From: Liz Owens Date: 12 Dec 1999 08:19:28 GMT Subject: Storm by Liz Owens (1/1) TITLE: Storm AUTHOR: Liz Owens E-MAIL ADDRESS: cantwaltz@aol.com FEEDBACK: Proudly hung on the refrigerator DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer and the usual atxc haunts. Anywhere else, just let me know where it's going and leave my name and such attached. SPOILER WARNING: None RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: V KEYWORDS: MSR DISCLAIMER: No, Mulder and Scully aren't mine--they belong to CC, the fine folks at Fox, and 1013 Productions. "Never for money, always for love...." But I'd offer them my spare umbrella any time they asked. SUMMARY: Scully gets caught in a downpour. AUTHOR'S NOTES: Just a little holiday fluff of a fontfic. The font Storm is by Fontmaker and is available at http://replugge.net/fontmaker. Thanks again to Jori and Mojo for letting me play. Storm "While these clouds and this somber drizzling weather shut all in, we two draw nearer and know one another." - Henry David Thoreau She had just an instant of warning. One cold drop of water slithered down the back of her neck as she bowed her head against the sudden north wind. Then the skies opened and fat raindrops splattered her coat. She dashed under an awning over the doorway of a store front. A For Rent sign hung drunkenly in the window. As the rain pelted the sidewalk, she thought longingly of the umbrella that she kept tucked under the passenger seat of her car--a car that was three blocks to her left. And of her destination, two blocks to her right. Water pockmarked the paper of the three shopping bags that she carried, so she drew further back into the doorway. She juggled bags, briefcase and purse so that she could free up one hand to search for her cell phone. She was already late, and she needed to apologize to the person who was waiting for her. "In a nice, warn, *dry* restaurant, with a fireplace and a bar," she grumbled aloud as she flicked open the buttons of her coat. She reached for her phone, her fingers stilling as they met nothing but silky fabric. She closed her eyes in frustration. She'd called to check her messages while she was driving over and had tossed the phone on top of her briefcase when she had finished the call. She must have forgotten to grab it in her hurry to finish her Christmas shopping before dinner "Oh, dammit," she groaned. If she didn't have three paper bags full of gifts, she would run for it. But the delicate cashmere shawl she had purchased for her mother--not to mention the stuffed tiger she had bought her nephew--would be ruined. She rubbed the back of her neck as she tried to think of a solution. "Rough night?" a man asked from behind her. She spun around, startled. The man chuckled softly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. You just looked upset about something." She inclined her head, indicating the deluge just past the shelter of the awning. "I left my umbrella in the car, which is in a parking garage three blocks from here," she admitted. "And I can't get these bags wet." He held up a small paper bag of his own. "I know. And after I coughed up the extra six bucks for the deluxe gift wrap, you know?" He sighed dramatically and ran a hand through his damp hair. "I had my umbrella, but I must have left it at the counter. I was in a hurry because I'm running late." "Me, too," she said. "I didn't expect there to be so many people out shopping tonight. The lines were terrible." He looked down at her, his brow furrowed as he examined her face. "I don't know. You look like the hum-carols-to-herself-as-she-stands-in-line kind of woman to me." He shifted so that his shadow no longer fell onto her figure. "In fact, I bet you are the type who can wrap a box and make it look too nice to open. And that you keep your tree up until the needles gasp in protest and throw themselves to the floor." She laughed out loud. "Well, um, yes, as a matter of fact," she admitted. Then she tilted her face down as an unexpected wave of bittersweet memories pierced her. "Usually, that is." "Holiday blues?" he asked. She nodded and tucked a damp strand of hair behind one ear. When he didn't say anything, she looked up at him and saw a spasm of emotion cross his face. He cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was low and gruff. "I think that's why the holidays are so difficult for so many people. Those we've loved and lost--they never seem closer to us--or farther away." "I know what you mean," she said softly. They stood silently for a moment, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. Then the man said, "So, what are you going to be late for?" She looked up at him, puzzled. "What?" He stuck out a hand to test the force of the rain and jerked it back quickly, shaking the droplets off his fingers. "You said you were running late. You must be late for *something,* then." He grinned, white teeth gleaming in the harsh illumination of the street lights. "A hot date?" She frowned. "I wouldn't call it that. Maybe not even a--" She caught herself and smiled. "I am a terrible liar. Yes, it's a date. Maybe not a *hot* one, but a date just the same." She arched a questioning brow. "What about you?" "A date," he said absently, as though he was still mulling over her reply. "She's spending Christmas with her family, and I won't see her for a few days." "And you're not invited?" He half-smiled. "I'm not big on family stuff." He indicated her overflowing shopping bags and again held up his one small one. "Then again, that has its advantages. I save time, money, and my arm muscles." She reorganized her parcels so that the weight was more evenly distributed. "Well, there is that." He held out a hand. "Can I hold some of those for you?" "Thanks, but I've got it balanced now." She looked out at the rain. "Do you think it's letting up?" "No." He watched the rain pound against the sidewalk and splash his shoes. Finally, he said casually, "So, tell me about your date. What kind of guy is he?" "That's a very personal question," she said shortly, trying hard not to smile. A pause. "I don't suppose you want to talk about basketball, then?" "Not really." She shivered a little in the wind as the silence stretched. "Do you really want to know?" she asked finally. He laughed. "Let me see if I can guess, OK?" "Um, all right." He looked her up and down, taking in the tailored suit that was visible under the open buttons of her coat, the impossibly high heels on her small feet. "Well, we've established that you're a traditionalist. So I'm guessing he's a bit less conservative than you are." Her mouth curved. "You could say that." "Educated?" "Very." "And you don't seem to talk very much--not that that's a bad thing," he said defensively. "So I bet he rattles on and on and on. And you have to fight to get a word in edgewise." "Ye-" "I'll bet he's also crazy about you. Showers you with affection." "Well, you have the crazy part right," she murmured. "But the only thing he showers me with are these wild theories. And I've known him for seven years, and he has remembered my birthday exactly once." He looked surprised. "But he makes up for it later, doesn't he?" She thought about a late night rendezvous in a batting cage. "Oh, yes, he does," she said softly. The man stepped closer to her. "And I bet," he said quietly, "that when he sees that look on your face and knows that you are thinking of him, that he considers himself a very lucky man." The rain, the cold, and the wind disappeared as she looked into the man's face. "He's never told me that," she whispered. "Have you told him how you feel about him?" When she shook her head, he continued, "Well, maybe he's afraid. Worried that you don't return his feelings. You do, don't you?" She nodded. "So, why don't you tell him?" She searched her heart for an answer, and only one made any sense. "Because he already knows," she said finally. He gave her a crooked grin. "Yes, he does." And then he leaned down and kissed her. When they pulled apart, she stroked his cheek with tender fingers. "Mulder, you are such a flirt," she scolded gently. "Only with you, Scully," he said, sliding an arm around her shoulders. "Only with you." And they watched the rain fall.