Title: Situational Claustrophobia
Author: Jaime Lyn
Email: leiaj@bellsouth.net
Rated: PG, for the occasional swear word, and semi-romantic situation.
Category: S, R, H (and a teeny, miniscule bit of A)
Keywords: MSR/UST (Yes, one of THOSE… <grin>)
Spoilers: A tiny mention of “detour.” A mention of Assitant Director Kersch.  
This occurs during season 6, but you really don’t need to have seen season 6 to 
read or understand this.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Mulder and Scully.  I don’t even come close. However, if 
you REALLY think I’m Chris Carter, then you’re more than welcome to shower me 
with attention and ask for my autograph.  I’m not him, but you can do it anyway, 
if you want. :o)
Summary: A phrase that is best defined by getting stuck too close to the person 
you often wish to be closest to.

Archival notes: Anywhere. I love seeing my story up on different archives.  Just 
email me first and let me know, so I can go and visit.  

~X~ Authors note ~X~
This is just a fun little thing that I came up with to take my mind off the fact 
that, as much as I hate to think about it, I am going back to college Monday. 
Sigh.  So, I hope you embrace this story and love it as much as I loved writing 
it.  And, if you do like it, let me know.  It would really cheer up my little 
shipper heart.  

~X~ For Jill.  Thank you for being as odd and neurotic as me :o)

“I hear the best way to regenerate body heat is to climb naked into a sleeping 
bag with someone who’s already naked.”
                   ------------ Mulder, Detour. 

Situational Claustrophobia (pt 1 of 3)
By Jaime Lyn

~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X~X
12: 58 am
The J. Edgar Hoover Building
     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In my opinion, one of the most commonly squandered trivialities of life is 
boredom.  I say this, because, actually, when you think about it, what IS 
boredom, exactly, except wasted time and under-used free space?  Time to sit and 
ponder the distinctiveness of life, time to analyze and evaluate the 
imperfection we call humanity… Time to…Well, after all, when you have nothing to 
do and plenty of time to do it in, you suddenly find yourself straddled with 
volumes of free-time.  Long, luxurious stretches of free-time that often go to 
wasted in the shadow of ‘nothing to do’.  See, my theory is, when stretches of 
monotony or apathy set in, causing what is usually called, ‘boredom,’ it really 
only means that there is something more consequential or productive you SHOULD 
be doing. Something you should be learning or analyzing, if only to deftly try 
and make your life infinitely more meaningful.    

Like, for example, this evening, I discovered a word I never even knew existed: 
‘phithsic.’ It means asthma, in case you didn’t know, (I didn’t) and I never 
would have known myself, had I not been making up words and spell checking them 
on my computer. See? You learn something new everyday.

Sounds momentous, doesn’t it?

Fun.  Exciting.  Entertaining.  Other people should ONLY be this lucky to be 
bored the way I have been…

After all, I love being bored.  embrace it.  Relish it.

Alright, so maybe my bullshit speech about meaningful devices out of boredom was 
just that---bullshit. But at least it’s helped me rationalize that I can pass 
time by acting like a complete and utter dumbass.

And as sad as all that is, it gets even worse.  

I even looked up the word “dumbass” in the dictionary. 

And when it wasn’t there the first time, I looked it up again, thinking that 
maybe the word would miraculously turn up the second time around.   No such 
luck.  

Apparently, you won’t find it if you look under “D” in the almighty Webster’s 
pocket companion, and if you try typing it up on a computer, you’ll only get a 
spelling error.  There’s also no place for it in the Microsoft thesaurus either, 
which I think is kind of stupid, because, when you think about it, a word like 
“dumbass” is more commonly used than words like “superfluous” or 
“incandescence.”  (By the way, I looked those up as well.) Ok, ok, so I had 
nothing better to do than try and give my computer a massive coronary. So what?

A Tiny chat box appears on my screen, interrupting my solitary spelling bee.  

“VC1763 says: ‘pharisaic’ is spelled P-H-A-R-I-S-A-I-C. The ‘A’ comes before the 
‘I’.”  

Uh oh, busted…  I had forgotten that all the computers on this floor were hooked 
together by modem.   

I drum my fingers upon the desk impatiently, tracing light circles in the faux 
wooden groovings.  I find a paperclip and flick it into the garbage. Yes! Two 
points!  

Another message appears under the first one. 

“VC1763 says: And thank you for keeping your mind on the task at hand.” 

Shit.  Busted BIG time. 

Leaning to the left, angling around the monitor, I peek my head out sheepishly, 
hoping that maybe, just maybe, I can win her over with my boyish charm and good 
looks.  

“Save it Mulder.”

Ok, maybe not.  Yikes.  

Her eyes are boring holes into mine, kinda like Sears Drill presses, and 
actually, I think that the drill presses would be more sympathetic.  Her arms 
are folded harshly about her chest, her tongue rolled deftly in cheek.  She’s 
pushed only slightly away from the desk, not a lot, but just enough for me to 
see that the picture of anger, all wrapped up in a neat little package; the 
disturbingly innocent form of my lovely little partner.  

Like I said before: yikes.

Actually, Scully’s not a particularly violent woman.  No, not violent, but mind 
you, but I’ve seen her angry in ways very much akin to violence. I’ve witnessed 
the brutal force that is often times “hurricane Scully,” and I’ve witnessed it 
up close and personal.  And, not only that, I’ve also positioned myself in the 
eye of the storm many a time, usually just to get a rise out of her, during one 
of her many “no sleep, no coffee, too much paperwork, not enough time, fuck off 
Mulder” moods.  For some masochistic reason, I’ve just always found it 
particularly amusing to goad her on those occasions. I usually get better quirky 
responses out of her anyways. And besides, she’s never gotten violent, at least, 
not exactly.  Or, not yet, anyways.  But of course, every time I see her like 
this, pissed off beyond belief, I have to first remind myself that this IS 
Scully, and not just anyone.  This is my partner, my best friend, true, but this 
is also the woman who can shoot a dime off a tin can at 20 paces.  Not violent, 
but potentially dangerous all the same.  

I decide to try my luck anyways. 

“Why Scully?” I reply nonchalantly. “I was about to look up “phallic” next.”

Ohhh… Ouch. Now THAT look could have killed me, had Scully been telekinetic.

“Mulder,” She says, exasperated, “Exactly how many of those fertilizer 
questionaires HAVE you uploaded and summarized, as of right now?”

Uh oh, the moment of truth…

I furrow a brow to feign thinking. 

“As of right now?” I ask. 

She does not respond, merely raises an eyebrow in my direction.  Translation: 
You have five seconds to live, Mulder. 

Maybe I should whine…

“Well…I was working on it….”

No response.   Ok… Puppy dog voice.

“Really, Scully. I was.  See?”

I type out a few lines to demonstrate my complete and utter concentration on the 
task at hand.  Type, type, type. 

Nothing.  Ok, the little boy approach…

“I’m halfway through this one, honest.”

Her foot starts to tap.  Ok, maybe not.  Perhaps, honesty is the best policy.

“Well, a quarter through really----but I’m ALMOST halfway through.”

Her tongue goes to the other side of her cheek, and she remains silent.  

“Oh come on, Scully! Say something!”

Annoyed, I start drumming the desk again.

I really don’t want to fight with her over this scut work; this ridiulous, 
demeaning crap; fertilizer summaries, agriculture questionaires, database 
background checks, cross-references on convicted marijuana smugglers, 
meaningless, fruitless, endless typing and frustration.  It’s just not worth it.  
It’s not worth killing each other, looking at each other the way she is now, as 
if she really IS considering what would be the easiest way to break my neck.  

Christ.  Nearly 1 am, and we’re still here, in this stupid building, doing this 
stupid horse shit. Literally.  Literally “horse shit.”  Kersch said to have the 
illegal drug harvesting report on his desk by 8 am tomorrow morning, but I 
seriously doubt that the world will stop turning if we don’t get it to him.  In 
all honesty though, I really WOULD like to have the thing done by tomorrow, if 
only to use it as something to shove down his throat. 

Apparently, Scully doesn’t see it my way.

“You know something Mulder,” she spits out wearily, “If ‘dumbass’ really were in 
the dictionary, your badge number would be right next to it.”
                   _______________________

Pulling back to my desk, I catch him out of the corner of my eye, laughing. 
Chuckling as if incredibly amused.  Propping his feet up on the blotter, he 
chances another glance at me, almost gloating, as if he thinks I’m going to get 
up and congratulate him for being an ass, praise him and feed him grapes, while 
he impresses me with his incredulous display of doing absolutely nothing.  

God, if I wasn’t so tired, I think I’d ring his neck.  

So, here’s a piece of free advice, just in case you ever find yourself in this 
situation: 

1: if you’re going to work late, always make sure you bring a coffee maker, 
candy machine, and fully loaded, automatic handgun, just in case you decide that 
you have no other choice but to kill your idiot partner. 

2:  And if, by chance, you DO decide to kill your idiot partner, always make 
sure to check his pockets for loose change afterwards, for the vending machine, 
of course, because, most likely, it’s YOUR loose change from his trip down to 
the machine earlier.

God damn, stupid, good for nothing …  

I mean, what idiot goes and looks up “dumbass” in the dictionary anyhow? Even my 
god son knows it’s not in the dictionary, and he’s only ten years old for 
chrissakes!  And this, mind you, while he’s supposed to be working on the report 
we supposedly started 2 weeks ago when it was first assigned to us.  Or rather, 
the report =I= first started… TWO WEEKS AGO!  You know, I think if I chained him 
to the desk and glued his eyes to the screen, he’d STILL find other ways to 
stall.  Because now, Mulder’s become quite inept at spell checking, solitaire 
playing, pencil twirling, and paperclip throwing, but he’s still not made a dent 
in the report that I have to somehow materialize under Kersch’s nose tomorrow 
morning.  

Or, should I say, THIS morning.  Damn it. 

1 am, Oh for the love of god.  

I peer over the side of my considerably neat desk, (Well, my “considerably 
neater than Mulder’s” desk) and spy about 10 printouts, neat and piled, all 
gathered on the floor around my work area, starkly in contrast to his measly 5. 

Why I let him get away with murder like this, I won’t ever understand.

Taking a moment to carefully regard the ceiling, I let out a deep breath. 

My stomach growls incessantly, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since lunch, 
and that all lunch was, was a cup of yogurt.   Terrific. I’m not going to be 
able to sit here much longer and pretend that I’m not tired and hungry. 

A glance over at the monitor reveals a tiny chat box in the upper left hand 
corner.  

“VC1764 says: Ok, G-woman, I finished the report.  Let’s take a break.”

Oh, how I just love Mulder-logic at 1 o clock in the morning…  I think he’s 
actually spent more time taking breaks than seriously working. As a matter of 
fact, I KNOW he hasn’t been working, because there is a rubber band build up 
around Agent Whitmore’s garbage can, from where I caught him flicking rubber 
bands a half hour earlier, that PROVES he hasn’t been. And now he wants to raid 
the downstairs vending machine? 

With a sigh, I begin to type back, wondering why the hell he’s using the 
discussion forum rather than his mouth to ask me this.  I wonder if maybe he 
thinks I’m still mad at him. (which would be a good approximation, because I 
AM…)

My fingers make their way over the keyboard as I send: “Your life IS a break, 
Mulder.  Try working some time tonight.”

To my dismay, I actually hear him chuckle at that, as if this whole thing is 
just one giant game to him.  Like my opinion is just one giant game.   Oh god, 
how I just want to yank off his head and hand it to him on a stick…

I sigh again, and read: “VC1764 says: Come on Scully, I’ll treat you to a twix.”

My stomach growls again at the mention of junk food, and I wouldn’t be surprised 
if Mulder heard it.  I think my entire abdomen is lodging protest against me. 

I close my eyes in silent defeat.  Treating me to a twix, are you Mulder?  With 
what money?  The change from the two dollars I gave you this afternoon to get us 
sodas?  No.  No thank you Mulder.  That’s quite alright.  There’s work to be 
done, after all, and I will NOT move an inch until it’s finished. I just won’t.  
I won’t give you the satisfaction. 

However, another stomach growl later, and my 1am pride goes out the window.  

Pushing up and away from my desk, I quickly cross over towards his chair.

“Alright, 5 minutes Mulder,” I try to impart forcefully, firmly, but my 
stomach’s still growling, my defeat is obvious, and Mulder is clearly relishing 
his victory.  He grins wickedly.  “But then, we work,” I command soundly.

Mulder nods, and faux salutes me.  I grimace and smack his arm. Ha, ha.  Remind 
me to laugh later.  

“Race you to the elevator,” he challenges jokingly, and I am forced to grit my 
teeth. Oh lord in heaven, help me find the strength not to strangle this man.  

I know I shouldn’t respond, but I just can’t help it.

“Shut up and walk Mulder,” I reply dryly, and I slowly begin to edge my way past 
the rows of desks on my left, past him, and towards the hallway.  He creeps up 
behind me and slips past me on my right.  

“Anyone ever tell you you’re sexy when you’re angry?” he hisses in my ear, and 
whizzes out of my reach, rushing past.

Unwanted blush attacks my cheeks, anger courses its way up my spine, and my 
fists ball up, despite the thundering, quickening of my heartbeat at such a 
straightforward comment from this particular object of my infuriation.  

WHAT DID HE SAY?

I open my mouth to retort, to smack him or worse, but he’s already out in the 
hallway, and I don’t feel like running. I won’t give him the fucking 
satisfaction.  Damn it. That man is beyond unbelievable!

Alrighty. So why, then, is my heart beating so damned fast?
                      __________________________
 
Ok, ok, so I’m an ass.  I’m an honest ass, but an ass, nonetheless, and yes, I 
know. I’m quite aware of it.  I’ve never denied it or pretended to be anything 
less, and I’ve never acted like anything more either. I’m an ass, yes, but I’m 
HER ass, and she knows that I know that we’re both very much aware of that.  Ok, 
so maybe I shouldn’t have annoyed her all night, maybe I shouldn’t have made 
that chauvinistic little remark just now but, like I said, I’m HER ass, and I 
know she knows that I didn’t mean any harm by it.  I was just having a little 
fun.  Baiting her a little.  

Besides, it wasn’t like I was kidding.  She really IS incredibly sexy when she’s 
angry.  She’s incredibly sexy ALL the time, but that’s not the point.  The point 
is… Well, the point is…

You know, I think my badge number IS under “Dumbass” in some dictionary, 
somewhere…

I jab the “down” button on the elevator, and it lights up to tell me that it’s 
processing my request.  Scully pulls up beside me, silent.  

God, she really is sexy. Angry, happy, surprised, eager, she’s just sexy.  
Really, she is. And I don’t know if it’s just the absence of light playing on 
her hair, the late hour, or the flush in her cheeks that’s making me think this 
way, but all I know right now, waiting for this elevator, is that she is VERY 
sexy.  Oh god, she really, really, is.  

“Scully?”

She turns to regard me stiffly, for a moment, and shifts her weight from one 
foot to the other. She gives me a rueful smile and shakes her head, as if 
thinking to herself and making a decision.  

“I just know I’m going to regret this,” she sighs, “But, what?”

I shift my weight and open my mouth, when I realize that I have no clue what to 
say.

“I, umm…”

She blinks and looks up at me, raising an eyebrow, waiting for me to finish my 
statement.  Her normally aquamarine eyes look sparkling sapphire under the dim 
lighting.  Oh god, why the hell did I start a statement I didn’t know how to 
finish?

“I’ll ah,” I gesture a hand aimlessly through the air.  “I’ll buy you a twinkie 
too, if you want…”

This, for some reason, earns me a smile, and I don’t know why.  Maybe it’s 
because it’s late and she’s just sick of fighting.  Maybe it’s because she’s 
tired and she doesn’t know what’s going on anymore, outside the rumblings of her 
stomach.  Maybe the planets are aligned.  Who knows?  I certainly don’t, and I 
don’t care either, because she looks so beautiful when she smiles like that.  

Not that I gaze at her often or notice such things, because I DON’T.  

Really, I don’t.

She closes her eyes, still smiling.  

“Ok,” she says simply, breathily, and the elevator door pings to announce its 
opening.  I guide her in with my right hand along the small of her back, like 
always.  A warm rush makes its way up my spine, unnanounced. 

We turn to face the doors and they close, simultaneously. 

                  ______________________________

10 seconds later.  In the elevator…
      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder is staring at the ceiling, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was 
counting the tiles or even multiplying them by the cracks between the grout.  

Bored much, partner?

“Scully, did you know that there are 11 spitballs up there?”

Frowning, I turn to look at him, and then follow his gaze up to the roof of the 
elevator.  If there was some sort of significance in his last statement, then I 
failed to catch it.       

“Mulder,” I sigh, more tired than anything else.  “They bring elementary school 
tours through here all the time.  What did you expect?”

He shrugs indifferently.  “Dunno.”

Closing my eyes in defeat, I turn away again, deciding against answering that.  
Sometimes, I just don’t even know why I answer him at all.  

“Hey Sc---“

CRRRRREEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAKKKKKKK. THUD. 

Mulder is interrupted when a giant LURCH attacks our car, and I am rudely thrown 
off balance, tripping over my own damned heels, and flailing my arms in front of 
me. Whatever the hell just happened, it could NOT have been good, and it 
certainly wasn’t pretty. The walls seem to spin and rotate, jutting out in front 
of me, and for a moment, all I can see is the ceiling, then the floor, and then 
the walls again.  My mouth releases a gasp, and all at once a pair of strong 
arms find my left bicep, then my waist, in that order. 

“You ok?”

It’s Mulder, I realize, and he’s frowning too, probably as confused as I am, 
wondering what just happened to shake the elevator like that. I catch my breath 
and slow it down, looking up to meet his eyes.  

“Yeah,” I reply, my gaze sliding up to meet his.  “I’m… fine…”

My ability to speak shatters into a million pieces, when I realize that that’s 
his breath I feel on my cheek. 

“You sure?”

I nod, dumbly, and we are left staring at each other, as if time has simply 
stopped. His right arm is still clutching my bicep, his left tightly around my 
waist, meaning to help me regain my balance.  Fluttering warmth begins to shoot 
up into my spine, gathering around me for no reason at all, and I lick my lips 
in anticipation of what I want to say. The problem, however, is that I have no 
clue what I want to say.  Actual intelligence and the ability to speak seems to 
have alluded me. 

Why do I get the feeling that he’s staring at my lips?  

CREEEEAAAAAAKKKKK…

The elevator groans again, and I pull away from my suddenly way-too-close-
partner, blushing, almost thankful for the intrusion.  I don’t even want to 
think about what could have happened just now.  

I clear my throat and smooth my hair over, straightening my suit, fixing my 
shirt, automatic movements after losing my balance.  

“What do you suppose THAT was?” I ask, and Mulder shakes his head. 

Resolutely, I stride over to the panel of buttons, the rows upon rows of them, 
each shiny circle leading to a different floor in the J. Edgar Hoover building.  
I press one, then another, and then another, my anger slowly rising with each 
push and each non-response.  

“Damn it,” I curse under my breath, annoyed and enraged beyond comprehension, 
and I smack a few more buttons.  I don’t know why I think it will make any kind 
of difference, but I’m angry, and it doesn’t matter.  

“Come on… come on… “ I chide, smacking each new one harder than the last.  Still 
nothing.

“Ah, Scully, I don’t think that’s going to work…”

I snap my head around briefly and glare at Mulder, agrivated that he would say 
something so impertinent. 

Oh shut up, I think.    

A deep breath escapes my throat, and my left hand, idle at my side, balls up in 
frustration.  I smack the panel one final time, and stomp my foot like a 
misbehaving five year old.  Yeah, it’s immature, I know, but this entire 
situation is even more ridiculous than me acting petulant.  

“Oh, I don’t believe this,” I mutter, turning to face Mulder again.  He looks 
back at me with an incredulous smile on his face, a smirk, really, as if this 
entire scenario has only added to his enjoyment of this evening.  

“So then we’re stuck?” he asks, disbelieving, staring past me at the useless 
elevator panel.  

I close my eyes for a moment and fold my arms across my chest, wondering, 
pondering, just what in the world it was that I did to piss off God this much. 

“Yes,” I reply flatly.  “So it would seem, Einstein.”

He taps a foot and frowns, letting out a breath. 

“Well, what about the emergency phone?”

I frown back, and crack my neck, swinging it from side to side, circling it, 
audible pop-crunch noises signaling just how tense and stressed out I am. 

“There isn’t one,” I reply dully.

He stares back, surprised.  

“No phone?” he asks incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

I roll my eyes.  

“Does it LOOK like I’m kidding you?” I snap at him.  He lets out an annoyed 
snort in response. I shake my head slightly, just as annoyed as he is, but not 
wanting to show it.  “They just finished work on this one,” I tell him flatly. 
“It’s been operational for two days now, but for whatever reason, the entire 
phone had to be ripped out and re-installed, or so I was told.”

He nods, understandingly, then asks, “told by who?”

I throw my arms into the air in a show of frustration.

“Does it MATTER, Mulder?!”

He shrugs, answering, “No, not really.”

I narrow my eyes and turn away from him, unwilling to fight and irritated beyond 
reason. My head falls back and I stare at the ceiling, wondering now, just how 
in the hell he and I are going to survive this little escapade without killing 
each other.  
                         _______________________


                    Situational Claustrophobia
                     By Jaime Lyn (pt 2 of 3)

                   ____________________________

5 minutes later…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Who the hell fixes an elevator without equipping it with an emergency 
phone?  Huh?  WHO?! What is THAT all about anyway?  What could have 
POSSIBLY been so wrong with the phone that a few simple tweaks and 
adjustments couldn’t have fixed it?  Hasn’t ANYONE in this universe 
EVER thought to plan ahead?!  Christ. 

Scully is standing in the opposite corner, staring at the ceiling.  Dim 
light from the overhead emergency bulbs cast a strange glow on her 
hair, glinting it fire red, then golden orange. It’s really kinda neat 
actually, if you just stare at it for awhile.  Orange, bright red, 
gold, orange again.  God, I think I’m getting high off of Scully’s 
hair…

“Quit it Mulder,” she mutters, annoyed sounding, and her back is still 
turned, though her head is now looking over her left shoulder.

“Quit what?” I ask, innocently enough.  She raises an eyebrow.

“Quit staring at me like that,” she answers, dryly, then, “you’re 
making me nervous.”

I roll my eyes.  

“Whatever.”

She sighs as if I’m some sort of giant burden on her oh-so-perfect 
soul, and then turns around again. Fine, Scully, I think.  Just fine. 
You wanna be like that then fine.  I can be REALLY annoying, if you 
want…
                              _______________________ 

And 30 seconds after THAT…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ok, either I have bad Karma or something, or there is some weird, 
angered, elevator god that hates me.  I wonder though. If I sacrifice 
my partner, would that appease the elevator god?  Because, if so, I 
have a nice, fully loaded handgun strapped to my…

RIIINNNNNNGGGGGGGGG!!

What the?

RIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGG!!!!

Jesus, is that me?  Is that actually MY cell phone, demanding to be 
answered, ringing loudly, in the middle of this elevator crisis?  My 
god, I didn’t even think cell phones WORKED in elevators…

Scrunching my brows together in confusion, I vaguely realize that I 
have no clue who would be calling me in the middle of the nightt except 
for Mulder, and he’sstanding right here. 

RIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGG!!!

Yanking it out and jabbing the “talk” button, I have faint visions of 
an angry Kersch dressed as the shroud of death.  I can see him calling 
me from just outside the elevator doors, telling me that this is what 
hell is like for agents who aren’t “team players.”

As professionally as I can, I bark out, “Scully.” 

Silence for a moment, and I ask, “Hello?”

I hear faint chuckling from the other end, and then, “knock, knock.”

Oh sure.  Oh great.  Yeah, that’s REAL funny…

“Hello? I SAID, Knock, knock, Scully…”

Slowly, I turn to glare at my partner, cell phone lodged against his 
ear, broad grin on his face.  My finger hits the “talk” button again to 
disconnect the call.  

“Thank you Mulder,” I manage, agitated, shoving my phone back in my 
pocket. “Way to be mature about this.”

He’s still laughing, lightly, and I’m seriously starting to reconsider 
that ‘sacrifice to the elevator god’ thing.  

“Oh come on,” he says, innocent sounding, as if I’M the bad guy here.  
“You never even asked, ‘Who’s there?’”

Ok, that doesn’t even DESERVE a response...

                        
                       _____________________________

Another 7 minutes later…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

5, 6, 7, 8, 9, pivot, left, step off, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, pivot, 
right, step off, fix the hair, shove a hand in a pocket, 7, 8, 9, 
pivot, left…

Oh christ, I’m getting sea sick…

“Scully, would you stop that!”

My tiny, red-headed, partner stops in mid-pace to look at me, confused. 

“Stop what?” she asks, befuddled sounding, as if she doesn’t know what 
I’m talking about, which, I honestly think is crap.   She furrows a 
brow and glances around the tiny elevator car, first at the walls, and 
then down at her legs, still looking as if she has no clue what I’m 
talking about.  

“What?” she asks again, eyes questioning.   

I let out a frustrated sigh.

“That!” I explode, annoyed, gesturing a hand towards her. “That!  That 
damned pacing! You’re giving me a headache.”

Scully thins her lips and shoots me a “fuck you” glare.

“Well excuse the hell out of me,” she retorts, folding her arms in 
front of her.  “If I recall correctly, this wasn’t exactly my fault.”

I narrow my eyes, and mirror her movements.  

“So?” I retort immaturely. “So… So what?”

Damn it.  I really hate it when Scully’s right, but moreso, I hate it 
when she’s right and I have nowhere to go to get away from her and 
those damned “I told you so” looks. 

She raises a speculative eyebrow, as if to say “hmm?”

I clench my teeth.  

Ok, I need to find a way to argue this and keep my sanity at the same 
time. I open my mouth and spit out, “does that mean you have to pace 
back and forth like a wind up toy?” 

She shifts her weight.  

“Why?” she demands icily. “Does it annoy you?”

I shoot her an angry glare.

“Yes.”

She smiles, “Good,” and resumes her pacing.

God, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to kill somebody so badly in all my 
life.
                        ___________________________  

And 10 minutes after THAT…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“89 bottles of beer on the wall, 89 bottle of beer.  Take one down, 
pass it around…”

I swing my head up to regard Mulder from my new-found seat in the 
corner of the elevator, and silently wish his lungs to explode in 
agonizing slowness.  One hand is rubbing my left foot, heels tossed 
aimlessly aside, and I am starting to regret my ten minute pacing 
spell.  Meanwhile, listening to my partner sing “99 bottles of beer on 
the wall” as I sit here and nurse my aching toes, is seriously starting 
to make my ears bleed. 

“88 bottles of beer on the wall, 88 bottles of beer…”

He pauses to look at me, noticing my scowl, then smiles, looking away, 
continuing, “knock one down, pass it around, 87 bottles of beer on the 
wall…”

Gun. Where is my gun?

“87 bottles of beer on the wall, 87 bottles of beer---“

I can’t take anymore, can’t take anymore…

“Take one down, pass it around…”

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

“SHUT UP!” I finally cry, my eyes wide and my anger bubbling over. 
“SHUT UP, 
JUST SHUT UP!”

My outburst wins me a faintly amused look from Mulder, and I glare back 
at him.  If it’s a fight he wants, then I have plenty of time to kick 
his ass.  

“Oh come on, Scully,” he grins. “I was going to sing ‘Henry VIII’ next, 
and now you made me lose my place.”  He shakes his head, as if 
saddened.  “I’m just going to have to start all over now…”

He grins again, and I’m just going to wipe it off his face. 

“The hell you will,” I mutter, and he laughs, briefly.

But at least it’s silent now.  Thank god.  With a relieved sigh, I go 
back to rubbing my foot. Mulder goes back to staring at the ceiling.  

But of course, not even 5 seconds later, I hear,  “John, Jacob, 
Jingleheimer-Shmidt.  That’s my name too…”
                       _____________________________  

Another 15 minutes later…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully threatened to blow a hole through my skull.  Can you believe 
that?  In fact, I think her actual words were, ‘Mulder, I’m going to 
blow a hole through your skull.’  Yeah, that was it. And then something 
about, ‘So help me god, if you don’t shut up.’  Whatever. I wasn’t THAT 
anxious to sing anyhow.  Like I said before, she’s never violent, my 
Scully, but always possessing the potential that makes you shut up and 
join her in silence on the floor of a musky elevator.  

I’m sitting only about a foot away from her now, and in the quiet of 
our own personal box, I can hear her stomach growl.  Somewhere in the 
back of my mind, I pray that she didn’t see me sneak a lifesavers into 
my pocket. I have a snack pack of M&M’s somewhere in there too, but 
something tells me that letting her know this could be very hazardous 
to my health. 

“Mulder,” she suddenly says, dully, and I look over at her.  Her heels 
have been tossed aimlessly aside, her feet bare except for black socks, 
legs lounging in front of her in a pike-like position, her arms draped 
listlessly over them.  

“Yeah?” I reply, just as dead sounding.  

“Did you ever think you would die in an elevator?”

I stare at her in slight shock. Never would I have thought she would 
ask me something like that. Usually she’s the practical one.  

“Who, me?” I reply softly, forcing a half grin. 

“No,” she retorts dryly.  “The Mulder on the ceiling.  YES you.”

I quirk the side of my upper lip and shrug.

“Well, since you put that so articulately…”  I pause and then reply, my 
face deadpan and serious, “To tell you the truth, I always thought I’d 
die, valiantly, in the throes of amazingly hot, wild sex…”  I waggle an 
eyebrow, and she looks back at me, not smiling. “But actually,” I 
continue, feeling the need to ramble, “now that I really think about 
it, perhaps an elevator COULD figure in there, somewhere.  So whatd’ya 
say, Scully?”

Scully closes her eyes and smiles wearily, leaning her head back 
against the wall. 

“No, seriously, Mulder,” she says.  

I frown.  This is very “Un-Scully” like, in my opinion.  

“Seriously?” I ask, and she nods. “Ok…”

She waits for my answer.

 “No,” I tell her.  “Not lately, Why?” 

She stares at me and blinks in disbelief. 

“Why?” she repeats incredulously, gesturing towards our surroundings.  
“HEL-LO?! You need to know why?”

I shrug.  Ok, nevermind then, Scully.  I can see where this is going. 
Shaking my head, I look away and she touches my shoulder.  

“Sorry,” she says softly.  

I shrug indifferently, and realize that I can smell her shampoo from 
where I’m sitting. God, it smells so good. So Scully.  So very, very 
Scully. MMMmmm… You know, she really is sexy.  She just IS. Here, 
there, anywhere, it doesn’t matter.  Angry, happy, surprised, or 
trapped in an elevator.  She’s just sexy. 

She sighs, staring bleakly at the elevator doors and mutters, “I really 
wanted that twinkie…”

She sounds so… so desolate…

Sigh.  I know I’m going to regret this but…

Resigned, I reach into my jacket pocket and remove a small cylinder 
object, wrapping torn slightly at the top, colorful writing on the 
side.  I present it to her with a half smile, unsure, and then avert my 
eyes, somehow, for some reason, unable to make eye-contact. I hope 
she’ll understand what I’m saying with this peace offering. 

Surprise flits over her face for a moment, and then she smiles.  

“Oh Mulder,” she sighs breathily, in that voice that makes my pulse 
speed, and I can see the beginnings of blush rising on her cheeks.  
Funny, to think that my handing her a pack of lifesavers could make her 
blush. Grinning, she takes the pack from my hand and offers me one.  

Now HERE’S a scenario I NEVER would have imagined for the two of us.

A childlike smile on my own face, I eagerly reach inside the tiny pack, 
taking a shiny orange one.  She, in turn, takes a shiny green one.  We 
both stare at down at them and frown.  Simultaneously, we outstretch 
our hands and exchange candies, my tangy orange for her lime green. Our 
fingers linger slightly longer over the others than we know is 
necessary. 

“Thank you,” she tells me, softly, and I nod in response. 

Still smiling, we eat our late-night snack together.
                             _________________________________  


                 Situational Claustrophobia (pt 3 of 3)
                           By Jaime Lyn

                    ______________________________

And thus, 15 minutes later…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulder is staring at the elevator doors, long legs stretched out 
in front of him, arms crossed on his knees, and he looks lost in 
thought.  I wonder what he’s thinking about.

Allowing myself a small moment of introspection, I smile softly, 
feeling warm all over. 

He really didn’t have to give me the last of his life-savers, but he 
gave them to me anyway, and right now, I don’t think a more thoughtful 
man ever existed. And even though, at the moment, I think I’m hungrier 
now than I was BEFORE I scarfed down 6 mini-candies, thirstier too, I 
just can’t help but feel a wonderful rush of affection for the half-
infuriating, half-unbelievably lovable man sitting next to me.  He 
didn’t HAVE to let me eat almost all of those lifesavers.  

Sigh.

Sometimes, he just does things, stupid, trivial things, that make it 
unbearably difficult for me to just sit here next to him, within 
touching distance, but somehow, a world away.  And looking at him now, 
staring off like that, I wonder if he ever thinks the same way.  If 
he’s ever been frustrated by this. By things, and what we are; what we 
can never be.  Even if he doesn’t, I certainly think about it enough 
for the both of us. I think about the future. I think about yesterday. 
Touches and words aborted, feelings obscured and pushed aside. 
I think about them all the time.

I think about kissing him.  Especially, about kissing him. Yes, I think 
about that one a lot.  

Not that I’d ever TELL him this but…

I hear a crinkling next to me, breaking the silence, and when I turn, I 
am now faced with Mulder’s back.  His head is bent over something, and 
I begin to detect a faint scent in the air… The smell of…

Ohhhh… That’s sneaky Mulder.  REALLY sneaky.  

“Hey!” I call, grasping his shoulder to try and turn him around.  
“You’d better share those…”

In response, I get a muffled grunt.  

“Mulder?”

Nothing, except the faint sounds of chewing.

“Mulder, I’m serious.”

This time he turns, nothing in his hands, and smiles apologetically. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Scully,” he says lowly, trying 
to feign innocence. 

I raise an eyebrow and roll my tongue inside my cheek.  God!  Always 
when I’m in the middle of a particularly poignant thought about why I 
love that idiot, does he have to go and do something to make me want to 
choke the life out of him.  

He shrugs his shoulders.  I am still glaring at him.

“Give me an M&M or face certain death, Mulder.”

He stares at me with wide, innocent eyes.  

“What M&M’s?” he questions, producing empty hands for my inspection.  

I take deep breaths, trying to control my anger and negotiate at the 
same time.  

“I’ll give you five bucks for them,” I challenge. 

He shakes his head.  “Not after you ate all the life savers, Scully.”

My mouth drops open in disgust.  And here I thought he was doing 
something nice.  “Excuse me?” I spit.  “You GAVE those to me, Mulder. I 
thought you wanted me to have them.”

He shrugs, and I watch, enviously, as he reaches inside his open coat 
pocket and pops a few red M&Ms into his mouth.  

“Well,” he says, rationalizing in between chewing, “I didn’t really 
think you’d eat ALL of them.”

Oh. Ok, SURE, Mulder…

“Right,” I answer dryly. “How chivalrous of you.”

He swallows, and my eyes drift slowly down to his pocket.  Ok, I think.  
If I time this right, just right, then I just might be able to make a 
break for that pack of candy. In and out, real quick, like an arrest.  
Call on my skills as a trained law enforcement officer, plan, think 
fast, and execute effectively. 

And MAYBE, just MAYBE, I can retrieve a half eaten pack of M&Ms…

Christ, this is REALLY sad… Look what we’ve been reduced to.  

Tentative fingers reach forward, movements almost imperceptible, slow, 
deliberate, before quickly reaching over and around; my brain guiding 
carefully 
manicured hands to snake underneath Mulder’s jacket. 

Wait for it… WAIT for it…

And all at once, I am grasping, clawing for those last M&Ms. I NEED 
those M&Ms. But, of course, he catches my hand swiftly, his fist 
closing over mine like a baseball glove around a ball. He grins.  

“Oh, I don’t think so Scully,” he whispers, our faces inches apart.  

“I’ll fight you for them,” I whisper back, fierce, my tone deadly 
serious. “I’ll kill you before I let you eat all of them.”

It sounds dumb, I know, but I think I’m going to die if I don’t get 
some of that candy.  

He raises an eyebrow and retorts, “Oh yeah?”

I match his gaze.  “Yeah.”

Our breathing is heavy, deep, and we stare into each other’s eyes for a 
moment, my blue ones facing off against his hazel ones.  His face 
begins moving closer to mine until I can feel his breath on my cheek, 
warm and chocolate smelling. My higher brain functions start to fray 
and fizzle out.  My heart starts to race.  The ‘Dana’ in me elatedly 
says that he’s going to kiss me.  The ‘Scully’ in me warns to move 
away.  

In the end though, his mouth brushes right past my lips, past my cheek, 
over my ears, where his lower lip grazes my earlobe. 

“I’ll thumb wrestle you for it,” he breathes, as if it’s a sensual 
promise and not an idiotic statement, and I don’t even realize I’ve 
closed my eyes until they snap open.  

“WHAT?!” I demand.
                     __________________________ 

So, 10 minutes later…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fun fact:

Scully doesn’t like to thumb wrestle.  Did you know that?  Well I 
didn’t, at least, not until about 10 minutes ago, I didn’t.  Well 
actually, to be honest, I think she was under the impression that I was 
about to do something ELSE, which I seriously WAS… until I chickened 
out and challenged her to a thumb wrestling match over the remaining 
M&Ms instead.  

Needless to say, after some initial surprise on her part, some not-so-
good convincing on my part, some light negotiating, arguing, five 
minutes, and five games of rock-paper-scizzors later, I lost the M&Ms.  

The annoyed little kid is angry that I lost to a GIRL.  The adult in 
me, however, insists that I lost to a very attractive woman.  Of course 
though, the ‘Mulder’ in me recalls that I lost to Scully, who, for some 
odd reason, is not any less attractive while shoving M&Ms down her 
throat.  

Not that I stare at Scully or think about her like that, because I 
don’t. Really, I don’t.  It would be unprofessional.

Liar, my brain hisses. 

Scully outstretches a palm with 2 M&Ms inside it, her face screaming 
victory, her eyes sparkling what I can only describe as “Scully-
mischief.”

“Want the last two?” she asks innocently, and I shake my head. 

“Oh how generous,” I drawl sarcastically. “But no thanks.”

She shrugs, and I hear her mutter, “Your loss.”
                        _______________________  

And then 15 minutes later…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

God, I’m so tired. And how long have we been trapped in here, anyhow?  
An hour?  Two hours?  An eternity?  Damn it, why did I have to leave my 
wrist watch on the desk?  Ohmygod… The desk…

Oh shit… The report…

Now we’re never going to finish it. 

Great. Wonderful.  Kersch is going to have our heads on a platter. 
Shoot first and ask questions later.  And if he censures us this time, 
considering out absolutely wonderful track record, I wouldn’t be at all 
surprised.  Fuck.  

A yawn escapes my lips, and I realize that my eyelids are drooping 
lower and lower, the room getting foggier and foggier.  The walls are 
blurring in and out of focus, and my head feels so heavy.  God, I’m so 
tired… Soooo tired…  My face droops to the left and hits something, 
hard like bone and soft like muscle at the same time. Mulder’s 
shoulder, I realize. 

He leans his head over towards me. 

“Tired?” he asks, and I have to nearly bite my lip in order to keep 
from thanking him for pointing out the obvious.

“No,” I refute, weakly. Even still, my eyelids droop, my voice is weak, 
and they both blow my lies right out of the water.  “Well, yes,” I 
admit sullenly.  “Yeah, a little, maybe.”

He sighs, as if evaluating a thought and deciding on an action.  
Another deep breath later, and he wraps an arm around my shoulder, 
pulling me closer. 

“Mulder,” I mumble, my protest weak, my body feeling heavy.  “I don’t 
need to use you as a pillow.”

He brushes hair away from my temple, and my head falls upon his 
shoulder.  

“I’m not going to fall asleep…”

I can feel him breathing, deep and steady into my hair.  The sensation 
makes me feel hot all over, just as his proximity always does.  Right 
now it’s comforting though, rather than intimidating.  

“Uh huh,” he patronizes, softly.

“Really,” I insist feebily, my hand coming up to rest beneath my head 
on his shoulder.  “I’m not---“

“Sleep,” he whispers, and I feel myself nodding off.  I know I want to 
say something back, but right now I can’t remember…

I can only hear Mulder’s voice over and over again in my head.  “sleep, 
sleep, sleep, sleep…” It sounds so tempting…
                       ____________________________ 

One half hour later…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometimes I wonder what she dreams about, my Scully.  I wonder what 
makes those dreams happy, fulfilling, or what turns them into terrors, 
into nightmares.  I wonder about how deeply she sleeps, and for how 
long.  I wonder about leisurely Saturdays and Sundays, and whether she 
spends them in bed or not; how late she sleeps, and how long she takes 
to wake up.  

I especially wonder about kissing her.  In the morning, when she wakes 
up, her head on my shoulder like this.  Before she sleeps, her eyelids 
drooping, her limbs heavy as I hold her.  What would it be like to kiss 
her as she wakes? To hold her and taste her skin? I wonder about that, 
you know. I wonder about that a lot.  

She sighs contentedly, burrowing her head deeper into the crevice 
between my neck and shoulder.  

Must be a good dream, I think.  Something that makes her happy.  God, 
after everything we’ve been through, I hope at least her dreams can be 
everything she wants them to be.  

“Mmmmm…” she mumbles huskily into my shoulder. 

Now THERE’S a noise I don’t believe she’s ever made before.  I gulp and 
shift nervously. 

“Mmmmmmm…”

Ok, first let me tell you this: if you don’t think that hearing the 
woman you’d kill for moan in her sleep isn’t insanely arousing, then 
you don’t have a pulse. And secondly, let me also just say, that right 
now, about a hundred fantasies are breaking through the surface of my 
subconscious.  My god, she sounds like she’s in the middle of…

“Muuullllderrr…”

Oh. My. God.   WHAT DID SHE SAY?

I swear, I just stopped breathing.  My heart just dropped into my toes 
and then shot up my spine.  I shift slightly to lean in closer, hoping 
to hear more… wondering if she’ll SAY more.

“Mmmm… Muuulldeeerrr…”

Oh god, oh god, oh god… This is getting almost painful now.  If she 
doesn’t stop, then we are both going to have a SERIOUS problem on our 
hands here.  I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to sit here 
and…

“Mmmm… Mulder… yes…”

WHAT?

“Mulder…”

Oh god, wake up Scully. 

Shit.  I didn’t say that out loud. Why didn’t I say that out loud?  Oh 
god, oh god, I NEED to say that out loud.   I need to say, ‘wake up 
Scully.’ Please.  Please wake up. I’m begging you. You’re killing me 
here. Killing me. I can’t breathe.  The room is too hot. The walls are 
closing in.  Oh, if there is a god out there, then you’ll dump cold 
water on me right now.  Large buckets of it.  RIGHT NOW.

Nothing.  Not even a drop of ice water falls from the ceiling. Damn it. 
I close my eyes and envision shaking her, waking her up, seeing as how 
words aren’t properly forming. And with that not working the way I wish 
it would, I think of Skinner, her mother, my mother, the 4 week old 
milk in my refrigerator. 

“Mmmmmm…”

Crowded planes. Hangovers. Retro-viruses.  Frost bite. Hospitals.  Fat, 
ugly nurses.  

She groans again and pauses, her brow furrowing, her face contorting 
into what looks like either confusion or regret.  My eyebrow raises, 
and I suck in a breath.  She sighs, and mumbles, “What do you mean that 
was it?” and lets out what sounds like a disgusted grunt. 

OK… Um, WHAT?

All of a sudden, without warning, my heart crashes into my feet and 
stays there. My eyes close and then open to catch the ceiling.  Oh my 
god, what the hell just happened here? Am I imagining this, or did my 
partner just dream that I suck in bed?

Horrified, I look down at her again, only see her with one eye open, 
watching me, biting her lips as if to hold back laughter. 

Oh no. no no no no… That was NOT a joke. She cannot POSSIBLY be that 
mean…

I stare back at Scully, silent, unable to yet form words.  Both her 
eyes now fully alert and opened, she leans up and whispers into my ear, 
“Had you Mulder.  Had you big time.”

Oh my god, I am going to kill her.
                           _____________________________

So then, 2 minutes later…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ok, ok, so that was mean. It was REALLY, REALLY, mean, I know, but 
that’ll teach him to make me think he’s going to kiss me, and then 
instead ask me to thumb wrestle. Like we’re playmaytes.  Like we’re in 
the third grade or something.  That’ll teach him for making me kick his 
ass in Rock-paper-scizzors, just to get a few measly M&Ms out of him.  
It’ll teach him to forget work, play with paperclips, ignore orders, 
and generally make my life a living hell 23 out of the 24 hours in a 
single day.  

That’ll DEFINETLY teach him…

He’s standing up now, having shoved me, laughing, off of his shoulder, 
to go and situate himself in a corner, alone.  He’s also sulking, like 
a baby.  

Sigh.  

“Mulder,” I try, getting up and stretching my back. “Mulder, I was only 
kidding.  It was a joke.”

He glares at me.  Ok, maybe not…

“Mulder…”

Nothing.  God, I must have really hurt his feelings. 

“Oh come on Mulder.  You joke around all the time---mostly, at my 
expense.  So why is it----“

“NOT.  FUNNY,” he finally growls.  “Very, VERY, NOT FUNNY.”

I sigh.  

“Oh please,” I retort, hands on hips.  “You had it coming.”

His eyes go wide, bulging, as if I’ve just told him that he were purple 
with orange spots.  

“=I= had it coming??” he cries .  “ME?!  You’re the one who’s been 
acting like my superior all night.  Ordering me around like I’m a 
liability or something.  Do this. Do that.  No, don’t do that.  Only if 
I say so.  It’s---“

“Because you ACT like a liability!” I explode, my voice bouncing off 
the walls of the boxcar.  God damn him.  Of all the nerve!  Of all the 
fucking nerve!

“I do not---“

“OR, Mulder,” I continue, deciding not to give him a chance at a 
rebuttal, “Maybe it’s because I want to KEEP my job, whereas you would 
just as soon kiss it goodbye.  And though I know that illegal drug 
reporting isn’t the most stimulating areas of investigation, it IS our 
job NOW!  So if I---“

“Treat me like---“

“Order you around---“

We’re both yelling now, ridiculously, endlessly, and at the same time.  

“Crap, and I don’t see where you get off, Scully---“

“It’s only because you warrant it!”

“Acting like---“

“All high and mighty.  Some times I just get the urge to---“

“Sometimes, you just make me want to---“

“STRANGLE YOU!” we both yell, at the same time, and then halt, taking 
long, deep breaths. 

He stares at me and I stare at him. 

“You really think I don’t care about my job?” he asks, at the same 
exact time I open my mouth to say, “You really think I act high and 
mighty?”

Neither one of us speaks or moves. The air is silent. Maybe, I think, 
because everything’s just been said; laid out on the table, so to 
speak.  Even so, I still feel this nagging, annoying…

“Mulder?” I ask.  He looks down at me.  “What?” he manages. 

“I’m sorry.”

There.  I said it.  

“Oh,” he replies, and cocks his head as if considering that.  

“Well, ah…” he runs fingers through his hair.  “I’m sorry too. I mean, 
for,” he waves an errant hand around, “You know, fooling around, not 
finishing that stupid report and…”

I cut him off with a surrendering hand.  “I know,” I reply.

He grins, “yeah, I know you know…”

Silence. 

Suddenly, I am aware of how close we’ve been standing; how his body is 
only a few inches from me.  Puzzled for a moment, I consider that. 
Ponder it.  Wonder, for a second, how in the heck… Oh yeah, I remember.  
The arguing.  The yelling.  We must have been screaming in each other’s 
faces…

My heart beating heavily, my pulse thundering in my ears, my mouth 
opens, but no words come out.  They just won’t form.  Speech, even in 
its most rudimentary sense, has evaded me.  I don’t know what to say. I 
don’t know what to do.  How do I react when he’s standing so close?  

Without warning, his fingers move to trace a pattern of agonizing 
slowness over the curves of my lips, my cheeks, my jaw, and then back 
to my lips.  My eyes close, and my chest rises and falls with deep 
breaths that I have to fight to come out sounding slightly normal, not 
ragged and shattered, like I know they want to be. I feel him shift his 
weight, and an index finger grazes a cheek to drape a lock of hair over 
my ear.  It then dips lightly under my chin.  Oh god, that feels good…

My lips part slightly, ever so slightly, and I desperately try to form 
words. Coherent sentences.  The ‘Scully’ in me screams to tell him to 
stop. The ‘Dana’ in me already has him in numerous theoretical, 
horizontal positions on the floor.  

Another tattered breath, and I find the strength to utter, “What… what 
are you doing?”

My eyes are still closed, but I hear him release a breath.  

“Making a decision,” he answers softly, fingers still wandering the 
planes of my face. I have yet to stop him.  

I nod almost imperceptively.  “Oh,” I reply, my voice barely 
recognizable as my own.  “Are you going to… Mulder are you…”

He sighs. 

“Am I going to what?”

Heart beating too fast… Pulse beating too fast… Not enough oxygen…

“Kiss me,” I answer breathily, “Are you going to---“

His mouth cuts me off, his head dipping, his hands coming to cup the 
sides of my face as his lips brush the barest of kisses across mine, 
feather soft and tender. Gently tasting, sampling, light.  Not enough, 
I manage to register. Not enough… Need… more… 

One hand snakes around the back of Mulder’s head, while the other finds 
its way around his waist, my face reaching, reaching, so that our lips 
can brush and pull away, touch and graze tentatively, in an agonizingly 
slow dance.  

My throat elicits a soft, almost inaudible whimper.  Oh god… Oh god…

CREEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAKKKKKKKKKK…

The ground suddenly lurches beneath me, the walls spinning, and the 
entire car jumps, my body thrown off balance, my head crashing into 
Mulder’s with a very ungraceful “thunk.”

Oh god, that was painful.  

Mulder groans and braces himself against the guardrail by the wall, 
grabbing his Now aching forehead.  I groan and fall off balance, my 
arms flailing and groping until I finally hit the floor with a low 
“Thud,” and a sharp pain shoots up my backside.  Now my forehead AND my 
ass hurt. Great. 

“The elevator’s moving,” I hear Mulder mumble through his fingers, and 
I look up and nod.  

“Yeah, I figured,” I mumble back, one hand clutching my forehead while 
the other rubs my lower back. Groaning slightly, I get up, pulling 
myself to my feet while I try not to wince.

30 seconds later, the door opens and we stare at it. Not moving. 

“I think this is our floor,” Mulder says, and we turn to gaze at each 
other.  

What is he thinking, I wonder.  What is he thinking?  Right now?  In 
this moment?

“But then again…” He smiles a little half-smile, and I walk a little 
closer. My forehead still hurts.  
                      _________________________ 

But in the end, 20 minutes later…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“YES!” Scully pushes away from the desk, smug like a chesire cat, 
shooting me a victorious smile. “OK, how many points is that, Mulder?”

I grin devilishly and feign thinking.  

“One,” I answer smugly. 

“One?!” she gasps, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Alright, I demand 
a recall. I think you’re just cheating now.”

I purse my lips together in mock seriousness, and begin to twirl a 
pencil between my fingers.  

“Nope,” I answer simply.  “You’re just closer to Whitman’s garbage can 
than I am. A whole foot in fact. Rules are rules, after all…”

She raises an eyebrow.  

“What rules?”

We both eye each other, challenging, smug, playing a game of optical 
showdown. And actually, it’s quite enjoyable, seeing her like this… So 
relaxed… So unguarded…

What happened, you may ask?

Well, after the elevator doors opened, as a mutual agreement, (mostly 
out of dying hunger) Scully and I both got out to make the trek over to 
the snack machine, together.  Her head rested against the side of the 
glowing box, her arms folded loosely across her chest, and she watched 
as I bought us both two twix bars and two twinkies.  I smiled at her, 
once, or maybe even twice, and then we both looked back over toward the 
elevator wearily.  Neither one of us was too anxious to get back on it, 
but then again, neither one of us was willing to travel up 4 flights of 
stairs.  So, swallowing our pride, (not to mention our trepidation) we 
walked over to the other side of the lobby, and took the trip up on 
another elevator.  (One that HAD an emergency phone, I might add…)  The 
ride was short, silent, and for that, we were both eternally grateful.  

Scully actually ended up eating her twinkie on the way from the 
elevator to the desk, scarfing it down with somewhat disturbing 
ferocity, and I almost walked into a wall while concentrating on trying 
to get the wrapper off a twix bar.  Needless to say, we were both 
famished, well beyond reason and common sense.  

Then, it was while I was ACTUALLY working, doing what I was supposed to 
be doing, analyzing stupid data, that I caught Scully staring off into 
space, hands folded lazily on the desk in front of her.  Her computer 
and miscellaneous papers had obviously, not been touched.  So when I 
called her name, she almost jolted, clearly surprised, and then turned 
to face me.  Her eyes settled onto mine, questioning.  Then, for 
absolutely no reason at all, I flicked a paperclip into her waste 
basket, grinning, and she actually smiled back.  Can you believe that?  
She ACTUALLY smiled back.  It was nice.  We stared at each other that 
way, it seemed, forever.  

And when I finally turned back at the screen, an errant paperclip 
whizzed past my nose. Right past. You could only imagine my shock at 
THAT. 

So of course, being faintly curious, vaguely amused, and fairly 
surprised, I peeked around my computer, and that’s when her mischievous 
eyes connected with mine.  

And so, now, we’re staring at each other, not moving and certainly not 
working, and I don’t think that either one of cares what Kersch says 
tomorrow. It doesn’t matter. Right now, tomorrow’s not important.  

Finally, I interrupt our staring feud, and call, “Say, Scully?”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Yessssss???”

I prop my head up on my hands and patently gaze at her, grinning like a 
moron. 

“You think it’ll rain sleeping bags tonight?”

She bites her lip to keep from laughing. She wants to, though. I know 
she wants to.  I can tell.  And even though what I said sounds totally 
asinine, out of place for everyone else in this universe, it’s totally 
appropriate for us; for the situation at hand.

To my surprise, she grins even wider, and says, “May-be.”

Now we’re both grinning. 

See what I mean about being bored?  About free time?  Sometimes, if 
you’re lucky, if you’re really, really lucky, the most wonderful, most 
monumentous things happen when you’re bored.  They happen when you 
least expect it, when you’re flicking a paperclip across the room, 
perched by the computer, or maybe eating a twix bar.  They even happen, 
sometimes, though not always, while experiencing situational 
claustrophobia----Or, as I like to put it, fear of being close to the 
person you most want to be close to.  Sometimes, it’s an experience 
best defined by getting stuck in an elevator with your partner----and 
not a by a dictionary. Why?  Well, mostly because you won’t find such a 
word or phrase in the dictionary.  You won’t find it in the thesaurus 
either.  

But, if ever you get bored, try locking yourself in a room with the 
person you love most, and you’ll see what I mean.  You may try to kill 
each other, but at least you’ll see what I mean…

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And thus, we’ve reached the end. Good for you! <grin> And, if you so 
desire, SEND ME FEEDBACK!!! (especially if you like what you’ve read) I 
don’t think that I can stress this enough!!  I love feedback.  I need 
feedback!  (It’s an addiction, like speed, like heroin, but worse… ha 
ha…)I always reply to my feedback, and, well… Ok, I’ll stop pleading 
now…