TITLE: A Plan Well Made
AUTHOR: Flynn
CLASSIFICATION: MSR, mild MT
DATE: April 15, 2003
E-MAIL: flyn121@yahoo.com
ARCHIVING: Unlike Surferboy, I was taught to share my toys. Please
keep author and headers attached, and let me know where to visit.
WEBSITE: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/
FEEDBACK: Almost as good as caffeine in the morning, and just as
addictive. 
RATING: PG for adult language and themes.
SPOILERS: Amor Fati, Hungry, Rush; call it all of early S7 
DISCLAIMER: Archetypes belong to Carter. Besides, you know what
they say about the sincerest form of flattery, right?

Scribbler's note: I'm experiencing a time-warp of sorts. Season 7 is
where it's at for me these days. Flirting, friendship, burgeoning love ....
what more in life is there?

<tipping hat to Christine. > Thanks for Monterey, the linens, and
yourself, babe. You're the greatest.

~~~~~
A Plan Well Made
by Flynn
~~~~~


It was always something.

Every year he promised himself he would remember, and every year
something came up and blew that promise out of the water. One year it
was a division audit. Never a fun thing. Once they were in Florida,
chasing .... well, make that being chased *by* .... invisible creatures
hell-bent on displaying their carcasses like trophies. Once they were too
busy investigating a vengeful golem to worry about birthdays. 

Something always came up. This year was no different. They were in
San Francisco, right in the heart of sunny California. Only this being the
dead of winter, "sunny" didn't really apply. Not to the weather.
Certainly not to his partner's mood - in two days, he hadn't seen her so
much as crack a smile. Still, he was determined to make the best of it.
All right, so they were there on business. At least it was the kind of
business that involved warm courthouses. He wasn't freezing his ass off
wrestling deader-than-dead ghouls in the basement of some nutcase
bible-beater. Enough of that, already. Besides, her moods he could deal
with. Seven years together had taught him a little about *that.*

It was the bread and butter of their chosen professions, what brought
them there. Not every case they worked dealt with the supernatural,
although those were the ones that he - and, he suspected, *she -* really
lived for. This was a straight forward investigation-and-profiling case.
Well, sort of straight forward. Certainly more so than, say, a brain-
sucking mutant who flipped burgers for his day job. This one involved a
man whose chosen form of entertainment was killing prostitutes and
saving their hair - and their scalps - as mementos. The two of them had
done the actual work more than a year ago. By the time they were on
the plane headed home, the perpetrator - a middle-aged accountant who
had been bald from birth - was very unhappily ensconced in the local
lockup.

Now they were there to help put him away for the rest of his life.

The plan was fairly simple. Spend the day in court listening to Scully
testify as to her findings in the autopsies. His profile of the suspect had
already been read into the record, but he had to be on hand himself just
in case the defense team decided to call him to the stand, which was
unlikely. Then, after they'd done their bit and helped send a modern-day
monster to prison, they would have a few hours to themselves until their
flight out Thursday morning. He already had reservations at one of the
city's better restaurants. Dinner, a little wine, maybe some dancing ....

And cake. Birthday cake. Chocolate, about six layers of it. Maybe he'd
even alert the manager so they would gather around and sing her one of
those silly songs. The thought made him smile like a kid at Christmas.

It was Scully's birthday. For once, for just this once, he not only
remembered, he was actually going to do something to celebrate it with
her. For real. Oh, there had been that one time in DC when he'd given
her that key chain .... but that had immediately been followed by
tragedy, so did it really count as a celebration? Max Fenig dying when
the plane he was on crashed into the ground? Agent Pendrell, who just
happened to love Scully even more than her partner did, bleeding to
death on the floor of what had at the time been Mulder's favorite
watering hole? Well, nothing like that was going to happen this year.
Nothing was going to spoil it. This year ....

Well, it was different this year. *Everything* was different. Not so very
long ago, Mulder had all but sworn his devotion to here there in the
hallway of his apartment, and she had all but accepted his love, lock,
stock, and barrel. Then there was the little matter of that kiss. Yes,
world, Fox Mulder actually touched his partner's mouth for some
reason other than medical necessity. All right, so they hadn't exactly set
any records that night. It *was* a first kiss. It had done everything a first
kiss is supposed to do. It was a gesture of affection. A notice of intent.
So what that she hadn't exactly swooned with desire? Or that he hadn't
found the courage since to try it again? Baby steps, right? What was the
hurry?

The next time would be different. The next time he kissed her, it would
steal her breath away.

The plan was set. Work first, then dinner, then cake and a kiss.

Unfortunately, insomnia plagued him the night before, as it so often did.
Unable to sleep, he occupied himself in the usual ways: watching TV,
doing innumerable push-ups on the floor beside the bed, and lying
motionless in the dark and musing quietly on his partner. He thought of
all that she had been through. He wondered what had compelled her to
become a doctor. What had possessed her to join the Bureau. What
made her stay with him. Most importantly, what made her stay with him.

Introspection came easily in the middle of the night.

Sleep remained elusive until well after two. At least, that was the last
time he remembered looking at the clock. When he did finally sleep, he
slept hard. He woke even harder. Literally. Nothing new there. Morning
erections were just something that happened. Given suffient time, they
could even be agreeable. Trouble was, with his partner practically
shouting his name as she pounded on the adjoining door which he'd
unfortunately forgotten to unlock the night before, he could do nothing
to immediately resolve the condition. In fact, when he finally made it to
the door and she brushed past him trailing perfume and wearing an
expression of thinly-veiled impatience, there was precious little he could
do to *hide* the condition.

It was not what he would call an auspicious beginning to the day:
standing there with his hair rumpled and spiking in all directions, his
eyes still bleary with sleep, and morning wood tenting the front of his
jersey boxers. With any luck she'd be too pissed to notice. If not ....
well, she *was* a doctor.

She *was* pissed. Clearly. "Dammit, Mulder, how difficult is it to set a
frigging alarm clock?" Arms crossed. Chin jutted. Eyes practically
drilled right through his to the back of his head.

He gaped helplessly. No, definitely not the time for a rousing *Happy
birthday, Scully.*

She spun away and threw herself into the armchair beside the bed. "It's
after eight, in case you give a damn. We're supposed to check in at the
courthouse in an hour, and we still have to deal with mid-town traffic.
How long are you going to be?"

Flushed with embarrassment, he turned away and tossed the blankets
over the rumpled bed. Let her stare at his ass if she wanted - at least *it*
wasn't going to stare back. "Look," he sighed, "I'm sorry I overslept. I
know it's an inconvenience, but from where I'm at, it's a pretty damned
minor one. At least I *got* to sleep. Did you?" He spared her a glance
over his shoulder. Ooo, maybe that wasn't such a wise thing to ask. Her
gaze visibly hardened, and her lips, already pressed thin in anger, all but
disappeared. He sighed as he dug around in his suitcase. "I'll be ready in
fifteen minutes. Do me a favor, would you, and call the kitchen for some
coffee."

She snorted softly. "I'm not going anywhere, Mulder." He looked at her
again, but she waved him away. "As soon as I leave the room, the TV
goes on and fifteen minutes become thirty. We don't have time for
ESPN this morning." She looked at her watch and swore again. "As a
matter of fact, we should be on our way right now."

He clenched his teeth until his jaws ached. Once in the bathroom with
the door safely locked behind him, he turned the water on in the shower,
then stood for a moment and looked at himself in the mirror. Spiky hair,
a thick growth of morning beard, and a rapidly softening shlong.
Dancing on the brink of forty, and the closest thing he had to a real thing
was barely speaking to him. He sighed. *Baby,* he thought sourly as he
reached for his toothbrush, *it just doesn't get any better than this.*

Things followed a steady decline from there. It was pouring rain, and
only when he reached for his umbrella did Mulder remember he hadn't
brought it. 

Because of the storm, it took almost half an hour to get a cab. 

They were late getting to the courthouse. 

The bailiff, a hulking behemoth with a neck measurement greater than
the average tax payer's IQ, openly flirted with his partner. To make it
even worse, she actually smiled back. 

The biggest distraction, however, resulted not from her behavior, but
from her choice of attire. It was a dark suit with a severe cut that, in
addition to highlighting the ivory beauty of her complexion, absolutely
celebrated her curves. The skirt was slitted up the back so that it not
only hugged her ass, it also revealed a generous sliver of thigh when she
walked. God, why couldn't she have chosen something more sedate?
Mulder felt a sharp nudge from down below, and he bit back a groan as
he followed her down the hall to Witness Holding. Yeah, he was staring.
What man with any interest in the opposite sex wouldn't? 

Thankfully, a guy could hide a multitude of sins behind loose-fitting
slacks and a stony expression. Something else he'd learned down
through the years.

The day continued in a downward spiral. Late in the morning he was
called to the stand, where for an hour his profile of the suspect was
examined under a microscope. Then, after a cross-examination that left
him unsure of anything, starting with whether the earth was flat or round
and from there extending to his own sense of professional worth, the
defense team called their own expert witness, who stated unequivocally
that the man in question was a victim of circumstance. He wasn't a
sociopath with latent psychopathic impulses. His collection of human
hair was nothing more than a harmless if slightly odd hobby. He'd
discovered those four scalps in a curio shop down on Wabash. He
certainly hadn't procured them himself. He wasn't the crazed killer the
cops were making him out to be. He was merely eccentric. No law
against being eccentric. After all, how many people indulged in
behaviors that on the surface seemed a little peculiar? Things like
investigating Bigfoot sightings, or interviewing people who claimed to
have been taken away by bright lights?

It was excruciating. God damned defense attorneys and their snooping
private eyes. Sitting alone in the gallery, Mulder could only cover his
mouth and silently fume. *Who's the fucking criminal here?* For just an
instant he considered taking the stand in his own defense. All right, so
he hadn't actually *seen* Bigfoot. He *had* seen enough physical
evidence to convince him that the ugly s.o.b. was out there somewhere.
And the bit about the bright lights - well, that he *had* seen with his
own eyes, and on more than one occasion. His own sister had been
taken right in front of him. So he was just a kid at the time. That didn't
change the fact that it had happened, dammit!

He managed to keep his mouth shut. 

At last Scully was called to the stand. She walked slowly and with great
purpose through the packed courtroom, the very picture of poise and
professionalism. He felt his heart skip a beat as he watched her. She was
lovely. No, she was *beautiful.* That pale skin, and that hair ....

.... that God-damned skirt ....

He could practically smell the testosterone in the air. The sway of her
hips, and the clatter of those pumps .... that white, white thigh peeking
out at the world as she made her way to the witness box .... she was like
something out of a fantasy. 

She raised her chin as she was sworn in, and then for the next hour sat
there and calmly answered question after question, posed first by the
prosecution, then the defense. Restate this. Rebut that. Justify the work
that all but condemned the defendant. She was unflappable. She knew
her stuff. They kept at her, questioning and poking and trying to get her
to equivocate, and she didn't. What she did was to virtually castrate the
defense, and the bastard lawyers knew it.

When she was finally excused, the bailiff almost tripped in his haste to
get to the gate first so he could open it for her. Mulder clenched his
teeth until his molars creaked. Fucking civil servants .... 

It was a relief to finally escape the whole damned circus. The two of
them didn't say much as they hurried up the long block in search of a
cab. The rain had stopped some hours before, but a wind was picking up
again, bringing with it the smell of brine and the occasional raindrop.
Mulder sneaked a look at his partner, hoping to see a flicker of
something agreeable in her expression. Well, she wasn't about to burst
into song and dance in rain puddles or anything, he mused, but at least
she'd lost that tight, contained, frozen-to-the-core look. Was it really
that big a deal, he wanted to ask. What, so the bailiff got a little flirty.
So I puffed up a little. I didn't shoot him or anything. I glowered.
You've seen me do worse. Hell, you've done worse.

No, now definitely was not the time.

Her hand suddenly gripped his arm, effectively chasing those thoughts
into the shadows. She gestured to the street with a turn of her head.
"Here's a cab. C'mon, it's starting to rain again."

He held the door for her as she slid in across the back seat, then dropped
in after her. Hmm, not one of the roomiest cabs he'd ever been in, but at
least it was warm in there. The driver, he noticed, was watching him
expectantly in the rear view mirror. Well, he thought to himself, might
as well see if the evening can still be salvaged. He jerked his chin up.
"Hey, you know a place called Romano's?" he asked. The guy nodded
as he stomped on the accelerator, and the cab shot back out into traffic.

Scully eyed Mulder sourly as she steadied herself against him.
"Romano's? That sounds suspiciously like a bar. I don't want to go to a
bar. I just want to go back to -"

"It's a restaurant," he said, cutting her off. "Frohike says it has the best
scampi in the city."

Her nose wrinkled. "Ugh. I hate scampi."

Why was that not a surprise? He managed to curtail an exasperated sigh.
Barely. "Then order something else. C'mon, Scully, I'm hungry."

Her own sigh was deliberately loud, her voice almost gravelly as she
muttered, "I don't see why we can't just go back to the hotel and get
something from Room Service." 

He forced himself to look away, fearing she would see the burgeoning
panic in his eyes. I'll tell you why we can't, dammit. It's your birthday.
Six years I've blown it. I don't want to make it seven. Jeez, would you
please just help me out a little here?

He forced himself to relax and let his thoughts wander as first the blocks
and then the long miles slid silently past. It wasn't that long ago that
they'd been in Pennsylvania. The kid with a penchant for speed. A
baffling case, and an incomplete resolution. Nothing new there, really.
Yeah, he snorted inwardly, nothing new with the *case* - just with the
way she'd been acting towards him for .... how long? Since Africa.
That's when it started. The touching. The smiling. 

That tug on his tie, the one that seemed to be connected straight to his
heart. 

The easy grins that so effortlessly brightened his days.

The memory of her mouth under his, her nose a little cool and her breath
so wonderfully warm on his cheek .... his heart racing when she didn't
pull away .... 

He glanced at her. She was gazing unhappily out the side window,
staring at some point in space only she could see. Say something to her,
he silently urged himself. It's her birthday and she's three thousand miles
from her mom, the only person in the world who remembers. Well, so
she thinks. Summoning a smile, he gently nudged her with his elbow.
"Hey."

She blinked slowly but didn't look at him. "What?"

Not the response he was looking for. Anxiety stopped him for a
moment. Should he just say it? No, not when she was in such a black
mood. He leaned toward her a little with a conspiratorial smile. After all,
there was no need for the cabby to overhear them, right? "You look
really nice today. I didn't have much of a chance to tell you earlier."

At that she turned and pinned him with her eyes. Uncertainty warred
with amusement in her expression. Her smile was brief and strained.
"Thanks." 

Well, it wasn't much, but it was something. A beginning. Try again. She
looked at him expectantly when he took her hand. "In fact, I'd go so far
as to call you beautiful." He shrugged one shoulder. "At least, I would if
you'd let me."

That got him a smile. A genuine one. A fine tinge of pink colored her
cheeks, and she dropped her gaze to their entwined hands. "Really?" 

Was it his imagination, or was her chin quivering? More anxiety knifed
through his gut. God, not tears. I can't handle tears tonight. On impulse,
he leaned close and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Really."

She leaned into the contact, which went on a lot longer than a simple
forehead kiss normally should. At last she sat back and looked out the
window again. Her hand remained motionless in his. "I owe you an
apology," she said quietly. "Your oversleeping .... it was no big deal. I
was just .... I ...." She took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "Bill
called this morning. I guess Mom told him we were here on the coast."

Mulder felt himself tense. "What did he want?" The question was out
before he could think better of it. Shit, why else would a guy call his
sister on her birthday? Dumb. Dumb. 

She sighed, her eyes still distant. "Oh, you know. The usual. I threw
Dad's money away on a fool's errand with my choice of careers. I'm
wasting my life on a pointless mission .... oh, and there's this guy he
wants to set me up with." She snorted very softly. "Give me a break."

A cold fist settled low in Mulder's chest, just below his heart. "A guy?"

She looked at him as she nodded. "Jack Becker. A captain. On the short
list for the next round of promotions. If he makes it, he'll have his
choice of assignments. And ports. Bill's actually trying to talk him into
moving east." Her fingers slowly laced through his. "I told him I'm
officially unavailable. He didn't take the news particularly well."

She looked away again, but not before he saw a glimmer of ....
something .... in her eyes, in the twitch of her mouth. It looked like
humor. Unavailable? He found himself smiling. And suddenly able to
breathe again. "So .... this is why you've been in something of a mood
all day? Because your brother called?"

She shrugged one shoulder and answered without turning. "It was not
an argument I wanted to have today. Today of all days. And .... well, I
guess I'm feeling a little sorry for myself. Self-pity's not your own
personal bailiwick, you know, Mulder. I'm entitled once in a while,
too."

He pursed his lips and looked past her out the window. Best to let that
dig slide, a wiser voice told him. "Anything in particular, or just a
general purpose self-pity?" Shit, he just couldn't keep his mouth shut,
could he?

She dipped her head, but the corners of her mouth quirked upward. One
shoulder lifted in a half-hearted shrug. "Can't say that it matters, really."
She glanced at him again. "So this dinner we're having .... that's just a
general purpose thing, too?"

He shifted a little and tried to stretch his legs. The effort was in vain; the
cab was just too small. "Seems the thing to do, doesn't it? End of the
day, no breakfast to speak of and vending machine crap for lunch ....
why, aren't you hungry?"

Her smile faded, and her gaze turned again to the side window. "Just
wondering," she said softly.

Oh, hell. He'd have like to stretch this out at least until they got to the
restaurant, but how much fun would it be to watch his partner sit there
and cry? That wasn't why he was there. It wasn't what he wanted for
her. A smile, maybe a bit of soft laughter, a warm look .... That wasn't
too much to ask for, was it?

Slowly he leaned to one side as he slipped his hand into a side pocket of
his trench. Yes, there it was. Just as slowly, he withdrew the little
jeweler's case. Well, not so little that she'd think it contained a ring.
That'd just be too weird. She didn't move, just stared out her window.
Carefully he placed the box in her lap. "Hey," he said quietly. She
blinked as she focused on him again. He dropped his gaze to the case,
drawing hers with him. "Happy birthday, Scully."

She stared at the box for a moment, then looked up at him again. A
sheen quickly fogged her eyes, muting the startling blue. Whoa, he really
hadn't meant to cause tears. She shook her head, evidently seeing his
concern in his own eyes, and managed a tight little smile. Her chin was
quivering. Definitely quivering. A sound somewhere between a laugh
and a sob burst out of her as she fingered the velvet box. "I thought you
forgot again."

He slipped his arm around her, drawing her close. "Not a chance," he
murmured, kissing her forehead again. She sniffed, and her smile
notched up just a little. He nodded to the case. "Are you going to open
it? I promise, it's not a keychain."

A giggle. An honest to God giggle. "I wouldn't mind another one. It
wasn't really bad, as presents go." The tiny hinges creaked as she
carefully lifted the top. Her smile disappeared and her mouth fell open.
"Oh .... Mulder." She looked at him again, and he had no trouble seeing
the uncertainty in her expression. "This is too much .... I can't accept
these."

He frowned. "Why not? They're sapphires. Something a guy who's red-
green colorblind can appreciate. I got them from an estate sale on the
way to work last week, so either you accept them and say Thank you,
Mulder - or I have to get my ears pierced." He affected a deep sigh. "Do
me a favor and just take them, okay? I hear it hurts like hell when they
jab that thing through your earlobes, and you know how I am with
pain."

Her eyes were shining when she looked at him again, though this time he
suspected the tears had little to do with self-pity. "I should say no, just
for the pleasure of seeing you waltz into the Bureau wearing these." She
looked again at the studs, then carefully touched a fingertip to the facets
on the stones. "I wouldn't, though. I - well, thank you, Mulder." Her
smile grew so wide that a dimple appeared in her cheek. "See?
Unavailable."

Unavailable. She was off the market. She was his and she knew it, and
she was making sure he knew it. Was it possible for sunlight to fill up a
guy's heart? His arm tightened around her again, and this time she
allowed her cheek to rest on his shoulder. 

He couldn't think of any words to say, so he just held her and breathed
in the scent of her hair, soft and warm and damp with rain. 

He wanted to kiss her. Wanted it in the worst way. But here? No
waiters bringing food and wine, no music, no .... no cake. Here? The
back of a cab crawling up one of the innumerable hills in San Francisco?
Awash in bright lights from passing cars, the occasional horn blaring,
and a driver who was probably going to use their cab fare to bet on the
Trifecta at Bay Meadows in the morning .... This was *not* how he'd
envisioned it. Still ....

She drew back just a little and looked at him. Just looked. The smile was
still there, but it had mellowed just a tad. Her eyes held his for a long
beat before dropping to .... she was looking at his mouth. That meant
something. She was expecting it. He wasn't taking her by surprise. This
wasn't New Years; she wasn't obligated to respond to him. A cloud of
butterflies suddenly took flight in his belly. Do it. Kiss her. You know
you want to. She wants to. Do it. Do it.

He leaned. Breath was warm in his face, some amalgam that was neither
hers nor his, but both. 

A touch. She shivered, and an answering jolt shot through his nerves.
Soft my god she's so soft .... A tiny sound as their lips separated,
something so small that not even the cabby sitting a few feet away could
have heard .... She was so close, his eyes refused to focus. Close. Close.
Getting closer every second ....

Contact. Shit, this one wasn't just a tender lip-touch. This wasn't thanks
very for the bauble, I'll treasure it. This was something more. The
sweet, tender curve of her inner lip .... the barest hint of wetness .... no
pursing at all, this was soft and full and delicious and powerful ....

It was unbelievable, the effort it took to lift his head. She was gleaming,
her eyes and her lips, her face glowing and a little flushed. A smile drew
at her eyes as she studied him.

"Yeah," he murmured, breathless, as he eased himself back against the
seat. Had to put a little distance between them before it got
embarrassing. "I just .... wow."

The smile became a grin as she tipped her head to one side. "Eloquent as
ever, aren't you, partner?" She twined her fingers through his again.
"So, tell me about this place you're taking me .... it has a bar?"

He was grinning stupidly, and he just didn't care. He was a guy in love.
"Bar? Yeah, probably."

She was looking at his mouth again. "What else does it have?"

He slipped an arm back around her shoulders, drawing her close and
pressing a kiss to her brow. "Well, it has waiters ...."

"Mmm, waiters. Are they handsome?"

"Dogs, all of them." Another kiss, this one to her cheek. "Food's
Italian."

"Good?"

"The best."

She pressed her face into the well of his throat and sighed, and it
occured to him that she was actually savoring *his* scent. He found the
realization incredibly arousing. "And?" she breathed, tipping her head
back and looking at him. "Does it have a dance floor?"

He couldn't help but grin again. "You want to dance, Scully?"

She pursed her lips, and he felt beads of sweat spring up on his forehead
at the sheer sexiness of the act. "Mmm, Mulder, I thought you'd never
ask." 

This time the kiss lasted a long time. It was an offer, and an
acknowledgement. A promise of things to come. His heart beat double-
time when her arms found their way around him beneath his trench, her
hands warm on his sides and back. The kiss broke and he buried his face
in the sweep of her hair. She smelled like rain. Her cheek was warm
against his, and he didn't have to look to know she was smiling. 

He held her tight, molding her to him, wanting her so close he'd never
again be without her. The words were superfluous, but he smiled as he
said them anyway. It had taken him long enough to get there .... no
point in missing out on tradition now. "Scully?"

"Hmm?"

He drew back just enough to look at her. God, she was beautiful.
"Happy birthday."

She stroked his face and threaded her fingers through his hair. "It is
now," she breathed as she found his mouth again.

~~~~
end
~~~~