TITLE: Buffetted
AUTHOR: Maggie McCain
DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer, Spookies, and Xemplary OK. Everyone
     else, please ask before forwarding or archiving.
FEEDBACK: Oh, please, feel free! Send it to
     MaggieMac525@aol.com
SPOILERS: "Millennium"
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATION: VR
SUMMARY: A stakeout, a beach bar, and a Jimmy Buffett cover band.
DISCLAIMER: "The X-Files" and all its characters and
     situations are owned by CC, 1013, and Fox. No
     infringement is intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is dedicated to Juliettt on her birthday.
     Here it is, with more UST. Thank you to cofax, Maria, and
     shannono for their ever-helpful beta services. You guys are that
     with which I can't live without.


Buffetted
By Maggie McCain

I am absurdly pleased with myself.

The ocean wind lifts and tangles Scully's hair. In the blaze of the
setting sun, she is like a candle, slim, white, and topped with fire.
In her gauzy sundress, with her hair tossed and her cheeks pinked by
unaccustomed sun, she looks incredibly young. I can imagine this woman
on the beach during Spring Break, stretched out on a towel with a
bottle of SPF 45 and a physics book.

I sigh happily and stretch, feeling small tensions ease with the pull
of muscles across my back. Scully looks over at me and smiles. "It is
nice, isn't it?"

I can feel myself grinning like a fool. "Only the best for us, Scully."

She turns back towards the water, tiny waves flirting with her long
shadow. "We should get going," she says, a shade of resignation
coloring her voice. "We're due at the bar in ten minutes."

"You're right," I agree, following her as we begin walking
again. "Richardson and Connor will kill us if we're late."

I took her to dinner on her birthday, to a hole-in-the-wall Greek
restaurant I discovered back while I was still working for Patterson.
Niko brought out a piece of baklava with a candle on top, and as we
sang "Happy Birthday" accompanied by the bouzouki player, I pulled an
envelope from my pocket.

"Happy birthday, Scully," I said softly.

She slit the envelope with a manicured nail, withdrawing the single
sheet of paper within. Her brow creased in confusion as she read it. "A
302? You got me a *case* for my birthday?"

"You got it," I said proudly. "You and I, Scully, are going undercover
at the Hilton Head Island Beach and Racquet Club."

Understanding began to dawn. "Mulder, please tell me the tennis court
isn't haunted," she said.

"No, Scully, look," I explained. "I volunteered us to help out another
department for a while. We're helping with the surveillance on a money
laundering case. Just think of it, Scully-- stakeouts on the beach, on
the tennis court, in beach bars..."

"Mulder, how on earth did you get this approved?"

"Let's just say that the SAC owes me a favor. So what do you say,
Scully?" I grinned at her hopefully. "I hear it's in the seventies in
Hilton Head this time of year."

A slow smile spread over her face, its warmth almost palpable. "You're
on, Mulder," she said.

It was raining when we got off the plane. I panicked for a moment, sure
that with my usual abysmal luck I had managed to get us an undercover
case at the beach during a hurricane, or something of the kind - never
mind that hurricane season was months away. But by the time we arrived
at the resort, the cloud cover had broken to reveal a bright clarity
that promised unseasonable heat for the afternoon. Last night was given
to meetings with the other teams, briefings, and a variety of
contingency plans. Today was our first day on the surveillance. Our
subject, Eugene P. Washburn, is a sedentary man, who spends his days
under a beach umbrella with the latest John Grisham and his nights
drinking beer and listening to the Jimmy Buffett cover band at the
Colada Cabana down the shore.

That's where we're heading now, as the lazily descending sun paints the
dunes with crimson and gold. Mr. Washburn is strolling unconcernedly
towards the bar, about twenty yards ahead of us. We follow him
unobtrusively, our cover as vacationers assured by the carefree
attitude that comes with the easing of tension. We are working, but it
feels like a holiday; here, for a while, we are free of the shadows
that have followed us for all our years together.

Scully loves the beach, loves the sea in all its forms. She wasn't
content to bask and paddle with the rest of the snowbirds this
afternoon, instead throwing herself headlong into the Atlantic, still
cold this early in the year, and wrestling with the tide. When she
rejoined me I could feel the chill of the water radiating from her
skin, but she only laughed as I took a spare beach towel and began
drying her off with more vigor than tenderness.

"It's too cold to swim, Scully. You'll get sick," I said, as the
terrycloth began to pink her skin.

She gave me a strange look from under her eyelashes, pushing a red rope
of hair from her eyes. "It's never too cold to swim, Mulder."

I started to argue, but was brought up short by the sudden realization
of how close we were, of how my hands on her had slowed and stopped,
until the only remaining motion was that of my thumbs running in slow
circles over her shoulders. A drop of seawater collected on her
earlobe, catching the sun like a gem. It swelled, swayed, and fell,
running down her neck, skimming her collarbone, and down towards...

I bit back a sound and stepped away, letting my hands trail lightly
down her arms as they left her.

"Mulder, look here," she says, breaking into my thoughts. She has
stopped walking, and is squatting back on her heels as she digs in the
sand. With a little triumphant noise, she pulls something from the
small hole and straightens, carrying her find to the edge of the water,
where she swishes it clean. She holds it out to me, dripping. Nestling
in her palm is a small seashell, delicately formed, swirling with cream
and pink. A lovely thing.
"My father was stationed not too far from here, once," she says. "I
used to collect shells like this. Missy said they matched my aura." She
pauses, a faraway look on her face. "Charlie was just a baby then. He
started calling them Dana-shells. I never even learned their real name."

I bend forward to look closer, and I can breathe her summer-smell,
traces of sweat, seawater and Banana Boat. She opens my hand and drops
the shell into my palm, her fingertips ghosting a touch.

"Keep it for me?" she asks.

I nod, speaking softly. "I will."

For a moment, she seems to move towards me a little. I can see the
moment when the spell breaks and we both remember Mr. Washburn.

Damn him.

"We need to catch up," she says, and I nod even as we start walking
again.

It's strangely liberating to pretend like this. Scully is swinging her
sandals from one hand, and the sight of her small sandy feet brings an
inexplicable tightness to my throat. I've fallen a little behind her
and to one side, ostensibly to keep my shoes dry, but really so I can
watch her. It isn't often that I get to see Scully in vacation mode;
I'm hoarding away the memories of her here-- windblown, rosy, and
content-- to treasure later, when we've resumed our accustomed armor of
suits and serious expressions. In my pocket, I curl my fist around the
Dana-shell, its small points reassuring prickles in my hand.

Mr. Washburn is easy to find, sitting up front where he can ogle the
keyboard player. We take our places at the bar, where we can observe
both the suspect and the door. He orders a Corona with lime and settles
in for the evening.

The band is good and the barstools surprisingly comfortable. I can't
hold back another contented sigh as I lean against the bar, scanning
the crowd. Scully is perched beside me, swinging her damp feet in time
to the music, her eyes deceptively sleepy. I might know that she's five
foot two of steel and fire, but to anyone else she's just another
vacationing professional, welcoming the chance to get slightly sloshed
with a crowd of strangers.

"You know, Scully," I remark casually, "there is much wisdom to be
found in the music of Jimmy Buffett."

She shoots me one of her patented "Mulder-you're-nuts" looks.

"There is!" I protest. "Listen to what they're playing now. 'You need a
holiday.' That's true, isn't it?"

"Yeah, of us and about everyone else in America," she
scoffs. "Especially everyone at a beach bar in Hilton Head. That
doesn't mean that Jimmy Buffett is some kind of guru."

"Scully, Jimmy Buffett is the Descartes of beach music. He's the poet
laureate of the tropical drink." I gesture expansively with my glass of
orange juice. "No matter what kind of problems you're having, you can
find the answer in a Jimmy Buffett song."

She laughs outright at that. "Mulder, I can buy finding life lessons in
Bob Dylan, or maybe even Sting. But Jimmy Buffett? Listen to that," she
said, nodding towards the stage. "What possible philosophical value is
there to be had in 'Cheeseburger in Paradise'?"

I think for a minute. "Find joy in the ordinary things of life," I say,
triumphantly. "Very Zen."

Scully acknowledges my hit with a nod and a grin, before turning her
attention to the door. "Richardson and Connor are here," she says in an
undertone, indicating our relief entering the bar. They nod to us and
take a table behind Washburn and slightly to his left.

"I guess we can go, then," I say, oddly hesitant to leave the bar.

"We don't *have* to," she replies. "I'd like to stay a little longer."

"Actually, so would I," I say. "Want a drink?"

"Sure," she says, and turns to the bartender. "Margarita," she orders,
much to his delight; I think he had despaired of selling us anything
but fruit juice and soda water tonight.

"Pina colada," I add. Scully shoots me an amused look. "What?" I ask
defensively.

"Mulder, that's such a girly drink."

"It is not. Besides, I *like* pina coladas. There was this guy that
sold Sno-Cones on the Vineyard when I was a kid, and pina colada was my
favorite flavor."

"I didn't know they had pina colada Sno-Cones." Scully's voice is
cautious, as though she's not sure whether talking about my childhood
will trigger some long-buried traumatic memory. I smile at her,
reassuring. There were some good times, Scully. This was one of them.

"They didn't. But this guy - his name was Crazy Bill - "

"Crazy Bill?" I can hear laughter bubbling underneath her voice. It
makes me feel oddly light, reckless and effervescent.

"Well, he sold used cars in the off season," I explain.

"I see. So, Crazy Bill..."

"He used to make up flavors. Some of them were pretty terrible,
actually, but the pina colada was great. They were very popular- all
the older kids used to get them." I paused for effect. "I found out
later that he was putting real rum in those. Needless to say, he was
put out of business the first time one of the city fathers found his
daughter rolling around on the beach sticky and giggling."

"Mulder!" Scully laughs. "How old were you?"

"Nine. Don't worry, he only gave the hard ones to the high-schoolers.
He did have some sense of self-preservation."

We are silent for a while, then, looking at each other and relaxing
into the balmy night. Then Scully shifts, her eyes going to where the
band plays.

"Look over there," she murmurs.

Mr. Washburn has, amazingly, managed to make a conquest. A tall woman,
hair bleached and skin leathery from too many years of religious
tanning, has joined him at his table, and draws her chair in close,
resting a scarlet-nailed hand on his arm. He says something, and they
laugh together. He gets up, fumbling with her chair as she rises.

I can see Connor wincing as she gathers her things, preparing to
follow. I feel for you, Carolyn. I wouldn't want to watch Washburn put
the moves on anyone.

My attention is drawn away by a familiar riff on the synthesizer, and a
syncopated bongo beat. Scully raises an eyebrow as she toasts me with
her margarita; it's appropriate, I must admit.

"They must be winding down," she says. "They usually
save 'Margaritaville' till the end."

I nod, letting the song's spell of tropical lethargy lull me.

"...nothin' to show but this brand new tattoo..."

"Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo, Mulder?" she asks
suddenly.

I nearly choke on a piece of pineapple. Scully has raised a Forbidden
Subject. There are just some things we don't talk about: having cancer,
having children, getting tattoos... and whatever the hell else went on
in Philadelphia. I still don't really understand what that was about,
except that even though it wasn't about me, it was somehow still my
fault.

I realize that Scully is still waiting for my reply. "I thought about
it back in high school, I guess. Mostly because it would have pissed
off every adult I knew. But I was never really serious about it."

"Why not?"

I search her face for a clue as to why this has come up tonight, but
she appears guileless, her eyes innocent and clear over the salty rim
of her glass. "Come on, Scully, you know me and needles. I'd come out
of there with half a tattoo."

"It's really not as bad as you think it's going to be," she remarks
calmly.

"What's it like?" I am fascinated by this conversation, not to mention
curious.

That little crease between her eyebrows appears as she considers her
answer. I wonder idly if she has any idea how much I love the look she
gets when she concentrates on something. It's been distracting me for
years.

"Well, it does hurt, but it's more like being scratched than being
poked," she says finally. "It doesn't make your muscles sore, like
getting a vaccination, and it doesn't bruise like when you get blood
drawn. It hurts for a while after you get it, like a skinned knee." She
grins, her face full of light and mischief. "You should think about it,
Mulder," she says. "They're kind of addictive, you know."

Before I can even begin to process the implications of that statement,
the band begins again; at the first twangy wails of guitar and fiddle I
groan.

"I really do appreciate the fact you're sitting here..." Oh God. Not
this one. Not after that "The Truth is in Jimmy Buffett" conversation
we've just had.

I drag my eyes around to see if I can distract Scully before we reach
the chorus; maybe she'll go to the bathroom or something, and spare me
the humiliation of the painfully appropriate lyrics...

"I just got a waterbed, it's filled up for me and you..."

My mind comes to a screeching halt when I face her. Her eyes seem
deeper, almost smoky, and the smile that slides over her face is pure
evil. I can feel the balance we've maintained for so long faltering,
and I don't know if I'll survive the fall.

We are both silent, waiting for the inevitable chorus.

"So why don't we get drunk and screw." It seems like the entire crowd
is singing along. That strange form of friendly raunchiness that only
arises when tourists get drunk is sweeping in beery waves along the
bar.  Scully leans closer to me; chilled by the drink, her breath is
cool against my ear. If I turned my head, I could kiss her; her mouth
would taste of salt and lime.

"You know, Mulder," she says, "I think you're right." She is so close
that each word puffs into my ear and sends little jolts of arousal
skittering along my nerves. Her voice has lowered, roughened. I used to
pay $3.95 a minute to listen to a voice like that. I struggle to frame
a semi-coherent reply.

"R-right about what?" Oh, smooth, Spooky.

I can feel that wicked, gleeful smile cross her face again. "I really
should take some advice from Jimmy Buffett."

My head snaps around so quickly to look at her that it makes my neck
ache. She doesn't pull away, and the centimeter of air between our
faces shakes with our awareness of each other. I realize suddenly that
her nose and cheekbones are dusted with tiny golden freckles. Shifting
my gaze to her eyes, so close to me they blur, I freeze. This cannot
possibly be happening. She could not have just said that. Oh God,
please let her have just said that.

Her mouth is cold and tangy as she kisses me.

For an instant I am shocked into immobility, then I am surging into her
mouth; my tongue's a forty-niner and she is California. We have kissed
before, but this species has never appeared in our personal Wild
Kingdom. All the other inhabitants-- the Comforting Cheek Kiss, the
Tender Forehead Caress, even the Sweet Millennium Smooch-- have fled
screaming into the jungle. I wonder fleetingly what this would be
called. Sucking face? Tonsil hockey? She wrestles her tongue into my
mouth and I wave goodbye to the shred of rationality that my brain had
been clinging to. Every ounce of my awareness is focused on Scully, her
mouth, my mouth, our mouth. Our tongues twist and tangle and I taste
rum and coconut, pineapple and lime.

When we finally wrench apart we are panting and flushed. I run my
tongue over my teeth to make sure all my fillings are still in place.
We pull back enough to look at each other. Her eyes are huge and dark,
full of arousal and a hint of something else that I am in no condition
to analyze right now.

"Scully?" I whisper.

"Hmmmm?" her voice is throaty and languid, and I feel it like her lips
on me again.

"I really don't feel like getting drunk."

She smiles again; this time I see love and acceptance instead of evil
glee. "We could skip that part," she murmurs.

Have I mentioned that I love this woman?

I rise stiffly from the barstool, grateful that I wore loose shorts
instead of jeans tonight. She slips her hand into mine as we leave the
bar, heading up the beach to our hotel.

Forget Elvis. Jimmy Buffett is The King.

END (01/01)