure which job she meant - things were getting a little confusing.

When she'd awakened in the bunk-house, some twenty minutes before, she'd taken one look at the chilly steel walls and envisioned herself kidnapped, drugged, and stuffed into a freezer. After a moment of panic, though, her brain had produced a string of blurry images from the previous evening and she'd remembered where she was and why her mouth tasted so horrible.

In comparison, cold storage had seemed very appealing.

Her last clear memory was of Mandy's red-thonged ass. Then things got fuzzy. Tim had come on to her, and -

Wait.

*Everyone* had come on to her.

And then -

And then things got fuzzier.

It was scary on a number of levels. So scary she could barely stand to think about it.

Scully gave herself a shake, sipped her coffee, tried to turn her attention to the day's agenda. Tonight the show was making a 'circus jump', and she'd been told to be on hand to help as the receipts came in. She had no idea how long she'd be stuck in the office today.

She reached for the handle on the storm door, then -

Shit.

Had she been going around topless, last night? She remembered someone-

Oh, April, she thought, with relief. They were taking her clothes off and she was wriggling around like...

She opened the storm door.

Wait. Not April, someone else. A girl. And Mulder...

Mulder?

Shit.

The door swung open. "Morning, Brenda!"

She started, stepped back. "Rob. Hi."

"Come in from the cold, sister." Grinning, Peake swung the door wide. "You're just in time."

"For what?"

He closed the door, locked it. "How you feeling this morning? Better?"

There was something taunting in his voice, and when she turned to look at him his smile was unmistakably smug. So, a slow death from embarrassment was also on the agenda today. Cold storage was looking better and better.

Scully went into the office, set her cup on a desk. "Mike, no." Pushing the dog's nose away from her crotch, she shrugged out of her jacket.

"Mike!" Peake snapped his fingers. Whining, Mike flattened his ears for a moment, then turned and lumbered away.

Usually, each day began with a peal of canned laughter and a blast of cigarette smoke, but this morning nothing assailed Scully's senses but the hum of computers and a slight whiff of something that smelled like cinnamon. Potpourri, maybe. Or some exotic perfume. "What's going on?" she asked, sniffing and looking around. "Where's - "

"Shhhh." Ear to the wall by her desk, Mandy put a talon-like finger to her lips. "Shelby's giving April hell."

Scully listened. The old man's voice was a muffled boom in the back office of the trailer.

"Shit, is she eighty-sixed?" Rob raised his arms above his head and stretched. Scully noticed that he was wearing a clean sky-blue shirt, dark slacks, shiny dress shoes. He was freshly shaven and a tie dangled un-tied around his neck. If it hadn't been for the pierced ears and the black tattoos creeping out of his shirt collar, he could have been mistaken for a Young Republican heading for work.

"Can't tell," Mandy whispered. Scully noted that Mandy had abandoned her khakis in favor of a flowing, pearl-colored dress. It was more conservative than the one she'd been wearing the night before, but fitted and quite low-cut. "She won't tell him where she was last night."

Scully sat down in front of her computer. The old man's jumbo Pepto-Bismol bottle was sitting open on the mouse pad.

"So," Peake said softly, checking his watch, "what you want to do? He's- "

"Go in and get him." Mandy still had her ear pressed to the wall.

Peake rolled his eyes. "Are you kidding? Hell, I walk in that door right now he'll probably blow my head off. You know he's been waiting for an excuse all summer."

Mandy scowled. "This sucks. You know I wanted - "

"I know - " Peake shrugged "- but it's probably better this way, babe."

Scully wondered what the hell they were talking about. "Think Mr. Peake will mind if I put this away?" She reached toward the medicine bottle.

"Oh." Mandy rose from her chair and came around the desk, wobbling on four-inch heels. "I'll take that." She gave a little smile and twisted the cap on firmly. "That man would lose his dick if it wasn't glued on."

Peake snorted and watched Mandy's ass wiggle its way into the kitchenette.

Scully gave him a quick glance. "What's up this morning, Rob?"

"Really big, important shit." He grinned.

Mandy came back and went to her desk. "Be a sweetie, Brenda," she said, "and watch the store for me for a couple hours, okay?" She plucked a glittery shawl from the back of a chair.

Whoa, Scully thought. "You guys are all dressed up. Where you going?"

Peake sidled up to Mandy and helped her with the shawl, then wrapped his arms around her and gave a proprietary squeeze. "Today's the day, Brenda. Next time you see us, we'll be man and wife."

"What?" Scully stared in disbelief. "I - wow. Well, congratulations, you guys."

"Thanks." Mandy's smiled the biggest smile Scully had ever seen on her. "Honey, if a guy named Tom Sealy calls, be very, very nice to him - he's the bag-man from Pueblo. Tell him I'll call him back this afternoon. Whatever you do, don't let Shelby talk to that guy. He'll make promises we can't keep. Okay?"

"Okay. And, um, if Mr. Peake gets, well, finished with what he's doing, should I tell him to - "

"If he's in a decent mood, send him down to the Bingo joint," Mandy said. "Tell him we got a little surprise for him there."

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9:20 AM

"HELLO DARLIN', NICE TO SEE YOU. IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME..."

For the assignment, they'd issued him a 1979 GMC Sierra with a hole in the floorboard the size of a softball. Thanks, Kersh, Mulder thought. Love you, too.

"...YER JUST AS LOVELY AS YEW USED TO BEEEEE..."

To avoid carbon monoxide poisoning, Mulder had rolled both windows all the way down, now he rocked back and forth as he drove, trying to keep warm by singing along with the radio. He could barely hear the song over the wind and the roaring of the engine, but he remembered it well from the television commercials of his childhood - according to RONCO, hadn't Conway Twitty sold more records than the Beatles and Elvis combined?

"HELLO DARLIN', HOW'S YER NEW LOVE, HOPE YER DOIN' FINE, JUST TO KNOW IT MEANS SOOOOOO MUCH TO ME..."

It was all okay, though, the truck, the floorboard, the bad country music. Today, *everything* was A-Ok.

"WHAT'S THAT DARLIN', HOW'M I DOIN', I'M DOIN' ALL RIGHT..."

He'd had a really good breakfast - corned beef hash, scrambled eggs, decent coffee. Capocelli had been right on time. He'd sat next to Mulder at the counter, jotted a few things on a napkin. When Mulder had requested that Scully be relieved of the assignment ASAP, Cap had nodded thoughtfully at his home fries and said he'd discuss the matter with the SAC.

"BLAH BLAH BLAH-BLAH, BLAH-BLAH CRY ALL NIGHT TIL DAWN..."

Mulder pulled onto the exit ramp and turned left at the end of the ramp, reaching over to keep the plastic takeout box on the seat next to him from sliding onto the floor. After a couple of minutes the song ended and the DJ chattered about the cold snap and the early frost and the fact that the weather was supposed to warm up - mid-seventies by mid-afternoon. It was going to be a beautiful day.

He'd been told they'd be working straight through until sometime tomorrow night, breaking down and loading the rides, driving them to Pueblo, setting them up again. He hoped he could catch Scully before they both started work today. She'd been pretty out of it when he'd helped her to bed early this morning - he was anxious to see if she was feeling all right. Probably not, he figured, but at least there was an end in sight. If things went well, she'd stay in Casper tonight and he'd make the jump without her.

Given the nature of their conversation the night before, he had no idea how to approach the subject of her going back to Washington. He knew her too well to think she was going to bow out willingly, and there was something that told him she'd take anything he said the wrong way.

It was frustrating, having to maintain a cover at a time like this. He wished he could call a time out, take her someplace nice, buy her a glass of wine, a plate of roasted duck, broiled salmon, fillet of tofu; anything she wanted, as long as it came with sauce and had some grilled vegetables artfully arranged next to it. After dinner, when she was full and happy and looking even more gorgeous than usual, he would take her hand and tell her. Just tell her everything. No holds barred.

Today all he had to offer her was a take-out fruit plate in a plastic box. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

The fair didn't open until eleven but the midway had already come to life for the day. Agents were in their stands, packing up prizes in anticipation of the jump to Pueblo; food vendors were filling the air with smells: wood-smoke, charred meat, caramel, coffee. The sun had sucked the frost off the patchy grass and the air was warming up, fast.

"Yo! Como se llama, man?"

A ride jock was headed his way, extending a hand in greeting.

"Call me Duke," Mulder answered, meeting the handshake.

"Duke, yeah. Ramon Solera. Everybody call me Solly."

"Yeah, we met yesterday."

"Frye say just you-me today. I run, you load."

"Oh yeah? All day?" Mulder shifted his takeout box from right hand to left, unzipped his jacket. It was getting hot already. "And where the hell is he planning on being?"

Solera flashed a gap-toothed smile. "Es Domingo, man. You the boss, sometime you get the day off, too."

"Lucky bastard. He always have Sunday off?"

Solera nodded. "He - " Closing his eyes, he threw his head back and faked a snore.

"All day? Really?"

"Like bear in cave. He come to work after we close the spot later." Solera reached up and clapped Mulder on the shoulder. "Hey, mas chicas for you, dude! You look like Richard Gere, you get lotsa pussy!"

"Er..." The sun beat down. "We're working all night, though, right? Do we get a break?"

Solera laughed. "No break. But I make it easy for you. You come one o'clock, okay?"

Mulder nodded. "Sure." Turning, he headed for the bunkhouse.

He found Scully's cubicle unlocked and unoccupied. A cracked American Tourister sat open on her cot, looking like it had been attacked by a swarm of crazed customs agents. She'd dressed in a hurry, then forgotten to lock up, he guessed. She'd probably overslept, probably had a hangover, no shower, no breakfast. It was probably a pretty miserable way to start the day. Holding the fruit plate, Mulder stared forlornly at the open suitcase. A pair of white cotton panties dangled from the clasp in its lid.

He missed her so much.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had slipped into her cubicle. Setting the plastic box on the bed just in case she came back, he started hastily shoving the scattered garments back where they belonged. It was stupid, he knew, to chance a blown cover or an arrest for attempted larceny just to protect a lot of crap that would probably go straight back to Goodwill the minute the assignment was done. Still, for now, at least, these were Scully's things, and if this was the only thing he could do to help, then so be it.

He snatched up the underpants and dropped them on top of the pile, trying not to wonder how Scully might look in them or if white cotton would even be her actual preference, were she to find herself unfettered in a Victoria's Secret somewhere.

"Shut up. Just shut up." There were voices outside.

Mulder shut the suitcase, put it and the folded sleeping bag neatly against the wall. He dashed to his cubicle, sat on the edge of his cot, and listened.

"What do you - you can't - come back here! Hey..."

Two people, voices raised in anger. One of them sounded familiar. He went to the tiny window of his cubicle and peered outside.

A woman was moving down the lane in front of the bunkhouse, backing away from a squat, middle-aged man who was advancing on her with outstretched hands.

"Honey, you don't mean that," the man wheedled. "Your mama just wants you to come to church."

"Chuck, if I told you once, I told you a million times. I don't set foot in that fucking bingo joint unless I'm playing fucking bingo." Mulder couldn't see Gwen's face, but the jet-black hair and bulging pockets were a dead giveaway.

"You little bitch!" The man lost his temper, lunged, grabbed her by both arms. "Where the hell were you last night? You better tell me or I swear I'll take you home and make you wish you *was* at church."

"I was at my daddy's. Okay?" Her voice was hoarse, reedy. She tried to pull away. "Ask him, okay?"

He gave her a shake. "Now you listen, you. You ain't gonna start sucking up to that drunk again - "

"He ain't a drunk. You shut up."

"You think we don't know what he's up to? You think we don't know what you're up to, too? You're sixteen years-"

"I'm seventeen!" Gwen declared, loudly. "And you ain't my daddy, so you can-"

"Will you two fucking stop it?" A voice rang out from one of the nearby motor homes. "We're trying to sleep over here!"

Gwen wrenched away from the man and turned in the direction of the voice. "Sorry, Sybil. Tell Billy I'm sorry, too. I know everybody's sick of the same fucking thing *every goddamned Sunday morning*." As she spoke she turned and glared at her stepfather.

Chuck stood huffing. "Gwen, I'm tellin' you - "

"You better not push me." Shoving one hand in her pocket, Gwen stalked toward the picnic table and perched on its edge, facing Mulder's window.

Chuck took a step forward, pointing a finger. "Service starts in five minutes. Now, I told your mama - "

"Fuck, I'll jump routes - I got nothin' to lose. Nobody 'round here'll ever see me again."

Chuck seemed to freeze solid, then, open mouth, jutting index finger, ugly snarl and all. A moment later, he turned and stomped away.

For a moment, Mulder watched to see what Gwen would do next. He thought she might break down and cry, but she just jammed her right hand deeper into her pocket and stared at the ground, her pale body still as marble in the hot sun.

He thought he ought to go talk to her, see if she was all right. Maybe she'd open up to him again.

By the time he made it through the door of the bunkhouse, though, she'd taken off. He couldn't tell which way she'd gone.

End 06/12