Devil in a New Dress

Dana Scully could see the light changing as if sensing the approach of her speeding car. If there were evil spirits trapped in traffic lights they had her number now. Hanging around with Fox Mulder was as good as painting a target on one's chest for all things paranormal. She cursed under her breath, a very unladylike, unScullylike curse that she saved for demonically possessed machinery and other special occasions. She bit her lower lip, hit the gas, and Sweet Blessed Mary save Mulder if he wasn't lying bullet-ridden and bleeding on his living room floor.

The red round eye of the signal glared balefully at her as she rolled through underneath it. A few indignant honks followed her down the street, but she'd slipped through quickly enough that no one had yet started out across the intersection. Past that hurdle, she picked up her cellular and punched the code for Mulder's phones again, first his apartment and then his cellular. Trying his home phone still gave a disconnected service message; while trying his cellular brought her a programmed voice informing her that the cellular customer she was dialing was currently outside the calling area, which she knew--or thought she knew--to be false.

Dana snapped off the phone. She could feel her anxiety rising the closer she got to Mulder's building. The worry, however, was modulated by a nagging imp of resentment that lived and bred pettiness in her unworthy soul. Why should she run flying from her own cozy nest on a Saturday afternoon -- brownies cooling on the counter, laptop fired up, an inane afternoon matinee chattering cheerfully in the background--why should she leave all this just because she couldn't reach her partner on the phone? Why worry about the man, when he was probably just in the shower (with his cellular), or...out buying groceries (where's his cellular), or....

Or in New Mexico, or Canada, or Turkistan, in pursuit of wild geese and not a thought or a word to his loyal partner. Except that he wasn't usually so careless of her. Not really. He was indifferent in ways that men usually weren't. He didn't hold doors for her--very often. Didn't compliment her perfume, her hair, her new red suit--unless it was to ask her to turn that ensemble down, Scully, I'm a bit hungover this morning. (A joke: he was never hung over that she could tell.) In his familiarity with her, he was more like one of her brothers than any man she'd ever met: casually blunt, sometimes painfully honest in giving his opinions, respectful of her intelligence but blind to her femininity...or so it seemed. It was so hard to tell with Mulder. The man was opaque as an aggie marble and just as slippery.

Still, when it came to the job--his obsession, his quest--he usually tried to keep her updated on his machinations and maneuvers. Sometimes a bit after the fact, though, hmmm, a little voice in Dana's ear said, nudging her with a sour smirk. God, she hoped this wouldn't be one of those times. Maybe he was outside his calling range. Maybe he was in Turkistan. Damn the man.

She pulled up in front of his building with a tiny screech and hopped out, gun tucked into the back of her jeans. The loose cotton blouse she wore over her tee-shirt covered it from casual eyes, but she kept her hand semi-situated in the area of her back pocket, in a way she hoped looked natural. Inside the building, she vacillated between stairs and elevator, and opted for stairs, which seemed faster; besides, the climb would provide a jab of natural adrenaline to her system. She drove up the four flights, feeling that she moved dream-slowly, as if she were trying to push through sea waves.

Thank god for conditioning, she thought on reaching his floor. But I think I need to renew my gym membership. She edged around the hallway, ears tuned to the silence of the floor, the building. Saturday afternoon. Behind closed doors, the muted laughter and music of televisions filtered through. She examined Mulder's door from a few yards' distance, then feeling foolish sidled up, hand tucked behind her, touching the butt of her gun. She tilted her head close to the door's surface, listened and heard nothing.

She knocked.

After a minute, to her relief and ire, Mulder's voice called out warily. "Who is it?"

"Scully," she said shortly, letting her hand ease away from her gun a fraction. "Are you all right?"

"All right?" Pause. "Yes...I think so. Why?"

"Mulder, open the door," she said with rising irritation. Then, hearing him near, she said in a carrying voice, "Your phones were both off." She stepped back a pace from the door, expecting it to open. It didn't. Heart skipping, she drew back further and reached for her gun again. "Boris...you okay in there?"

"Oh, da, Natasha," Mulder said easily. She could hear his voice right on the other side of the door. He'd eased her tension with the coded response. Silly stuff, almost a game, and yet the ridiculous words were oddly reassuring. Her hand dropped again.

"Are you sick?" He didn't sound sick.

"Nyet."

"Naked?" she asked dryly, crossing her arms and staring at the peephole. She could feel him looking at her and was tempted to stick out her tongue.

"Er...nyet...but I am a bit fancy-free and fetching."

Dana's left eyebrow rose and she felt a twitching smile unexpectedly threaten her lips. "Really?" She pursed her lips. Images, many of them pornographic, flickered through her busy mind. "Are you alone?"

"Mm, yes..." Mulder's voice was a hesitant, attenuated drawl.

"You planning on inviting me in?" Dana said, pulling a face that was a practiced tour-de-force of offended amazement, innocence, and expectation. She aimed this look at the peephole and waited.

"You don't have a Kodak on you, do you?" Without waiting for an answer, he said, "Never mind. Okay, hold on." Door locks turned and clicked, then the door drew back and Mulder's casually tousled head peered around the edge. He waved a hand (politely pointing his gun away from his guest), ushering her in.

Brow raising again, she ambled casually past him, glancing at his face sidelong as she did, but trying to save a blatant appraisal of his person for after her actually entry. When she turned to watch him close the door she nearly gasped aloud, and had to put a hand over her mouth to silence herself. She didn't know whether she would have laughed or yelped but it was better never to find out.

"Oh my god, Mulder," she said, after her first instinctive squeak was swallowed down. "Oh, my...god." She stared at him, mesmerized, hands to lips. "That's..."

Mulder waited with obvious patience, his body relaxed, his face expressing mild discomfort but no real embarrassment. "Go ahead--it's all right."

"It's, um...well, actually, Mulder, I think...somehow it's you." The words were part odd truth, part gesture of deferral because she didn't know what to really say. She stared at the dress, trying to reconcile its flowery femininity with the body of her tall, lanky, very male partner. It was a nice dress. She wasn't sure she'd have worn it herself, but it was a hell of a lot nicer than some of the old schoolgirl rags that hung in the back of her closet. (Did he hang this in his closet?) It was obviously linen, expensive linen at that. Its flowered pattern was thorough but not overbearing, a light interlacing of pinks and whites and greens that wove together in an elegant design of jasmine and sage, if her mother's gardening lessons had taught her anything. It was cut like a floaty sort of sundress; sleeveless, with wide shoulder straps; waistless and essentially bustless, but subtly darted along the torso, molded to follow a woman's curves.

And yet it didn't look that strange on Mulder...which was strange in itself. It certainly wasn't tight, but neither was it too loose. It didn't sag, or bunch, and it wasn't too short, falling with fashionable precision just at the mid-calf mark.

"Did you have that made for you?" Dana asked, giving Mulder's frock frowning scrutiny.

Mulder quirked a brow and smiled lopsidedly. "No. Bought it off the rack--hope that doesn't stamp me as terribly declasse." He walked around her into the apartment, laid his gun on the coffee table, then paused to consider her, head cocked to one side. "Can I get you something?"

"Uh, no--no, I'm fine."

Mulder smiled, nodded. Stood. Waited.

Dana's gaze was drifting down the dress again, helpless to its magnetizing fascination. He was obviously wearing nothing--or next to nothing--under it, and the contrast of the material and his bare skin was disturbingly...sharp. He wasn't particularly tanned, but his body held a warmish glow of health, an almond and ivory blend of flesh and sun. She rarely got a good look at his arms or legs; she'd forgotten the shape of the body concealed under his bland, everyday suits. She was highly aware of it now; somehow the dress emphasized every masculine torque of muscle, the light hairs on his well-formed legs, the strong, rather big hands, the nice-looking feet....

Good grief, Dana. "So...is this..." Her words trailed off and she shook her head, having no clue what she'd been intending to ask.

Mulder laughed out loud, not loudly but with genuine amusement. "Oh come on, Scully. This is what you consider over the top for me?"

Scully smiled herself. "Well, I suppose when you put it that way....Mulder, I have to ask--why are you wearing this? Is it for a case?"

"A case?" Mulder sounded intrigued by this proposal.

"Well, I mean, you aren't going undercover, are you?" It was a bizarre idea, but it was all she could think of that approached a reasonable explanation for why her partner might be wearing women's apparel.

"No, of course not. I just wanted to get comfortable." He pulled a face at her. "It's the weekend, Scully. Don't you kick back on the weekend? Put on comfy duds and hang out around the bachelorette pad, watch TV, bake brownies--"

Oh, my brownies. They'd be just the right temperature now. Ignoring this minor Mulder display of telepathy, Dana narrowed her eyes to a steady glare, recalled now to her earlier annoyance. "Why aren't your phones in service, Mulder? I drove all the way over here, dropped everything, thinking you might be lying on your floor bleeding, dying--and what do I find--" She gestured widely at his attire, its ludicrous nature striking her afresh.

"I forgot to pay my phone bill...and, um, my cellular battery died." Dana stared at Mulder. He looked faintly sheepish now, and she realized with amazement that he was embarrassed. Was he embarrassed about being found wearing a woman's dress? No. Was he embarrassed about not paying his phone bill on time? Yes. Was this a man she trusted to cover her back in a gunfight? Incredibly--yes.

"Sorry, Scully. I figured on picking up a new battery today. I probably should have called you, but I haven't gone out yet."

This remark diverted Dana from her irritation with a neat swerve. One fine red brow leapt sharply. "Were you planning on going out like that?"

Mulder looked down at himself. "Well...no. I'd probably put on some shoes." He looked up again, caught her eye. His own held a mischievious gleam. "I'm kidding, Scully. Kidding."

"So--" Scully pressed a hand to her temple as if trying to recall an elusive piece of information to memory. "Why are you dressed like this?" Her tone implied tell me again, but he still hadn't told her yet, not really.

"I'm just hangin' out." Mulder shrugged, and gave his head a casual, dudish little bob. "You know. Takin' it easy, kickin' back, watching the Knicks-Bulls game, cleaning out the fish tank--"

"Mulder. This is what you wear to clean the fish tank?" Her eyes narrowed again thoughtfully. "You said you were cleaning the fish tank last week when you called me last Thursday night."

Mulder gave her a sly look. "And so I was."

"Were you, um--"

"Hmm?"

"Were you wearing that?" Scully almost whispered.

"You should save that kind of question for our next phone conversation--it'd be kind of sexy, don't you think?" Mulder's lips threatened to slide into a friendly smirk, and then a faint ding came from the kitchen and he said suddenly, "Be right back. I need to take my cookies out." He moved off, saying easily over his shoulder, "Have a seat, Scully. Make yourself comfortable. Whatever."

Scully stared after him, bemused. Scully. Dana had disappeared, she realized. Vanished with a pop. This always happened whenever she was with Mulder for even the shortest length of time. 'Scully' was dragged kicking out of her box and 'Dana' was forced to take up its cramped abode in her place. How did he do that? I'm Dana, she told herself crossly. I'm not a Marine, for Christ's sake...Hail, Mary.

And what the hell was he baking? Cookies, did he say? Baking. Mulder. Scully shook her head slowly and followed him into the kitchen. Her consciousness finally caught up with her senses, and she realized that she had been smelling the aroma of baking dough ever since entering the apartment. Mulder was taking a tray from the oven, staring at it with the critical, uncertain frown of a culinary novice. Scully's eyes moved from the tray in his hand to the mess on the counter, and then down to the floor, on which a scrap of paper betrayed the origins of his project--a roll of ready-for-slicing Pillsbury chocolate-chip cookie dough.

Somehow, this struck Scully as absurdly endearing, and she had to fight down a smile; she was afraid Mulder might find her amusement condescending if he noticed it.

"Do these look done to you," Mulder muttered doubtfully. "It's been eight minutes."

"I think they're done. They'll sort of, um--" She made a small, vague compressing gesture with her hands. "Gel as they cool."

"Oh." Holding the tray in one hand (using what appeared to be a tee-shirt as a potholder) Mulder looked around for a place to set it down. His laundry was on the kitchen table, and the counters were crowded with odds and ends of cookery. Finally he laid it on a chair, then stared at it. "That's the only tray I have," he said, half to himself. "I guess I should just wait till they cool, huh?"

"Probably," Scully said gently.

Absently Mulder tossed his tee-shirt cum potholder off to one side (it landed in the sink) and opened the fridge. "Want a beer?" he asked.

"No thanks," Scully said aloud. I can not stop staring at you, she thought. Every move he made was extraordinarily wondrous to her, by mere virtue of his unusual attire. The way he bent slightly as he plucked a bottle of beer from the fridge door. The way he straightened again, the way the muscles in his calves shifted, the padding touches of his bare feet on the floor, the winged play of his shoulder blades, the small movements of the sleek, elegant skull upon that graceful male neck--it was all beautiful and uniquely Mulder. And he was wearing a dress.

Scully didn't know whether to be delighted or worried. She was no psychologist. Was this to be considered the healthy impulse of a man trying to get in touch with his feminine side--or something else entirely?

"I can feel you undressing me with your eyes, Doctor Scully." Startled, Scully jerked her gaze up to Mulder's face, which was just turning a bland, knowing gotcha look her way.

Was not, she almost said.

Mulder waggled his brows, approaching her slowly, affecting a rolling pose of seduction and menace. "Don't you want to know what color my knickers are, doctor?" he murmured suggestively.

"Actually, no." She folded her arms, gave him a cool stare. Mulder smiled. He'd was standing now no more than a foot away, radiating his most devastatingly intense regard--green, heavy-lidded, sensual--down at her, holding his beer by the neck, threaded between two long fingers. In her peripheral vision she could see the bottle swinging gently, casually. But she was holding his gaze. She didn't dare move it--she might end up staring elsewhere again.

"So you gonna hang around?" he asked. "Eat some cookies, watch the game?" The invitation sounded offhand--but was there a hint of entreaty in his voice? Scully wasn't quite sure whether she heard it or not. She thought about her brownies, her computer left running with its workscreen up, the television left droning to itself. Just another Dana Scully weekend. She had already done her own laundry. She had cleaned her bathroom, watered her plants. Later in the afternoon she might go out and do a little shopping, and in the evening she would make up a single woman's dinner; salad and baked chicken breast, maybe a potato, maybe a glass of wine if the whim struck her...oh, what the hell.

"All right, why not." When Mulder's face noticeably brightened, she added, "I think I will have a beer, too."

Mulder returned to the fridge, looking pleased. Scully had to wonder about this, about the whole scenario. She'd gotten to know her partner passing well over the last several months, but now all of her formulated assessments and judgments seemed smashed and confounded. She didn't know what to think. Her impressions of Mulder had accreted layer by layer over time, and the layers, like those of some bizarre confectionary monument, didn't always appear to adjoin one another sensibly. He was tirelessly dedicated and diligent, but on projects that no rational man would consider worth the effort; he was passionate, but only about absurdities. He was at turns both skeptical and dismayingly credulous, politely respectful and embarrassingly irreverent--sometimes in one breath. His charisma flashed dark and bright, quickly and dizzingly as a spinning top; he pushed people away even as he drew them in. Brilliant and possessed of an enviable memory, he spent his gifts in a wildly erratic and idiosyncratic way. In short he was a mass of seething contradictions. And yet, somehow, he cohered. And he'd solidified in Scully's view as one of the most upright, honest, intensely driven men she'd ever met.

Now she was seeing another side of him, hints of which she'd only glimpsed in passing. Mulder was weird, she'd known this from day one. But this was a different stripe of strangeness. It was being borne in to her now that Fox Mulder really was elementally, basically different from most people, despite his cultivated GQ facade. That workday suit-and-tie, that practiced blandness of mien, the expensively nuanced haircuts and the way he denuded his person of anything even remotely offbeat or personal--no jewelry, favorite pen or keepsakes--this wasn't so much an elaborate form of protective covering as it was a bemused alien's attempt to adapt to local custom.

He was really indifferent to such things, Scully believed. So much so that she'd often wondered just where Mulder got his clothing allowance. He treated his clothes with such utilitarian disregard that she suspected he only remembered to keep track of his suit jacket because it covered his gun. And he probably was wearing the damned dress because he was comfortable in it, not for any fetishistic thrill. The man was simply out there. Way out there.

"Do you want something else?" Mulder asked, glancing at her untouched beer. Scully shook herself out of her reverie, and realized she'd been standing and absently ogling Mulder again as he worked on another tray of cookies.

"No, no--this is fine." She took a pull of beer, nodded. Mulder returned to his work.

He had transferred the cooling cookies to a folded sheet of newspaper, she noticed. She went over and took one. Then, after a minute, another.

"I haven't had these in years. Since college," she said, chewing. "They really aren't bad."

"Well, I left out the jalapenos this time."

"The truth will out," Scully said. "It was you who brought those things to the Christmas party."

"Seemed like a good idea at the time. But it was late and I'd had a touch of nog."

"Poor Pendrell."

"Bar or buffet. You've got to choose one and stick to it. That's the secret."

Scully raised a brow. "And you chose...neither, if I recall."

"I'm not much fun at parties."

Why am I not surprised? To hide her smile, Scully took another cookie. And then another.

* * * *

Later. . .

Mulder was stretched out on the couch; Scully was curled in a ratty armchair that had materialized from its unnoticed lair in a corner of the living room. She'd removed her gun and her shoes, and had, after much cajoling, propped her feet on the coffee table, on a stack of magazines. They were nominally watching the basketball game, but when it began to deteriorate in the second half it was progressively ignored more and more in favor of conversation.

On the coffee table lay the colorful remains of a nacho extravaganza, delivered from Mulder's Mexican restaurant of choice, just a few blocks away. (She'd forced him back when he began to answer the door, and had paid the delivery boy herself. What, Mulder had said dryly afterwards, you think he's never seen a guy in a dress before--wake up into the nineties, Scully.)

"What did you say?" Scully asked absently, drawing her eyes from the screen.

"You want another beer?" Mulder twisted slightly on his side and stared at her owlishly over the edge of the throw pillow.

"Mm, how many is this?"

"For you? Um, three...I think."

"I shouldn't." She paused a second after this nod to propriety, then said, "Okay." She stood, and Mulder began to rise also. "No, don't get up, I'll get it." I need the exercise, she thought, threading her way a bit unsteadily around the chair and into the kitchen. Cookies lay everywhere in small isolated groups: a bunch still lay on the chair, another group had been arranged on the rumpled pleats of some unfolded bath towels, and a third group had been left on the tray, which had ended up on top of the refrigerator. Attempting to count their remaining number, Scully stood on tiptoe, and then abruptly flattened out her stance again when the world began to tilt. Maybe I shouldn't have another beer.

She opened the fridge and studied the contents of the door. There were still more than a dozen bottles left, and she definitely didn't need another one. Heineken, though. Her favorite. A solid respectable type of beer. Very anti-Mulder, when you stopped to think about it. She removed a bottle and twisted off the cap, then took a sip while still standing in front of the open refrigerator. What does Spooky have in his fridge.

She bent slightly, examining the shelves, beer in hand. Yes, we have the ancient Chinese food. A jar of kosher dills. Mustard. Brown mustard. Hmm. Shriveled scallions--what experiment was that? Horseradish. Rye crisps. Peanut butter. What do you know, wheat germ. Apple juice, orange juice, tomato juice. One--two--three kinds of cheese. No--four. And two...things. What the hell are those. Avocado? No...something. Eggs, yes. Butter, of course. Milk. And he keeps his bread in the fridge. Very hygienic. She bent further and edged open a lower drawer gently, then hastily closed it at the sight of the petrifying carrots and liquifying tomatoes. Ewww, gross, Mulder.

She straightened again and turned, pushing the door shut. Mulder was leaning in the doorway watching her with amused, sardonically glinting eyes.

"Oh, Chr--" Scully gathered herself together. "You startled me."

"I knew you wanted to go through my drawers." He made a tsk-ing sound, shook his head. "Scully, Scully. You couldn't just admit it?"

As he ambled her way, Scully drifted to one side, trying not to look as if she was evading him. He was, of course, merely heading toward the fridge. She bumped the kitchen table and leaned against the edge, resting there and lapsing into Mulder study once again, noticing the way the light from the refrigerator shone through the sheer material of his...dress. Without thinking, Scully reached out and stroked the fabric down the back zipper.

Mulder turned, eyebrows raised. "Hello," he said mildly.

Scully smiled. "This reminds me of the time my brother put on one of my mom's nightgowns--" She paused, head cocked to one side, remembering.

"Okay, I'll bite," Mulder said after a moment. "Why?"

"Oh, it was just a joke," Scully said with a small, offhand shrug. "It was Mother's Day," she added.

Mulder considered her curiously. She'd made that remark as if it explained everything. And maybe it did. He knew so little about how real families worked. Up to a point he knew a little, but he rarely trusted his memories of that time. They seemed so improbable. So normal.

"It looks really good on you," Scully said thoughtfully. She felt she was just noticing this. "I mean...it's funny, but the more I look at you the more normal it looks. It's as if it highlights the essential androgyny of the human body--the face--" She made a circular gesture around her own face as she spoke.

Mulder nodded gravely, his eyes fixed steadily on hers. "Just how often do you drink alcohol, Scully?"

Exasperated, she swatted him lightly, and that casual gesture of familiarity only seemed to bear out the implication of his question. He laughed.

"How long have you been wearing dresses?" Scully asked as they left the kitchen. Should I be asking him that? Oh, who cares.

"How long have you been a redhead?"

"All my life," Scully said with mild defensiveness. She shifted back into her chair. "...more or less."

Mulder grinned. "Well, there you are."

"You've been wearing dresses all your life?"

"More or less."

"I don't believe you," she said with unexpected firmness. She began to put her feet back on the coffee table, but her precarious magazine footrest slid to the floor. Bending, she picked them up. "Playboy, Hustler--come on, Mulder." She held up a handful of magazines, waved them his way. "Why do you read these--why do you look at them, I should say."

"Fashion tips?" Mulder suggested, curling up on the couch with a somehow feline insouciance.

"You don't get fashion tips from naked women, Mulder."

"Well, I'd debate the point--if I didn't think you'd hit me."

Scully was leafing through a copy of Hustler, making a series of faces. "This is rather tawdry, Mulder. I think I actually find your wearing a dress less offensive than the idea of your reading this."

"Thanks," Mulder said.

Scully looked up at the cool note in his voice. "You're the one who left them out on your coffee table. Don't pull that hurt look."

"I'm not hurt," Mulder said quietly. "You want next time I should put them in the closet, just say so."

The figurative reference in the remark was pointed enough that Scully couldn't miss it if she'd tried. After a minute, she said carefully, "I just don't understand it."

"It?"

"You," she said, more bluntly.

"Oh. Well...who does?"

The day was beginning to wane and darken, and the apartment was taking on a dust of shadows. Mulder hadn't turned on any lamps, and the result wasn't dim, exactly, but there was a softening greyness in the room now. Wrapped in this blanket, Mulder appeared lightly smudged, blurred at the edges. More opaque than ever.

"You really shouldn't use that as an analytical sample, you know," he continued, nodding at the magazines. "I keep the really good stuff in the bedroom. Feel free to browse."

Scully was almost tempted to take up the suggestion. Instead she just looked at him. He looked back, a faintly mocking edge to his eyes.

"I keep my International Male catalogue on the lid of the toilet tank. That tell you anything?"

"Mulder--" She broke off, looked away. "What are you trying to tell me," she said finally. She indicated the magazines. "That this is window dressing?"

"You know I'm bisexual," Mulder said flatly, calmly.

Only because you once told me so. But Scully didn't say this aloud. There was no reason to imply she didn't believe what he told her, because she did. She trusted him. He was, in fact, an almost excruciatingly honest man.

Aloud, Scully spoke slowly, working through her thoughts with her words. "It just strikes me as funny--odd--that a man who identifies himself as bisexual, who is comfortable enough to wear a dress, would find anything of interest in these kind of magazines. And don't tell me you get them for the articles," she added, catching the hint of fresh amusement that brushed across his lips.

"Okay, I won't. But there is a good interview with Gore Vidal in that issue."

Scully sighed, gave him The Look. "Mulder, are you ever serious?"

"Actually, I think I'm always serious. It's one of my faults. My many faults. My many charming faults." He grinned and took a long pull of beer.

"Uh-huh."

"So, you know--" Giving in to the inexorable will of his partner's blue eyes, Mulder shrugged. "I like to look at the pretty pictures. It's a guy thing." He looked away from her speculative face toward the television, hoping that she wouldn't pursue the matter any further. What could he tell her. That he looked at pornography and kept his phone coded for six different phone-sex hotlines because almost every time he hooked up with a real live human being he went shaky and anxious and his heart ached with the transient peak of real, deep feeling, which was so devastating to his equilibrium that for days afterward he was minimally functional and forced to plow through his bleak routine with a painfully sharpened awareness of how he had hollowed out his soul?

Better to tell her he liked the pretty pictures. It was true, even if just one truth among many.

"Well, I don't know if it's a guy thing," Scully was saying. "This--" She held up a copy of Hustler as if it were a section of someone's flayed skin. "This is a guy thing. But I think aesthetic appreciation of the human body crosses gender boundaries." She smiled rather wickedly.

"Dana Katherine Scully," Mulder said, looking at her with interest. "Can I take this to mean that your Catholic school education didn't completely shrink-wrap your sexual curiosity?"

"Take it how you like, Mulder."

"Oooooh, Scully--"

"Don't go there, Mulder."

"Oh come on. You give me the third degree here--I can't ask you anything?" Mulder gave her a challenging look and then, when she just quirked an ironic brow at him, he turned the full arsenal on her. The pout. The puppy eyes.

Faced with this it wasn't long before Scully surrendered. "Oh, okay."

With an unexpected surge of energy, Mulder straightened up. He pulled himself cross-legged (demurely drawing the hem of his dress into his lap), and bounced lightly on the couch cushions. "Truth or dare, Scully?"

"Oh no, Mulder." Scully was shaking her head almost before the words were out of his mouth. "Uh-uh."

"Oh please, Scully. It'll be fun. Scull-lyyyyy--" He drew out her name in an impossibly long, mosquito-like whine until she felt like screeching.

She meant to say again, adamantly, No. She had no trouble with the word. She'd been taught early in life how to take a firm (even stubborn) stand when necessary, and had done so with Mulder on numerous occasions. But when she opened her mouth she heard herself say instead: "Okay, okay. Just a--a short game."

"Oh, that's a good idea." Mulder got up off the couch, moving a bit erratically. He went to the kitchen, then came back and stood in the center of the room, turning slowly in a circle.

"What's a good idea, Mulder?" Scully said, a finger of worry poking her.

"Where did I..." Idly, Mulder scratched one leg with his opposing foot. Off balanced by the act, he hopped once, turned again. He continued to murmur. "Where, where, if I were a vodka bottle, where would I--"

"Mulder, what's a good idea?"

"Oh yeah." Mulder went to the bedroom. Rummaging sounds drifted out, then he returned holding up a bottle with a pose of happy triumph. "Absolut. Hardly touched it. I really don't drink much. Don't really." He seemed to be trying out the order of the words. "Really don't--"

"Mulder, I don't--I don't think we should drink any more."

"I thought you wanted to play the drinking game version."

"What? No--"

"Oh, it'll be all right. Tomorrow's Sunday. You can sleep over if you want." Mulder disappeared into the kitchen and Scully raked a hand through her hair and wondered when the inertia had claimed her. Sleep over? Why did this idea seem not unreasonable? I haven't been to a slumber party in years. At this thought, and a suddenly renewed sense of strangeness at Mulder's transvestiture, she almost giggled. She did giggle, actually.

"You're chuckling," Mulder said, sliding up next to her, a tall graceful man in a lovely flowered frock. He bent over and peered down into her face. His own was smooth but bright, the focused face of a curious child.

"I'm not chuckling." Scully tried to straighten her face, but another small giggle escaped her at the sight of Mulder. She couldn't decide if he looked more like an Appalachian hillbilly girl or a mad British lord.

"Chuckles." Holding the vodka bottle and two shot glasses, he dropped back onto the leather couch with a soft whoosh of cushions.

"If that's your idea of a nickname, you can keep it."

"Ooh, first question," Mulder said slyly. He set the bottle and glasses on the coffee table.

Scully winced, but braved it out. "Who said you get to go first?"

"Um, okay..." Mulder looked around. "We'll flip for it." He looked around some more, then picked up a TV Guide. "Cover or back?"

"It could land both ways," Scully pointed out.

"Just pick," he said irritably.

"Cover."

He tossed the magazine in the air; it fluttered like a wounded bird and landed with a slap on the edge of the coffee table, then fell off and ended cover side up on the floor.

Satisfied, Scully settled back in her chair. Across from her, Mulder curled up again and made a little show of readying himself.

"Hit me with your best shot, partner."

"Truth or dare?"

"Truth."

Scully starched her face to deliberate expressionlessness and studied him with sharp, steady eyes until he began to squirm. Her eyes flicked down his dress, lingered here and there. "What color are your knickers?" she asked finally, trying not to smirk and failing.

"Blue." He smirked back.

"Shit," Scully said distinctly. What kind of answer was that? Blue. She should have asked if they were men's or women's. Next question.

"Truth or dare, Scully."

She hesitated only a moment. When younger, she'd taken her share of dares. But with Mulder...

"Truth," she said, somewhat reluctantly.

"What's the most hated nickname you've ever been given?" Mulder asked with hardly a pause.

Bastard. She didn't want to drink any of the vodka. It never agreed with her; she'd be puking in short order. She glared at him, but there was no way out of it. "Chickenbutt." She bored a hard blue gaze into him and dared him to laugh. He made a valiant effort, even she had to admit that. But he did laugh. You'll pay for that, boy-o.

"Truth or dare?"

"Truth, Scully. I swear by the truth." He took a sip of beer, smiling, looking smug.

"Are you wearing women's underwear?"

"No."

Shit. Scully sighed inwardly. She had never been very good at this game, in her own view. She always felt as if she came up with the short end of the stick, got asked the more embarrassing questions.

"Truth or dare."

"Oh, truth." Resignedly Scully slumped back in her chair and put her feet back up on the coffee table. A few magazines slipped to the floor, but what the hell.

"What's the most bizarre sexual act you've every performed?"

She gave him a cool look. "Fellatio."

"Fellatio? That's the weirdest act you've ever performed?" He stared at her, lips parted in bemused astonishment.

"Yes. It is," she said smoothly. She settled further into her seat, laced her hands together around her beer. "Truth or dare, Mulder."

"Truth."

"What's the weirdest sexual act you've ever performed?"

"Copy-cat." He gave her an irked look, then paused for thought. For a long time.

"Oh, come on, Mulder." Did he really have that much to choose from, she wondered, with a niggling sense of what might have been envy. It's not envy, she told herself stoutly.

"Okay. Um...fellatio." He grinned, eyes gleaming slyly.

"Mulder." Scully's voice was warning.

"In a moving car."

"You didn't," she said incredulously. "That's dangerous!"

"During rush-hour traffic in downtown D.C."

Scully just stared at him.

"In a bureau car."

She parted her lips but no speech came out.

"With--"

"Don't tell me," she said quickly, dropping her gaze down into the round mouth of her beer bottle. She could feel the heat in her cheeks.

"You don't know him. I wasn't going to tell you his name, anyway."

"Good." She swallowed, looked up at him. "I can't believe you did that," she said, unable to help herself.

Mulder held her with his steady green eyes. "Do you think less of me?"

"I--" She took a deep breath. "Is that your question?"

"Truth or dare."

"Truth."

"Do you think less of me?"

"I...I don't know...I mean, I don't really know the circumstances."

He gave her a look. "What's to know?"

"Well." She paused. "Were you doing it for a promotion, for instance. Or for money."

"Scully!" For a moment he looked offended, then his expression cleared slightly. "Okay, I see your point. Though I'm not sure what it means that you think I could give someone a blow job for money."

"I didn't say I thought that. You asked what kind of circumstances there might be. I was just mentioning a few."

"But--oh, never mind."

Scully studied him. He seemed a bit upset. Maybe she wasn't so bad at this game after all. She bit the inside of her lip to hide a smile. "It's my turn. Truth or dare."

"Truth," he said sourly.

"Have you ever given anyone a blow job for money?"

He stared at her. He seemed faintly stunned. "No!" Then, regathering himself together: "Truth or dare."

"Truth."

"Have you ever had sex with a woman?"

"Yes. Truth or dare."

Hold on, Mulder thought, but his perked interest was dragged back into the order of turns. "Truth," he said, feeling a sense of impatience and burning curiosity.

"Have you ever given a blow job for a favor or favors?"

"I--" Mulder choked, cleared his throat. For some reason the question caught him off guard. "Um...yes."

Scully raised her brows.

"Truth or dare, Scully," Mulder said quietly.

"Truth."

"Have you ever been in love with a woman?"

"No, I haven't...truth or dare."

"Truth." Mulder shifted in his seat on the couch, feeling a tiny knot of dread pull tight in his gut.

"What was the favor you traded this blow job for?" Assuming it only happened once, she thought snidely.

Mulder grimaced, blew out a breath, then said reluctantly. "I was travelling in Europe and I hooked up with some French kids who were carrying drugs. Pot, some other minor stuff. We got pulled in by customs officials in Greece. I was clean, I didn't even know they were carrying. But it was still a compromising situation. I could have been convicted as an accessory. The penalties would have been serious...jail, fines...I was terrified my father would find out...one of the officers said if I gave him a blow job he would let me go. I did. He did."

"Oh, Mulder." Scully was shocked, dismayed. She hadn't expected this. She wasn't quite sure what she'd expected. Mulder eagerly trading his mouth for military secrets, perhaps? You are a wicked woman, Dana Scully. "That's terrible. I'm sorry."

"It's not that bad." Mulder shrugged the incident off. "It could have been worse."

Scully took a deep breath. "Maybe we should stop playing now."

"Why? It's just getting interesting, don't you think?"

She looked up to see Mulder's familiar, gentle smile. It made her ache inside, that smile. How could she withdraw from its inviting glow? She managed to smile back. "Your turn, I think."

"Truth or dare, Scully."

"Truth."

"What's the most common sexual act you perform with a partner--aside from foreplay?"

Scully leaned her head against the back of the chair. "This line of questioning is getting rather prurient and narrow in focus--don't you think?"

"Chicken--"

"Don't--!"

"--shit," Mulder finished cheekily, overlapping her.

"Fine...intercourse." She rolled her shoulders, tugged on her sweater. Fine. She'd said it. No big deal.

"You have to be more specific," Mulder said, eyelids lowering with cruel feline anticipation.

"More--" Then his meaning hit her and the blood flared in her cheeks. Glaring at him defiantly, she adopted her best clinical, Doctor Scully tone. "Vaginal intercourse, Agent Smut. Truth or dare."

Smirking, Mulder said, "Truth."

"What's your most common sexual act--with a partner?" She paused. "Aside from foreplay."

"Intercourse--anal," he said easily.

With malicious pleasure, Scully said, "You have to be more specific, Mulder. Top or bottom?"

Mulder's lips parted in startlement, and Scully could have sworn his cheeks flushed. It was hard to tell in the dimmed light--but she was pretty sure.

"Bottom," he muttered, eyeing her narrowly.

"Mm," she said. It was a tiny Scullyish grunt. She took a sip of beer. "You know, your answer suggests that you've had more male partners than female." Or did it? Good grief, she thought.

"Save it for your turn. Truth or dare."

"Truth."

"What's your favorite sexual act--or practice?"

"Vaginal intercourse," Scully said complacently, then stuck out her tongue at her partner. "Truth or dare."

Mulder shook his head in exasperation. Intercourse. Boorrrring, Scully. "Truth."

"What's yours?"

"Um...pass." Mulder leaned forward and poured a shot glass of vodka while Scully gaped at him in outrage.

"Pass? Pass?"

"I'm passing--do you mind?" He drained the shot in one long gulp and slapped the glass neatly onto the table top. He coughed once abruptly, then settled back again in his seat, blinking several times.

Scully had almost forgotten that their pastime was nominally a drinking game. She tapped one set of short, manicured nails against the neck of her beer bottle and felt herself slipping dangerously near to a pout. "You don't want to tell me what your favorite sexual act is--you want to leave it to my imagination?"

Mulder smiled. "Truth or dare, Scully."

"Truth," she sighed. "Can you turn on that lamp, please, Mulder?"

Mulder reached over beside him and switched on the table lamp. Distractions won't work, Agent Scully. Heh heh heh. Bathed in the sudden wash of light, he turned his smooth, interested face back to her. "What are you imagining?"

"What?" Scully was squinting at the infusion of lamp light.

"When you said I was leaving it to your imagination--what are you imagining?"

"Oh..." She paused, looking momentarily nonplussed, then said archly, "Well, you certainly aren't a prudish man, so it must be pretty interesting if you don't want to tell me." After a moment, in a slower, more thoughtful voice she continued. "You said act or practice. So I'm thinking we're talking kink here, Mulder. You don't mind my knowing you wear women's dresses--so it's probably not any kind of transvestic fetishism. I know more than a layperson about paraphilias, of course. I'd rule out infantilism, infibulation, the more extreme forms of sexual sadism...so...bondage, maybe. But that's almost commonplace these days. Would you be embarrassed about that? I don't know. It could be something fairly innocuous that you just don't want to tell me, for some idiosyncratic reason--rimming, perhaps. Or maybe it is more serious, some specialized sadistic or masochistic practice. Probably the latter. I'm pretty sure it doesn't involve livestock or light bulbs...I hope it doesn't. Hypoxyphilia, maybe--erotic asphyxiation? Water sports?" She gave him a blase but inquiring look.

Mulder stared at her several long moments. "Yipes." He cleared his throat. "Okay." Time to move on. "Um, truth or dare."

"Mulder--it's my turn."

"Oh..." Mulder had begun to look faintly dazed. "Um, truth."

"Was any of those practices I mentioned your favorite?"

Mulder looked at the vodka, hesitating, then said quickly, "Yes. Truth or dare."

"Truth."

"Have you ever had incestuous feelings?"

Scully felt a knot of anger tighten in her chest, but she controlled herself. It was a tasteless question, to her mind, but there was no reason for her to get upset about it. "No," she said in a taut voice. "Truth or dare--which of those practices I mentioned was your favorite?"

"Hey--I'm supposed to decide truth or dare or not." Gloomily, rather queasily, he looked at the vodka bottle again, then sighed and gave in. "Erotic asphyxiation."

Taken aback, Scully repeated this. "Erotic asphyxiation?" She hadn't expected that one. She'd been leaning toward the idea of bondage.

"Truth or dare," Mulder said laconically. Fuzzy around the edges now, he yawned after speaking.

"Truth," Scully said, waving her beer bottle as she lifted it up to her mouth. There wasn't too much left, but she was nursing it carefully to avoid the vodka and the temptation of another beer.

"Do you believe in an anthropomorphic and Biblical God?"

Scully tried to focus on the curve ball. Hello? "Uh--well, no. Not in those terms. No..." She shook her head. Where the hell had that come from? "Truth or dare."

"Dare."

"Wha--dare?" Caught off guard, Scully was forced to suddenly search her mind for a suitable dare to give her partner. She hated thinking up dares. She sucked at them. She was at a total loss.

"Come on, Scully." Mulder bounced his bow-tied knees up and down. "Dare me, dare me."

"Hold your horses, Mulder." She considered him, squinting again. She was feeling a bit sadistic herself now, and wished she could think up a dare suitable to her mood. He really is cute, she thought, distracted. No way he's worn dresses all his life, though. She tried to pull her mind on track. Why can't all men just wear dresses. Big deal. We wear pants. Macho, that's their problem.

Scully, searching her mind, thought aloud. "Uh, I dare you--I dare you to tell me your most embarrassing secret."

"That's not a dare," Mulder scoffed.

"Why not?" she said rather huffily in return.

"You have to dare me to do something."

"Telling is doing. Show me in the rules where it says I can't dare you to tell me something. Show me--"

"It's an unwritten rule."

"So you're not going to take my dare? Fine. Just have another shot, Mulder."

"Not fair," he mumbled. But he leaned forward and poured another glass, then downed it quickly, wincing. After this, he definitely looked more glassy-eyed. "Truth or dare, Scully. Truth or dare."

"Truth."

"Umm...mmm..." He trailed off, staring into space, nodding for a minute. Scully yawned, rubbed one eye. She raised her beer bottle to her mouth and realized it was finally empty. Carefully she leaned over to one side and set it on the floor. For some reason it would not stand up straight, but fell over with a clink and rolled under the chair. The floor boards must be warped, she decided.

Scully looked over at Mulder. His eyes had shut, and he'd taken on that serene, Buddha-like aspect that always fascinated her, as if he were channeling some ancient force, something cryptic and timeless...or perhaps he was just asleep.

"Mulder."

"I'm awake," he said, opening his eyes and pinning her with them. Green. Cool. Depthless. "Have you ever wanted to have sex with me? I mean, I'm not talking about being attracted--have you ever wanted to get down and make wild monkey love right on the floor, or on the side of the road or something?"

Scully was glad she wasn't drinking beer then, she would have choked. "Oh, uh, Mulder..." Good question. She cast her mind back. "I don't--I don't think so. Not that I can remember."

"That you can remember?" He sounded offended.

"Well--no, then. No. I don't think of you like that. I mean, if I were that attracted to you I wouldn't be able to work with you. I wouldn't be able to function."

"You don't have impulses?"

"It's not your turn anymore."

"Yeah, right." His voice slurred faintly and he turned his head to one side, gazing off toward the television, which had segued at some point into a post-game analysis that neither of them had been watching.

"Truth or dare, Mulder."

"The truth and nothing but the truth, Dana Katherine Scully." He seemed to be speaking more to the television than to her.

Scully leaned forward and put her elbow on her thigh, her chin on her hand. "Do you ever wear women's underwear?"

Mulder turned his head back, smiling peacefully, with lovely ease and heavily lidded eyes. "Yes. Truth or dare."

"Dare," Scully said, without thinking.

"Ooh..." In the space of a second Mulder lost his deranged innocence and delved into cunning wickedness. His eyes glinted.

Scully felt the pit of her stomach thump against her ribs. God, he's been just waiting for this. It was a horrible realization. Should have pegged him for a sadist.

"I dare you to give me a blow job right now."

"Mulder! I will not!"

"Yeah, I didn't think so. But I'll be damned if I'm drinking this bottle alone." He poured a full shot and pushed it across the table to her. "Drink up, Dana."

"Bastard," she said, glaring angrily at him. Tricky bastard. Pulling her feet off the table, she sat up straighter in her chair. She grabbed the shot glass and stared into its clear well. She groaned. "Vodka makes me puke, Mulder." Her voice had turned subtly imploring. Lay the guilt trip on him, Dana girl. She bored her gaze into his, trying to look brave, scared, sickly.

But Mulder just made a faintly mocking face, his lips twisting dryly askew with a complete absence of human pity. "I have a bucket under the kitchen sink. You start feeling the cookies toss, you let me know."

She stared at the vodka again. She could feel the cookies tossing already, thank you. She looked up at him evilly. "Can I change my mind?"

"Sure." Mulder leered cheerfully and leaned back. He pulled up the hem of his dress just above his knees and waggled it in a suggestive manner, along with his brows.

"Bastard," Scully muttered again. Taking a deep breath she tossed back the shot, then concentrated on showing no signs of the fiery agony ripping along her throat. A few tears came to the edges of her eyes. Christ! Hail Mary....

"My turn, right--? Truth."

Truth is right, buster. You wouldn't want me to dare you now. Scully slumped back in her chair. A spark-laden wave of alcohol was dissolving through her body and her mind was drifting in lazy, whimsical circles that it hadn't been a minute ago. She blinked, rolled her head to one side on the back of the chair and stared at Mulder. Agent Fox Mulder. Yeah, right.

"Have you ever worn women's underwear on the job?" she asked with brutally satisfying curiosity.

"Yes, but--just once." He hesitated, considered her from under his lashes with his head cocked to one side. "Do you want me to tell you why?"

"No," Scully said bluntly. Ha ha. She closed her eyes, tried to decide if she was nauseous yet...maybe. Maybe not. As if from a remote distance she heard Mulder say truth or dare. Without opening her eyes she sang back, "Truth."

"Are you attracted to Skinner?"

Scully's eyes popped open. "Skinner?" she squeaked. Her breath had been blown clear out of her lungs. "Skinner?" Beginning to laugh, she leaned forward in her chair, bent further and further with increasingly gaspy laughter, slowly collapsing floorward, like a dress shucked and falling from someone's body. She ended up curled on her side next to the chair, giggling helplessly.

Mulder watched this deteriorating process with fascination. Vodka, hmmm? He'd have to remember this...he hoped he could. "Is that a no?" he asked, when no coherent answer seemed forthcoming.

"Yes," she yelped, between tearful, delighted giggles. She rolled onto her back and clasped her hands on her stomach. She apparently found a measure of calm in this position, for her burbling amusement began gradually to subside.

"Yes--no? Or yes yes?"

"Yes no." Scully stretched out her legs, crossed them at the ankles and angled a gaze up at Mulder. "Truth or dare?"

" 'The truth is cruel, but it can be loved, and it makes free those who have loved it.' "

"Whatever. Tell me your most erotic fantasy."

"What makes you think I can rank them?"

"Of course you can rank them."

"Qualitatively or quantitatively?"

"I'm not asking you to rank them. Just the most erotic one."

"But how would you define 'most erotic', by some qualitati--"

"The most erotic one!"

"Um...okay..." Mulder sought focus. Most erotic fantasy...most erotic. "Uh, I have this fantasy sometimes...where I...no, not that one...hold on..."

"You can't lie--"

"I'm not going to lie. I just have to think...hold your horses." He shifted his position on the couch, stretching out in a closely mirroring image of Scully. It was a few minutes before he spoke again. "My most erotic fantasy--" (His voice mimicked hers with exaggerated, nasal tones, then normalized as he continued.) "--is this one where I'm having a really bad day, a really crappy, no-clean-briefs, bird-shit on the car, roach-in-the-coffee, expense-report-filing, Skinner-on-the-warpath day. . .and I'm called to consult on a case, into a meeting--in the VCU--and they're the usual bunch of assholes. All of them at their snide, rude, rotten worst--"

"This is an erotic fantasy, right?" Scully asked, interrupting.

"Yes--and they're all pulling their usual bullshit. Hey, Spooky, that Montana farmer getting S.O.S. messages from Elvis, found out they're comin' in all the way from Mars, I heard you're lookin' into that one--? And Masterson's giving me an Enquirer article on the Bat Baby with my face pasted in and Tyrell's pretending to ask me for Roswell updates, and then the meeting starts and they completely ignore me, I might as well be a wastebasket. And then maybe, maybe, I'll actually have something to contribute and then they start in on my like a bunch of sharks going for the chum, and then...then..."

"And then what?" Scully twisted her neck a notch on the floor to get a better look at him. She was actually getting interested in this masochistic little tale.

"Mm, and then some guy...some brilliant, young, respected, well-liked, buffed little blue-flamer says but wait, he's right, leave him alone, and he gives me this look--this look--"

"You mean he ogles you, Mulder. Yeah, that's real sexy. I just love it when that happens in a meeting full of my peers."

"No." Mulder rolled over onto his side, gazed dreamily at her. "I mean he gives me this respectful look...like...like I matter...but also like he wants to jump my bones...and he gets up and comes around the conference table and puts his hands on my shoulders, and then starts unknotting my tie--and then my shirt--"

Dana's brows slowly rose further toward her hairline.

"--and then he runs his hands down my chest--"

"In front of everyone?"

"Yeah--and then he gets down on his knees, and..."

"...and?"

Mulder blinked, and managed a half shrug while lying on his side. "And then he gives me a blow job," he said, grinning.

"That's sick."

"Sick, Doctor Scully?"

"Okay, not sick, but...gross...why would you want to get a blow job in front of everyone you work with?"

Mulder sighed. "Validation, Scully. And it's just a fantasy."

"This is definitely a guy thing."

"Truth or dare." Mulder rubbed his cheek against the throw pillow, dug his chin into its padded support.

He was absently studying her body. Out of the corner of her eyes, Scully could sense the erratic, casual tracks of his own eyes scoping her. Could feel it.

"Why can't it be a woman?"

"Hm?"

"Your fantasy--why is it a guy? You're bisexual. Don't you think they'd be more envious if it was a woman giving you a blow job?"

"It's not about envy."

"Validation." She mouthed the word skeptically.

"It's...it's...okay, it's a guy thing. It's like...monkeys. It's about being the top monkey for a change. I mean, maybe he's straight, this guy--"

"He's straight? And he's giving you a blow job?"

"It's even hotter if he's straight." Mulder blinked lazily. "Truth or dare."

"...I have to go to the bathroom."

"You can run but you can't hide."

Scully pulled herself carefully upright. The floor tilted fractionally so she paused to wait it out.

"You aren't going to be sick, are you?" Mulder sounded somewhat more concerned now, though it might have been just for the sake of his hardwood floor.

"No. I'm okay." She stood, wobbled, steadied and left the room. She made it to the bathroom and did her business with dispatch, though she did sit for a while on the toilet afterwards. She found it oddly restful. She almost went to sleep. What time is it anyway. She looked at her watch, didn't believe it, shook it. But it was moving and it was just seven-thirty in the evening. This is awful...can't believe I drank this much, and in the middle of the day.

She wasn't sure how long she stayed in the bathroom; she puttered there for a time, washing her hands and face, playing with her hair, checking out the lid of the toilet tank (no International Male catalogue), and other caches of interesting Mulder paraphernalia. She studied the contents of his medicine cabinet, which boasted a scruffy collection of ancient medicines. She sniffed his shaving brush (shaving brush?), and tested the edge on his razor (sharp). Peeked into the magazine basket under the nearly empty toilet paper roll--no pornography there; they were mostly MUFON newsletters and back issues of Scientific American. An odd combination. But very Mulder. His shower curtain was free of mildew, his bathtub relatively clean, his bath mat rather disgusting, but at least not hairy.

Abandoning her research here, she returned back through the bedroom and contemplated its contents in the light from bathroom: the neatly made bed, the dim forms of the dresser and bookshelves. She pushed open the closet door slightly, sent her gaze searchingly across the suits, down to the shoes, up to the storage shelf. Very organized, Fox Mulder's closet. She smiled to herself, nudged the door back to its original position and began to leave the room. But in front of the tall dresser she halted as if a magnetic attraction had tickled her. She glanced at the doorway to the living room, then quietly slid open the top drawer.

It was dark; the fall day was short and had erased itself into shadows despite the early hour. She couldn't see much, so she lifted the contents by handfuls into the light from the bath. Briefs. . .ordinary briefs...men's briefs...striped boxers...and something silky...hmm. Very tasteful, Mulder. Black silk--fine silk, too. Decorated with cream bows and beads and ribboned trim. Where the hell does he get the money for this stuff? She rubbed the filmy bit of fabric between her fingers with irritation and a touch of envy. Thirty bucks, minimum, she judged; and probably closer to forty. Dropping the panties, she dipped further into the drawer and came up with a garter belt, then another. Stockings too, and more panties....

"Want me to put them on?" came a sultry whisper from the doorway. Voice like fine sandpaper rubbed across wood, or like the nearly subvocal growl of a teasing lion. Low. Sensual.

Scully swallowed, feeling like a much smaller cat caught with a bird in its mouth. Did the cat feel guilty, though? She cleared her throat, and incredibly found the brass and presence of mind to say, "Is that your question for me?"

Mulder laughed. "Nope. I'm not that easy."

"Really?" She traced the outline of his form in the doorway; orangish lamp light and a flickering corona from the television edged his shoulders and neck, and followed the linen flow of his dress down to his legs. He looked easy. He looked at ease, in a way she wished she could be. What was the matter with her, anyway--with Dana Katherine Scully--that she should be less at ease with herself than a man wearing a dress? Maybe it was aimless self-flagellation, but for a few seconds she looked into herself, into those feelings she kept compressed and packed away like the half-forgotten contents of a hope chest, and she felt frustrated and baffled at the contrast between her and Mulder.

Would she want to trade problems with him, though? Not on my life.

She was holding a deep red garter belt. "Do you wear these when you're making love with a woman?" Scully heard herself blurt. Her face flushed immediately, and her mind was flooded with a shockingly explicit image of Mulder wrist-tied to his bed, his long lanky form stretching and gleaming with arousal, his lower body decked out in full feminine regalia and straddled by some strange bimbo.

"Um, sometimes. Now and then." Mulder wasn't sure why, but he found the question discomforting. Maybe it was because it fell outside the ritual borders of their game. It struck him suddenly just how much he'd told his partner--his tiny, authoritative, sharp-eyed, red-haired, dangerously incisive partner--whom he would continue to work beside every single day....

Mulder panicked and felt a wild, deep stab of paranoia, but managed to restrain his first impulse to pounce and grab the underthings from Scully's hands. "Uh, do you want to borrow those or--?" He gave her a facile, questioning look.

Scully closed the drawer, followed him back into the living room. "I should go home, Mulder," she said. Her voice held a stiff note of depression that she knew was irrational but couldn't loosen.

"Go home? You'd have to take a taxi--I'm not letting you drive. And I can't drive you. I'm drunk."

"You're drunk?"

"I am drunk." Mulder nodded, smiled.

Scully smiled back wryly, then said unexpectedly, "You're cute when you're drunk."

Mulder cocked his head. His body was very still, his eyes very bright. "Scully, did you just say what I think you said?"

"No, Mulder."

He paused. "You can lie down on the bed, you know."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Scully. You know I'm not going to come on to you...don't you?"

"I know...I can take a taxi back tomorrow. Pick up my car."

"Truth or dare, Scully."

He was standing very near. Scully forced herself to look up at him, at the lucid honest green eyes, the incredibly open face. It seemed to bathe her in the glow of its own inner light, strong as the illumination of a full moon and with as much pull to madness. No, Mulder. I don't want to play anymore.

"Truth."

"Do you want to stay...do you want..." He trailed to silence, held her eyes gently in his own cradling gaze.

Scully caught her breath, drew herself up and in, a soldier girding up once again under the heavy weight of armor. She smiled, a small practiced smile.

"No, Mulder."

And though his eyes said clearly he knew she lied, he nodded once. And he called a taxi for her.

End