From: Kirsten Kerkhof 
Date: Mon, 10 May 1999 13:22:39 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: new story: "Scully's List"

Title: "Scully's List" 
Author: Kirsten Kerkhof  
Category: V, MSR 
Keywords: MSR 
Rating: PG to PG-13. Nothing worse I guess. 
Spoilers: Tiny one for FTF -- if you can find it. 
Summary: Sometimes even Mulder and Scully are lucky. But Scully 
realises they can be more. 
Feedback.: Guess so, why not, eh? ;-) at  
Disclaimer: *sob sob* no, they're not mine (maybe that's just as well ...), 
they belong to CC, DD, GA, 1013 productions and Fox. The sheriff is 
mine, but I'm sure he feels more at home in his little American town 
than here with me. 
Note: Not my first fic, but you probably already noticed (or not, in either 
case, send me feedback). English ain't my native language & although I 
really really try, I sometimes do make mistakes. So sorry ... 
 
*~*~* 
"Scully's List" 
by Kirsten Kerkhof 
*~*~* 
 
     You know, sometimes even Mulder and I get lucky. In an entirely 
professional manner of speaking of course. 
     Here we are, stuck in the no-name little town of Middleofnowhere, 
Idunno, investigating a serial murder case with possible paranormal 
phenomena surrounding everything, and I'm happy. Yes, folks, you 
heard me right, Dana Katherine Scully is happy. So happy in fact that, 
even though it's the middle of the night, even though the sheets on this 
motel bed don't smell like they've seen the contents of a box of washing 
powder anytime recently, even though we haven't found all the victims' 
bodies yet, I consider myself a pretty lucky person. And I'm smiling 
widely with it. Too bad Mulder isn't here to share it with me right now, 
but I decide this thought is probably counter-productive anyway, so I 
ignore it. 
     I'm glad this case ended the way it did. We caught the murdering 
sonofabitch and since he confessed having killed those people, coupled 
with the fact that he's plum-fucking crazy, we had him locked up in the 
nearest loon and goon institute before he even knew what was happening 
to him. Investigation over, case closed, job done. We can go  home and 
thank you very much 
     Please, understand me correctly, it's not like this hardly ever 
happens 
to us. We have a phenomenal solve-rate. One of the best in the Bureau's 
in fact, it's well in the eighties, it often even takes a break and travels 
into the nineties, but closing a case doesn't always mean we feel good 
about it. 
     Closing a case may mean we got the killer only because he didn't 
have any people left to kill and decided to make it easy for us. 
     Closing a case may mean one of us had no choice but to shoot the 
suspect, leaving us with the uncomfortable feeling of an open end. Of 
never really knowing what went on in that mind of his. 
     Closing a case may also mean having to helplessly watch your partner 
get so much into the criminal's head you're afraid to let him anywhere 
near a gun. These are the scariest cases to me because I have practically 
no control over them. 
     Each and every one of these options, and there are plenty more 
similar examples I can give you, mean we've closed the case and upped 
our solve-rate. But they don't make you feel good and at times like these 
I'm not proud of my job. It may sound bizarre to you, but it's not what I 
joined the FBI for. And sadly, these ways of closing the file are much 
more common than finding the killer before he's had his chance to strike 
again, like we've done this time. 
     I needed this. 
     I needed to feel this way, feel like this time I really did what I 
wanted 
to do the day I joined the Bureau: stop crime, protect society. Make sure 
the bad guys get caught and the good guys get to live without having to 
worry about a thing. 
     And it definitely wasn't to see your partner travel through hell and 
back because he desperately needs to know how this thug's mind works. 
     Speaking of partners, I turn my head to the connecting door as I'm 
lying here on the thin mattress of my bed. The door which leads to 
Mulder's room. Mulder is always in the room next to me. I know that he 
has a reason for this which he'd never ever tell me, but I know the reason 
anyway: he'll never forgive himself if anything happens to me and he 
hasn't been near me to help. Hell, he'd never forgive himself anyway, but 
I suspect at least it helps him to sleep at night. 
     I hear no sounds coming from the adjacent room, although a slit 
between the door and the floor reveals a flickering blue-ish light. He 
probably left the television on, the sound muted. I wonder if he's asleep. 
     We celebrated our victory earlier this evening with dinner in the 
town's local pub would-be restaurant. Okay, so it wasn't the Ritz, but they 
served decent well-prepared American food, the wine was acceptably 
chilled and, more importantly, Mulder was having a good time. That is 
my favourite Mulder, the one who smiles. And he smiled a lot tonight. 
     I think it was about half-way through dinner when we were 
interrupted by the sheriff, telling us he was sorry to bother us, but 
another body had been found and he couldn't reach us by phone -- we 
had left our cell-phones in our rooms -- and whether I would be 
interested in doing the autopsy. Before I had had even the slightest 
opportunity to reply, Mulder cut in, telling the sheriff he was sure I'd 
love to, but that we'd get back to him later, say the following morning. I 
had looked at the man with a look of apology on my face, agreeing with 
Mulder, but for some vague reason not overly keen on telling the men so. 
     You see, that's just another problem with me: Mulder. What do I feel 
for him? Do I feel anything for him? 
      
     I sigh, remembering the little speech I got from Ellen, my best 
friend. 
Some time ago she invited me over for an evening of girl-talk and, 
naturally, some time during the evening we struck upon the subject of my 
relationship with Mulder, such as it were. And she had made it clear to 
me, in no uncertain terms I might add, that, when we cut through all the 
barriers and other crap I'd found to keep Mulder and myself apart, I 
really had nothing to keep me from trying. Trying and see what things 
would be like between Mulder and me. 
     Problem is, basically I'm a coward. We both are. 
     She told me to do what I thought was right. And there's a lot I feel 
is 
right when it comes to Mulder. It doesn't require the assistance of a 
clairvoyant to see that I love him and that he loves me back just as much. 
If you want to know the truth, we're the main contributors to the Bureau's 
gossip mill -- in fact, everyone knows we've already done 'it', except for 
little ol' us... But the fact that I love him -- am in love with him -- 
doesn't 
necessarily mean we have to jump into bed together. Of course, I 
wouldn't mind if we did, but it's not imperative. Which happens to suit 
me just fine. 
     I hear sounds coming from the room next door. So he isn't asleep. I 
wonder what he's wearing. 
     Deciding that I probably won't sleep much either and that I might as 
well go to him, I get out of bed and softly walk to the connecting door. I 
don't open it right away, although I know the door is unlocked. We never 
close the connecting door when on a case, it's a habit. I softly knock. 
     "Mulder, are you awake?" 
     I hear his footsteps come closer and then the door is opened. I run my 
eyes over the length of him, I can't help it. He's wearing just sweatpants, 
that's all. His hair is an unruly mess and he has just the faintest shadow 
of beard on his jaw. He looks sleepy. He looks nothing like your next-
door fed. He looks absolutely mouth-wateringly gorgeous. 
     "Scully, what's wrong?" he asks, his voice sleepy and slightly rough 
around the edges. Mmm, so it was a mistake to come here after all. I 
decide I don't really care though. 
     I shake my head. "Nothing's wrong. Can I come in?" 
     He opens the door wider to let me in, absently rubbing the back of his 
neck with his hand, then running it backwards through his hair. It makes 
the strands stand on end in the cutest way I know. "Yeah, sure, come in." 
     He walks ahead of me after he's closed the door and sits down on the 
bed crossed-legged. For a second I hesitate, then I follow him and sit 
down beside him, my back against the headboard. 
     He's wearing the familiar concerned look on his face and I want to 
make it disappear. Tonight there is no need for that. I adjust my pyjama-
top and smile at him. He smiles back. 
     "I know I probably should go back," I say, not making, however, the 
slightest move to put my words into actions. He doesn't say a thing. I 
move a little closer to him and look at him. Smile, then look away. 
     A comfortable silence falls. I hear his calm breathing an I feel 
reassured by it. This is good. 
     "Uhm, thanks for telling the sheriff I'd get back to him," I say. 
Mulder smiles. 
     "He did have that look on his face." 
     "What look?" 
     "The look that lures you to the local autopsy bay no matter where we 
are." 
     "There is such a look?" I ask, more than just a little surprised. 
There 
is? I didn't know about that. 
     "Yeah. You know, the one telling you they've got a really interesting 
stiff. Triggers the Doctor Scully mode every time," he says. "It's so easy 
to get you slicin' and dicin', works each and every time." 
     I smile, but do not respond. I don't think he really expects a 
response 
anyway and what could I say anyway? He knows as well as I do that he's 
right. 
     "How's your hand?" I ask instead. Doctor Scully's never far away. 
     He lifts his left hand and shows it to me. The bandage is still well 
in 
place and at least no blood is visible. I touch my fingers to it and it 
causes a whimper from my patient. 
     "It was a nasty cut," I say, slightly unnecessarily, but he doesn't 
seem 
to mind. He nods. I'm pretty sure he remembers quite vividly how he got 
it in the first place. 
     We were chasing the murdering bastard through the woods behind his 
house when Mulder got his hand whipped by a branch covered in some 
really vicious thorns. The sheriff, whom I suspect of having been a 
member of the American Olympic sprint team before he signed up as law 
enforcement officer in this little town, continued the chase. He had the 
puffing, overweight guy in cuffs in no time. I, meanwhile, had made it to 
Mulder who was standing with his right hand firmly clasping his left 
wrist, his teeth practically biting through his bottom lip to keep from 
screaming, shouting, cursing or whatever other action it was he didn't 
want to share with the world. Dark droplets of blood seeped through his 
fingers onto the dark forest ground. It must have hurt like a bitch. 
     I put my clean handkerchief around his hand and although the cloth 
made a lousy bandage, at least it served well to get us back in town 
where I could clean the wound and bandage it properly. 
     I take a look at his hand and softly press on the flesh around the 
bandage. He whimpers again and I smile. 
     "Sorry for that." 
     "'s Okay," he says, but clearly not wholeheartedly. 
     I'm pleased with what I see. There are no swellings or red blotches 
that should give me a reason to worry. 
     "Did you have the doctor check it out yet?" I ask and somehow I'm 
not surprised when he shakes his head and answers, "I want Doctor 
Scully to do it." 
     His voice is softer than I had anticipated and something inside me 
liquefies at the sound. It's so full of hope and trust. He holds his 
injured 
hand out to me in invitation and I carefully undo the bandage. It's what I 
expected which is good. The wound is clean and even though the edges 
are raw and frayed -- thorns hardly ever leave a clean cut after all -- I'm 
fairly confident there won't be much of a scar visible in the end. 
     Mulder must have seen my pleased expression and gathered some 
courage from it for he lifts his eyes from his hand to my face and smiles. 
     "Kiss to make it well again?" he asks in a hopeful voice. 
     How can I resist? 
     I lift his hand to my lips and carefully press a soft kiss on the 
bruised 
skin. It tastes faintly of iron and I have to suppress the urge to taste 
his 
skin with my tongue. The scar is throbbing and a bit hotter than the flesh 
around it and I can taste the blood just under the tender new skin. 
     A last brief touch to my lips and then I lie his hand back down. I 
smile up at him, a bit shyly, but I'm reassured by the gentle look I see in 
his eyes. I guess we're both thinking the same, feeling that, when it 
comes down to it and we forget about the problems, we're a pretty lucky 
couple. 
     "You know, Mulder, I've been thinking," I say. He's quiet now, but in 
a good way. He's relaxed and he seems comfortable where he is. 
     "You have?" 
     I nod. 
     "About what?" 
     I don't speak right away, but take some time thinking. Then I look at 
him quite seriously. 
     "We survived this." 
     He nods, but doesn't say anything. 
     I look at my hands. "I mean, it could've ended very differently." I 
take 
a deep breath. The memories aren't pleasant. "That bastard fired nine or 
ten rounds at us." I sigh. 
     The Fates must have had their day off, it's about the only explanation 
I can give. After all, if I may be so cynical, if there was one day we 
'deserved' to get killed by gunfire, it was today. But we weren't. We 
didn't 
even get hurt. And I'm not counting Mulder's hand now, because even 
that looks petty compared to what could have been. 
     I see him nod very slowly. 
     "We could both have been killed," he says. 
     "Or worse still, it could've been just you who'd gotten killed," I say 
very softly. It escapes my mouth before I realised it and maybe I didn't 
say it at all, just thought it very very strongly, I don't know. Point is, 
it is 
true and it's the one absolute terror I know: losing Mulder and having to 
carry on by myself. I sigh deeply. 
     "Mulder, when did we start taking all this for granted?"  
     I look up at him and see him frown. "I've never taken you for granted, 
Scully," he says and I know he means it. 
     I shake my head. It was not what I meant. "Not each other," I say. 
"It's the fact that we come out alive each and every time which I think 
we've begun to think of as a given, as a fact of life. It scares me, 
Mulder." 
     He looks at me. Then he nods slowly once. "It's dangerous," he says. 
     I nod and for a moment we are silent. I feel his arm slowly come 
round my shoulder, slowly, giving me time to stop him. But I don't want 
to stop him. And then he gently pulls me closer, making my head rest on 
the place where his shoulder meets his chest. I can feel his heart, smell 
his scent, feel the calm rise and fall of his ribcage as he breathes. He 
feels warm, strong and so wonderfully alive. 
     Sitting here in his embrace I think back a few weeks. I was in my 
apartment, enjoying one of those rare moments of no commitments or 
appointments. I had changed into pyjama pants and the faded FBI-
Academy sweat shirt I keep for just such occasions. Coffee was steaming 
in the mug on the coffee table and I had curled up on my couch with one 
of those pulp novels I'd never ever admit to Mulder of having and 
enjoying ... 
     It was a historic novel, set in 18th-century Britain. The beautiful, 
free-spirited Lady Mariama -- I've never understood where authors got 
these names from -- was destined to marry the noble Lord Edward 
Redclyffe, who, naturally, was very handsome and strong and of obvious 
noble breeding. But of course the young lady didn't like him at all until 
they had spent some time together and found that physical beauty, at 
least in these stories, usually conquers all character problems. They fell 
passionately in love and all was well that ended well. Never knew life 
could be this easy. 
     I felt so comfortable sitting there in my neat clean apartment, 
wearing 
these non-restrictive off-duty clothes and enjoying my rare but cherished 
off-time. It was at that moment that I missed having Mulder around. 
     I feel him take a deep breath under me and then he holds me a little 
tighter. I feel his head droop down to rest lightly on mine. I keep my 
arms around his chest and I feel like we're inside a cocoon, small and 
sheltered and not at all claustrophobic. It's so safe here. 
     You know, when I was reading that novel, though I hardly dare call it 
a novel, I pictured Lord Edward as Mulder. From the description the 
author had given they certainly shared some of the physical 
characteristics; the hazel eyes which sometimes could see right through 
you and bare your soul, but which could be so warm and compassionate 
at the same time; the unruly brown hair that made you die to run your 
fingers through it, to see whether it really was as soft as you always 
thought, knew it was. The fine muscular body, the strong arms. The 
independent will and free spirit. That last bit was the real clue for me. 
It's Mulder's seeming disregard for other people's opinions of him that 
still amazes me, makes me admire him. He does what he thinks is right, 
even when the rest of the world tap their foreheads and say he's insane. 
My Mulder doesn't care. 
     Wait a sec, did I say 'my' Mulder? 
     Lord Edward was very much what Mulder is. It's a pity I didn't look 
very much like the noble lady. 
     "What are you thinking, Scully?" he asks softly. 
     I shake my head against his bare chest. "Not much," I answer. I turn 
my head so that I can look at him and yes, there's the look in his eyes I 
could kill for. The look that tells me he loves me, that I'm important to 
him, that he really wants to hold me because I suit him. It's a wonderful 
look to see at three in the morning ... 
     Nope, I'm nothing like the bold Mariama, or else I would have kissed 
him ages ago. These eyes certainly make me want to ... Instead I raise 
my hand and tentatively run it through his hair. It's anything but a bold 
movement, I'm not very sure of myself, but I want to do this. I really 
really want to do this. And considering the position I'm in right now, it 
can hardly be described as a dangerous daring move anyway. 
     He dips his head a bit as though he's encouraging me. It gives me 
ample opportunity to keep my hand in the back of his neck and I do, 
combing lightly through the hair there. His hair is still too long, I think 
and smile. 
     It always has been, at least when we take FBI regulations in regard. 
The Bureau likes a man's haircut to be short. Severe. Gives a man a 
sense of dignity, and respect. Mulder never cared. He never got much in 
the sense of respect anyway once he left his booming career in the  
Behavioral Science Unit and became known as 'Spooky' Mulder who 
chased little green aliens with a badge and a gun. I wonder if that was 
the moment he decided to let his hair get longer. I don't know, I guess I 
could ask him, but it can wait. I'm glad, though, that his hair is 
somewhat longer than usual, I've seen pictures of him crew-cut and truth 
be told, he may not look totally ridiculous, but he definitely scores lower 
on the 'scrumptious scale', that's for sure. 
     I feel the colour rise to the roots of my hair. 
     Oh God, did I really think that? I really do have it bad ... 
     I feel his hand creep up my arm, cupping my shoulder just where it 
meets my neck and then he looks at me. 
     "You're thinking again." 
     I nod. "Mm-mm." 
     "You're thinking a lot," he says, his voice slightly, strangely raw 
around the edge. 
     I nod again, but this time I keep my mouth firmly shut. The timbre in 
his voice triggered a few responses in my body that make speech very 
very dangerous. 
     "Why?" he asks. I shrug a little. I don't know. Why do I think? Why 
do people think? 
     I feel him look away from me and then he speaks again. "I've been 
thinking, too." 
     I raise my eyebrows. You have? I don't speak, though, feeling his 
hand travel slightly further north and landing in my neck. I seem to 
recall a certain moment in our history together when we were in about 
the same position, the circumstances, however, being totally different. Is 
the same going to happen now? If so, I'm quite determined to change the 
course of events after the initial move and make the outcome finally 
happen. Luckily for me I'm fairly sure Mulder feels the same. 
     "You know, I've been thinking about what you just said. About taking 
all this for granted," he says. He turns slightly towards me and looks at 
me. His other hand comes up to join the hand already cupping my neck. 
The touch is gentle, so much so in fact that I can barely feel they're 
there 
at all. "And you were right. This is dangerous. You are right by being 
scared by it. It terrifies me as well." 
     His whole posture makes me half-and-half expect him to lean in for a 
kiss, but he doesn't Apparently he's not finished yet. 
     "Of course one shouldn't be over-protective," he continues and I can't 
help protesting. He smiles when he sees it. That is a weird thing to hear 
from the one person in my life who's definitely over-protective of me. "I 
know, I know," he hurries to admit, "I know I'm often too protective. But 
..." He stops for a moment. Then he takes a deep breath. "Our lives are 
pretty dangerous, you pointed that out yourself. And maybe, just maybe, 
I'm afraid we're making some kind of mistake." He pauses, then 
continues. "You know, the chances of us dying quietly and peacefully of 
old age aren't as great as they once were. And what if our hesitation, our 
reluctance to act, somehow ... will avenge itself at a certain moment? 
We'd be missing much ... I'm afraid of that, of missing something 
beautiful which could have been ..." 
     I understand exactly what he means. 
     "Yeah, me too," I say softly. I smile at him and softly comb my 
fingers through the silken strands of his hair. "I've been wanting to do 
that for a very long time." 
     He smiles a true beaming close-lipped smile. There's a very pleasant 
message conveyed in that smile. 
      
     "You can do the same with me, you know, if you'd like to." 
     His lips part and I expect him to say something, but instead he merely 
smiles. Then he surprises me by shaking his head. 
     No? 
     "I've already done that, Scully," he says and I understand. "I mean, 
of 
course I really like it, but ..." 
     "You do touch me more than I touch you, that's true," I say. Maybe 
it's his almost complete disregard for what other people think that makes 
him do what he wants. I always feel the eyes of the world on me, taking 
in and appraising my every move. Mulder doesn't care, he simply does 
whatever he likes, to hell with the world. It must be so much easier to 
live that way ... 
     "I do like holding you though," he says. "We don't do that nearly 
often enough." 
     "No, we don't," I answer. 
     Why not? It's strange really, the fact that despite our strong 
friendship 
we hardly ever come close to one another. 
     "I'd like to change that, if you feel the same way," he continues. 
      I nod, slowly at first, then a little more enthusiastically. "Yes. 
Yes, 
I'd love to." 
     He smiles widely. "Great!" It's wonderful to see him smile so much. 
"We will take this at your pace, Scully, we don't need to hurry anything." 
He gently cups my cheek in his palm and looks me in the eyes. He's 
serious now. "We can take this one step at a time," he whispers. But the 
words have barely left his lips when we both grin, knowingly. Like hell 
we will ... 
     "We've never been any good at planning, have we?" he grins and I 
shake my head. 
     "We're lousy planners. Something always crosses our paths and ruins 
all of our original theories," I smile back. Yes that, and the fact that we 
tend to throw ourselves at things 100%. Taking things step by step 
doesn't work very well with that ... 
     Seems like I'm going to get my kiss after all. That's even better. 
     Mulder brings our faces closer and I feel a few nerve endings get all 
active and excited. I honestly can't blame them. 
     "Thought you might like to know that the Bureau's policy says 
nothing about partners getting involved in an intimate relationship," he 
says and smiles. 
     My mind works a bit slower now that his mouth is so close to mine, 
but I manage to answer him, be it a little more strained than normal. "It 
doesn't?" 
     He shakes his head. "No, it's just not encouraged. It dulls your edge, 
make you less aware of the existing rules apparently." 
     I smile widely, looking up at him, my lips now only millimetres away 
from his. "Good thing you taught me to ignore the rules then," I whisper 
and brush my lips across his for the first time. The touch is electric. 
     My heart leaps when I see his heart-warming smile. God, I really do 
love this man. 
     "So I had some effect on you then after all?" 
     I nod. "Oh yeah, lots. Lots and lots." I'm about to tell him more, but 
then I catch his expression and know sometimes words can be simply too 
superfluous. "Can I have my kiss now?" Love must have made me bold. 
     His head snaps up and his look is surprised. I expected that. I'm 
pretty 
certain he never thought I'd say such a thing. Then he laughs. "Oh yeah, 
you can have it." But, just before our lips touch again, he pauses and 
looks at me. 
     "Was this on your list, too?" 
     I frown. "My list?" 
     "Yes, the list of 'Things I Want To Do With Mulder Before I Die'?" 
     I chuckle. "Definitely." Then I pull him to me. "Don't think about it. 
Just enjoy." 
     I barely hear his "I will." before we touch in a sweet and tender 
kiss. 
     Yes, Mulder, this was most certainly on my list of 'Things To Do'. 
Actually, there are plenty more items I still want to address, but you were 
right, we can do this one step at a time. Why hurry when we have all the 
time in the world? 
     After all, aren't we the luckiest people on the face of the planet?  
 
THE END 
 
P.S. Feedback makes me smile and annoys my teacher. Please send me 
some 'cause he thinks I wouldn't dare to write this! I have to prove him 
wrong ...