Buffetted

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)
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