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SURVEY QUESTION 1.

Do you think that Fox Mulder should call up Chris Carter's muse and have phone sex with her?

[yes] [no] [not sure] [who's this Carter person?]

God help me--I'm trying to teach Fox Mulder how to cook.

Please note that this is not an attempt to domesticate the Wild Mulder or to <shudder!> win my way into his heart. Nor do I have time on my hands--I can think of better, easier, and safer hobbies than letting Mulder loose in anyone's kitchen with fire and sharp objects. No, the reason I started this project is purely a matter of self-preservation.

The man is eating me out of house and home.

Maybe I was suppressing it, perhaps I wanted to be blissfully unaware. But my computer's spreadsheet does not lie. I'm spending three times the amount I budgeted for food, and two-thirds of that money is going for food for my partner. I'm not counting the road trips--the Bureau pays for that. But Mulder has taken to showing up here at all hours of the day and night, hungry, thirsty, and more than once with dirty laundry in tow. It turns out that the basket of dirty clothes serves another purpose: Mulder considers my pantry to be a 24 hour convenience store and thinks nothing of 'stocking up' while his underwear is tumble-drying. Against my better judgment I keep on hand in the very back of the bottom cabinet a small selection of pseudo-food just to be able to say that I have something he likes. He must really believe I haven't noticed him sneaking the occasional can of SpaghettiOs or Hormel chili out of my apartment, hidden under Snuggle-scented sweats, ratty collegiate t-shirts, and questionably patterned boxers.

At first I had thought I might be able to engage one of the true masters of the culinary arts to teach Mulder. I plopped my partner down in front of the television and flipped through the channels to find the inestimable Julia Child on PBS. He sat riveted to the TV for the whole half-hour, all the while hastily scribbling notes on a legal pad, then he bolted out the door without so much as a good-bye. It turned out that Mulder wasn't interested in Duck a l'Orange but had taken Julia as germinal inspiration for the details of a profile of a homicidal octogenarian chef in North Carolina.

Now when I hear "Bon Appetit!" I break out in a cold sweat.

It was clear that TV tutelage wasn't the answer and that shifting Mulder's eating habits from chowing down on carry-out to making himself a three-course meal was too big a jump all at once. So I set my sights a bit lower. There are plenty of pre-packaged meal starters on the market these days, and while they are too high in sodium for my liking, they do have in their favor convenience, long shelf life, and an assortment of flavors. What could be simpler? Buy some fresh chicken breast, dice and saute in a pot, add the meal starter and water, cook for 30 minutes. Surely even Mulder would be able to manage that. With an abundance of confidence, I picked Mulder up at his place and we drove to the nearest grocery store.

I was quite certain that stores did not, as a general rule, form a human chain of aproned clerks and stockboys between customers and the meat cases. The sight was bizarre, like seeing the employees at the Piggly Wiggly performing "A Chorus Line." Somehow I was not surprised to learn that my partner was the reason for the blockade. The store manager waited until Mulder had moved off to investigate the Sugar Frosted Cocoa Bombs cereal display to whisper to me that Mulder made the other customers nervous by standing and staring at the fresh meat and poultry on display.

"He stands there...and stares at the meat," I said disbelievingly.

The manager swallowed nervously. "Yeah. With this really weird expression on his face. You know, kinda...vacant."

"He always looks like that, sir. If he just stands at the meat and poultry cases, I fail to see what--"

"For 45 minutes? Zoned out, like? Lady, if you're in charge of this guy, I don't think you should let him out by himself, if you know what I mean."

Yes, I did indeed know what he meant.

In the end we cut a deal with the store manager. Mulder would not give the appearance of communing with dead cows and chickens, and in return the nice teenager at the Customer Service desk would run back and fetch what Mulder needed. The manager slipped me a preferred customer discount card with a whispered explanation that whatever 'they' were paying me to look after Mulder, it probably wasn't enough.

I nodded solemnly. "You have no idea."

My archaeological excavation for Mulder's culinary talents came to a halt on Wednesday when I got a late call from AD Skinner. Boston's Chief Medical Examiner had 5 bodies in the morgue that appeared to be poisoning cases. The FBI was being called in to investigate the possibility of pharmaceutical product tampering. Skinner asked me to fly up for the consultation until Rodriguez got back from Wyoming.

84 grueling hours later, I managed to get the last seat on the day's last shuttle out of Boston. With the specter of another nationwide tampering scare hanging over the investigative team, I'd had only 8 hours of sleep in 3 1/2 days. The poison had finally been identified as an extremely toxic insecticide sprayed on flowers at a florist's shop patronized by all five victims. Rodriguez arrived in time to do the grunt work of filling out the forms, something I would have felt guilty about if I hadn't been so damned tired.

The taxi driver must have poured me out of the back seat of the cab, and somehow I managed to ooze my way into the building and to my apartment. I have a slide-show memory of dumping my purse and briefcase on the sofa, my carry-on bag at the foot of the bed, and my clothes in a heap on the floor before pulling on the first available t-shirt and crawling bonelessly into bed.

The really annoying insect buzzing in my ear turned out to be the non-snoozable backup on my alarm clock. I couldn't focus properly because my eyes were watery and, to use a distinctly un-medschool term, "gunky." I was wheezing and coughing and the room was tilting in decidedly unnatural ways.

In short, I'd come down with a cold. Hardly surprising, given that I hadn't had sufficient rest, food, or peace of mind in a month of Sundays. At least I was at home so I could nurse myself through it.

One wobbly trip to the bathroom later, I punched the speed dial for Mulder.

"Hello."

"Mulder, it's me."

"Monica! I told you never to call me at this number!"

"Very funny, Mulder. I have a cold."

"Scully, forget the FBI and doctoring. Think about a career in phone sex."

"Just goes to show you don't know everything about me, Mulder."

"Oooh, Dana Scully, woman of mystery. So...what are you wearing?"

"Most of yesterday's makeup, an old t-shirt, and a layer of Vicks VapoRub under a hanky."

"Jesus, Scully, you really know how to turn a guy on. I can't wait for you to come back."

"I *am* back. I got in late last night, and woke up with this cold. Skinner wanted an update on--"

"You're back? In your apartment?"

"No, I'm in the lobby of the Air and Space Museum waiting for the first tour to start. Come on, Mulder, pay attention. Kimberley's not in at this time of the morning. Be a good partner and pass along the message that I can't make the meeting with AD Skinner and that Rodriguez has all the latest info in Boston. I'll be here--I'm going to have a little bit of broth, a big dose of cold medicine, and at least six hours of sleep, so I'm turning the phone off. I'll be fine."

Mulder was still sputtering, but I was beginning to wheeze a bit, so I thanked him for passing along my message and then hung up. Even though Mom was visiting Bill and Tara, I left a brief message on her machine so that she wouldn't worry about my not answering my phone. I worked my way from the bedroom through the living room, switching off phones as I went. Tiring rapidly, I decided that a quick bowl of chicken soup and a few crackers was what I needed.

"And when she got there, the cupboard was bare..."

I must have stared stupidly at the empty shelves for two minutes. The cans that had been lined up in neat rows were gone. Not just the soups--broth, tinned sauces, canned vegetables, all quite plainly missing. All abducted by...Mulder, who else?

I began checking the other cabinets. Some dry spinach pasta remained, as did a store-brand tin of sardines and a bottle of pimentos. On a bottom shelf, there was an old box of QueeQueg's dog biscuits and a flip-top can of premium doggie chow. There were no crackers, cookies, not even little cheese-flavored goldfish.

I sat down heavily in the chair nearest the refrigerator and admired the desolation within. No eggs, milk, cheese. A half-stick of margarine. Whoopee. Some orange juice -- no, wait, the carton was empty. I pushed the fridge door closed with my foot and rested my forehead on the table until my nose clogged up again.

It took a while, but I finally located some ancient bouillon cubes behind a battered box of food coloring, and Mulder had managed to miss the wad of plastic bag in the freezer that held two bread heels. I made a meal of toasted bread and bouillon...it was warm, and something to fill my stomach.

I wanted to get better. Soon. All the sooner to kill Mulder. Slowly. Methodically.

Energized by my new-found reason to live, I motored unsteadily to the bathroom. Three aspirin, swallow. Only 20 mls of NyQuil left, slurp. One generic tiny-time-pills cold capsule, gag-swallow. And for good measure, I popped two of the EPcodienylchlorin samples I got at the last pathologists' trade show. There was something very peculiar about a pharmaceutical company marketing a cold medicine to doctors whose regular patients were deceased. Their free notepad and pen set had come in handy, though.

I had enough energy left to wash my face, change my t-shirt, and slather on another glop of VapoRub. The last ten feet to the bed seemed like ten miles, all of it uphill. At last crawling under the covers, I put my head on the pillow and closed my eyes.

...I can feel the even rumble of the engines through the half-inch of carpeting and four inch spike heels. I am walking on air at 30,000 feet, swaying slightly as I make my way forward toward the front of the jet. The Coach Class passengers are settled and happy, their Y-incisions neatly sliced and stitched, their wrapping shrouds tidily tucked, body bags zipped, their samples, specimens, and paperwork stowed beneath the seats or in the overhead compartments. A familiar presence: Mr. Rickemann's descending colon is with us today, his jar made comfortable with an extra pillow. I set the cabin lights to low, and start their movie. I do my job competently and efficiently. This is what I live for.

...Now to spacious First Class and my sole charge here. My white lab coat is pressed and spotless, and goes so well with my sheer lace stockings and white spike heels. The cart rattles ever so slightly as I push it forward, locking the wheels in the aisle outside the galley. Our chef pauses in her tasks to peek out from the gleaming facilities and wave cheerfully at my First Class passenger. I look back to the one row of tanned leather seats and the occupant of seat 'B.'

...I am alarmed by what I see. Mr. Mulder usually appreciates the extra space in First Class, but today he's frowning. Clearly I have done something wrong. It is my responsibility to keep him pleased, to cater to his needs. He'd asked for a pillow and blanket, but the pillow has been transformed into a lumpy mess in the window seat, while the blanket stretches negligently across the seats and his lap. His green eyes seem to seek answers from the billowing cloud veils outside.

..."What can I give you, Mr. Mulder?" I inquire softly. The green of his eyes is burnished with gold as he turns to me. The slight shake of his head says that he wants for nothing. But I must do for him, it is my job, and my heart pounds as I begin my litany.

..."I have iced tea, or root beer." He looks away, uninterested. I slide the panel on the cart to one side, revealing a full selection of quality canned goods in a wide range of socially redemptive nutritional values. He regards the choices but no smile animates his eyes. My heart flutters like a little bird, my hands tremble as I adjust his overhead light.

...He reaches over to the window seat and picks up his floral boarding gift. "This is you, Scully," he whispers. His hands caress the single flame-colored rose imprisoned in sealed plastic cellophane and adorned with biohazard stickers and evidence tape. In one quick motion Mulder rips away the plastic and throws the shreds aside. He dips his lips to the half-open bud and leaves a breathy kiss to gild the petals.

...I feel so helpless, adrift. I've always known what to do. I've always known what he needs. I've always been in control. It is my job, it is who I am. Confused, uncertain, I begin again. Root beer or iced tea, something to eat, pillows, blankets, a magazine, adjust the lighting. He wants none of them. I feel lost, empty.

..."Please, Mulder, what can I do for you?" He hears the pleading in my voice. He reads the fear in my eyes. I am fascinated by his gaze, I cannot look away.

..."This isn't about me. What do you want, Scully? What can I do for you?" His words implore me to accept what he says, but I know my purpose, my job. I shake my head, only to provoke a sad smile from him. He tips the rose as if considering the curve of its stem, then beckons me closer, closer still, until I am standing next to his outstretched legs.

..."I want you to take off your lab coat, Scully." The imperative is there, the stress of the directive, and without thinking I unbutton the coat and let it slide off my shoulders and onto the floor. To my shame I discover that I am naked, save for the snowy lace and ribbon garter belt that tethers my lace stockings. The heat of embarrassment sweeps over my skin, moving in a tidal wave from my face to my belly. He looks at me, not driven by lust or goaded by authority, but with quiet satisfaction and hopefulness.

..."There is a woman hidden beneath the job." His words cause me to shiver and my nipples tighten, as much a response to his appreciation as to the chill of the air. Mulder holds the rose forth like a conjurer's wand and ripples the velvet petals across my nipples in turn. His kiss is no longer on the rose, I feel its softness on my breasts.

...He trails the rose across my abdomen, and down, flirting with encircling lace and ribbon and down into my curls. Mulder then lets the rose nestle just between my legs, as if to let the flower blossom fully in my heat. He pulls the rose away, only to bring it to his face to sample its scent. The rose's perfume is now a heady complement to the musk of my arousal. Mulder can smell my desire on the petals.

...He pushes the blanket aside and now I see the impressive evidence of his own arousal. His cock is hard and unrestrained, his pants unzipped and pushed down to free his hips. Now I know what he wants--it is a simple matter of sexual release. This is what he wants me to give him. I place my fingertips on his knees, to urge them apart so I can kneel between his legs and use my mouth and tongue to give him pleasure. I am, once more, in control, defined by my tasks.

..."This is not about me, Scully." Mulder catches my wrists and pulls me forward. Suddenly I am straddling him, my arms braced against the seatbacks to either side and my knees bracketing his hips. His shirt buttons press little circular kisses on my abdomen. Mulder could impale me on his cock, his hands could force my hips down, I feel him so close, the tip of his cock brushes my wet folds. Instead, he torments me with lithe tracing of his tongue around my nipples, at first so slowly, then faster, then with a look of sheer devilment he nibbles at each nipple in turn.

...Objections flood my mind, the voices of control speak to me in the random phrases that are the measure of my day: //in the event of an emergency// snap on the latex// make sure the belt is buckled securely// what was the cause of death// the oxygen mask will fall from the ceiling// I'll watch your back// make sure your tray table is upright and locked into position//. But control is gone, and instead of words a moan escapes my lips. Mulder suckles at my breasts reverently, carefully, as he pulls me closer, his hands caressing my ass, my hips, until one hand slides between my legs and his thumb brushes roughly over my clit.

..."Harder." I hear my own voice begging him, that single word becoming a chant. He gives me what I need, grinding his fingers into my wetness. The whispered kisses at my breasts are now fervent entreaties.

..."Let me take care of you, Scully," he says, but Mulder sees the self-doubt in my eyes. "Let me please you, Scully," he begs as he feels my body tremble with indecision. "Let me make love to you, Scully," he whispers, and my answer is the weight of my breath on his lips.

..."Yes."

...Such light pressure, the barest touch at my hips to guide me down, and I sink onto him and then he is inside me. My sigh of pleasure becomes a delighted groan as we establish a rhythm, his hips thrusting upward to meet my downward push. With each beat of my heart and each shuddering breath our rhythm becomes faster. Our souls race our hearts and without warning I am coming, my keening cry threaded with wonder and love.

...In that moment, my world is no longer ordered, sterile, controlled. My soul is unfettered, freed of the chains I forged for myself. This wild careening of my world, this is not turbulence. It is ecstasy, completion, fulfillment at the hands of my gentle lover. I willingly surrender to it.

"Scully, how are you?" the rumble of his voice tickled at my ear.

"Upright and securely fastened," I murmured, eyes closed, nuzzling at his neck and savoring the soft feeling of his shirt. I tried to nestle even closer, and spoiled my languid sigh with a small hiccup.

His hand gently brushed the hair away from my eyes. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty."

Gradually I remembered how to open my eyes. He was there, smiling down at me, no doubt insufferably proud of himself. Having no self-respect, I pleaded "More?" with my very best sultry whisper.

He chuckled. "Judging from your eyes, Agent Scully, I'd say you'd had quite enough already."

Silly Mulder. You can never have too much mind-blowing sex. The cabin banked left and right as I shook my head.

"Are we down yet?" Everything was bright and in fuzzy-focus. I squinted as he moved out of range.

"Scully, I think you're higher than a kite. Here, sit up."

The first class cabin became insubstantial and faded away, replaced by my bedroom, the twisted and rumpled bedding in which I was tangled, and Fox Mulder in t-shirt and sweat pants, offering me a sip of water. He helped me sit up, and guided the cup to my lips. One swallow, two, three, with a few drops splashing on my t-shirt.

It took another five minutes for me to locate the missing pieces of my brain and plug them back in. Mulder had misgivings as to whether I was 'bathroom-safe' so he waited on the other side of the door while I did my business. The image in the mirror with big black saucers in place of pupils told me that I'd overdosed on the cold medicine. Hello, Dana Katherine Scully, well and truly stoned.

Mulder tucked me up at the kitchen table with an afghan around me for warmth. It wasn't until I was halfway through the glass of juice he'd set in front of me that my befuddled brain formulated the obvious question. I could feel my lower lip beginning to tremble.

"Mulder, why did you take my food and leave me dog biscuits to eat?"

"Damn, I left some dog biscuits?"

Mulder looked positively stricken when I began to sob pathetically, fat tears splashing like water balloons on the table top.

"Oh, Scully -- no, please don't cry, geez, Scully, that was a stupid joke. No, look--" he pulled open cabinet doors one after the other to reveal shelves full of cans, jars, and boxes, "--see, I went shopping today, I replaced everything. I even got a quart of milk, because you'd run out."

He knelt beside me and grabbed the dish towel to wipe my runny nose.

"I'm really sorry, Scully. I was here yesterday evening, watering your plants. You got a call from the battered women's shelter over at St. Andrews'. They needed immediate donations of food items...something about having to accommodate extra families from Marymount. I picked up the phone and told them I'd bring over what I could right away. I knew that's what you would have done." He smeared a tardy tear across my cheek with a gentle brush of his thumb. "By the time I'd finished helping out, it was late and I thought I'd just go to the store today and you wouldn't need to worry about it."

"I would have done that?" I parroted, vainly searching for a dry spot on the dish towel.

Mulder rested the tip of his index finger lightly on my lips.

"I meant it when I said that I owe you everything. You've given me so much, Scully. I was wrong, though, about one thing--you do owe *me* something. You owe me the chance to care for you, to 'give' in return. You've walled yourself up inside your professionalism, safe and unapproachable. No one gets in, because you think that opening yourself and accepting what someone else would give you means being submissive, losing control, being less than strong. No living thing on this earth only gives or takes. Life...and love requires a balance and a reciprocity of spirit. You give, and give, and give, but you won't accept anything in return. Give...and take, Scully. We're partners. We take care of each other. Give and take...to care for, and to be cared for."

Do you understand, his eyes asked, and I nodded my head, managing an embarrassed smile in the bargain. Satisfied, he set the table with bowls and silverware, and brought a large pot from the stove. Mulder ladled the steaming soup into both our bowls. I watched the steam trail idly upward and I could taste the aroma of rich broth and vegetables on my tongue. This was stranger than trippy hallucinatory dreams about forensic flight attendants. I'd discovered an X-File in my own kitchen--my impossible partner, the man who inspires terror in supermarket managers, the angel who did good works in my name...had made me soup. Homemade soup. In fact, it's Tuscan Bean soup. Vegetables sauteed in olive oil, then tomatoes, wine, vegetable broth, cannellini beans and Ditali pasta--a delicious soup of simple ingredients and complex flavors.

"Mulder...you can cook," I accused, watching him cringe slightly at my words. "Here I was trying to make you self-sufficient and now I find out you're conversant with classic European cuisine."

"Hey, Scully, it's just bean soup."

"It's very *good* bean soup, Mulder. Would you care to explain to me why you live on SpaghettiOs and mystery meat chili when you could cook this for yourself?"

Ah, the Kodak moment: a non-committal Mulder shrug accented with a wee Mulder pout.

"What, and miss Nick at Night?" He wrestled another chunk off the still-warm loaf of Italian bread. "It's all too much trouble for just one person, Scully."

I pushed a dot of pasta around the edge of my bowl. "And it's less trouble to come over and pilfer canned goods, Mulder? Didn't anyone tell you not to mess with a Federal Agent?"

"So you caught on that I was sneaking the cans out." His eyebrow lifted slightly. "Did you notice I was sneaking them back in, too?"

He had me, he had me big time, and the goofy shit-eating grin on Mulder's face said that he knew it, too. Thus started a cascade of giggles that my 'condition' only made worse, leaving me incapable of helping with clean-up. So I sat and tried to sober up while Mulder washed dishes and stored the remainder of the soup.

I noticed that he sported the most enigmatic smile, as if those simple domestic chores pleased him. One thought domino tipped over, and nudged the next one. No, it wasn't the domesticity itself, it was that he was...caring for me. Another domino fell, and I recalled how powerful the need is to say 'thank you.' Without give-and-take, a thank-you is turned aside, refused. Rows of dominos toppled at the realization that I'd turned aside Mulder's efforts to thank me, his idiosyncratic attempts at reciprocity, all because I thought I knew better, because I was busy being strong.

Because I was busy being an idiot.

Dishes done and lights dimmed, we lingered in the hallway. His duffel bag was parked by the door. He smoothed my hair, lifting the errant strands away from my eyes. He wasn't brooding, just quiet.

"It's getting late, and you still have to sleep off the rest of the whoopee medicine," he said. "I suppose you'll be OK?"

"Mulder, I--" He looked away, expecting my usual line. "Mulder, I...wonder if you would tuck me in. Please?"

The popular wisdom is that pregnant women 'glow.' They've got nothing on a Happy Mulder. He was so conscientious about my comfort-- fetching a glass of water, positioning a box of tissues, checking my alarm clock--and finally, tucking the folded-over covers neatly under my arms and settling my thread-bare childhood bear beside my pillow.

"I think there's enough room on your nightstand for this," Mulder said as he transferred a vase from the dresser to the nightstand. In the vase was a single flame-red rose, half-open, its fragrant throat still hidden. He smiled as he breathed in the scent. "It smells like you, Scully."

Surely he was thinking of the rose bath beads I sometimes packed in my luggage, or maybe of the sachets in my dresser, or the hand cream that I use after wearing latex gloves for six hours at a stretch. But I was thinking of a strange fantasy flight at 30,000 feet, and a rose, and the woman at the heart of Dr. Dana Katherine Scully.

He pantomimed a kiss from the bedroom doorway, but my words called him back.

"Mulder, do you think I could persuade you to make dinner next week?"

"Maybe. Julia's Duck a l'Orange recipe looked good. Goodnight, Scully."

So we learn again to be partners, to give and take. Next week, I will have the ingredients on hand, and Mulder will bring the wine and a few of his CDs to cook by.

And I will bring him a flame-red rose, a rose gilded with kisses. Desire will take care of itself.

"Goodnight, Mulder."