------ When I first envisioned the "Day" series, I wanted to do a bit between Walt and Sharon, but couldn't think of a graceful way to bring them together. I decided to ignore the idea for a while, figuring that my subconscious would come up with a solution sooner or later. This, however, is much better. Once again, my partner in creativity (I can't say crime because they could never prove it was us in that video) came to my rescue. With this piece, Bonnie has once again proved that she is brilliant. Enjoy!! One other note. Bonnie didn't just conjure Sharon out of nowhere on this one, like some creators of some shows that will remain anonymous. She is mentioned in both "Day of Grace" and "Day with Tom and Crow". Just thought I'd point that out. --Sally DISCLAIMER: Walter Skinner, Sharon Skinner, Dana Scully, Clyde the Pomeranian, and even Pfaster and the nasty clones belong to Chris Carter and all his friends at 1013 Productions. None of these characters were harmed in the writing of this story. Send all effusive praise to Bonnie c/o amstone@ix.netcom.com Previous story: "Day in Cyberspace" Day For Shopping by Bonnie Drew (with the blessing of Sally Bradstreet) Any shopping mall Washington, DC February 20, 1997 Walter Skinner fingered the rich blue silk of the nightgown. It whispered over his hands, shimmering in the soft light. Although cool to the touch now, he could easily imagine it warm, warm from the heat of Dana's body, smelling of her as it whisked to the floor. "It's not my birthday for three more months, Walter. And that isn't my size." He jumped, guiltily releasing his hold on the seductive fabric. "Sorry to scare you." She didn't sound the least bit sorry. "Sharon." He was finally able to say her name. "What are you doing here?" His ex-wife's wide eyes smiled wickedly. "Other than watching you fondling women's underwear?" He blushed a deep crimson over the tops of his ears. "I was not! I was--" A young salesgirl interrupted his defense. "Could I show you something else, sir?" "Sweaters," he blurted out without thinking. The girl gave him the polite smile that all retail workers cultivate and showed him to the display of women's winter clothing. Sharon clasped her hands together behind her back. "Mind if I tag along?" "Yes," he growled. She ignored him. He thanked the salesgirl more civilly and began rummaging through a display of sweaters. "I was going to ask if you were seeing anyone, Walt. But I guess I don't have to now." If it were possible, his blush reddened. "I'm just shopping for a birthday present, Sharon," he mumbled. "Uh, huh." She eyed the purple sweater he was holding up to the light. "Um. What do you think?" he asked at last. She paused a moment before she answered. "You do want to keep seeing her, right? You're not trying to break up with her?" He dropped the garment as if it had caught fire. His ex-wife shook her dark head. "Walter, your taste in women's clothing is deplorable. Let me help." "No." "Why not?" she protested. "Because it's weird." "What's weird? Taking your ex-wife shopping for a present for your girlfriend?" "She's not my girlfriend." "Then you won't mind me helping," she concluded, smiling up at him guilelessly. Skinner found himself in the unenviable position between admitting that he had a girlfriend to his ex-wife, or allowing said ex-wife to accompany him on the gift-finding expedition for said not-girlfriend. He chose to wimp out. "She's just a friend." Sharon's eyes softened. She had lived with this man for 17 years, and despite the gruffness of his facade, she knew he was utterly and completely out of his depth here. She'd rarely seen him look so lost and helpless. She laid a hand on his bicep. "But you wish she was more, right?" He didn't answer, just busied himself with the sweaters, focusing on the smaller sizes. "Hey, Walt," she coaxed. "I'm not out to get you. Our divorce was amicable. Let me give you some advice, O.K.?" He finally raised his eyes to hers warily. "Yes?" "These are completely hopeless. If she has any taste at all, if you give her one of these, she'll smile and thank you sweetly and toss it to the back of her closet as soon as you leave the room." "Really?" "That's what I always did." He gave a grunt that sounded a little like a laugh. Then, he shrugged resignedly. "O.K. I yield to your judgement. What would you suggest?" "Well, that depends. Do I know her?" He pressed his lips tightly together. "You're not going to tell me who she is, huh?" "Nope." Sharon arched her eyebrows eloquently. "Suit yourself. Hey, what about this one? This is nice." She selected a wool the color of cotton candy and held it up for his inspection. He didn't glance at it. "No." "O.K. That was decisive. Walt, maybe you should try something else besides clothes. Clothes are pretty personal." "She does have good taste," he mused aloud. "All right. Where would you suggest we go?" She bounced her shoulders up and down. "I'm just along for the ride, but how about some perfume?" He stared at her suspiciously. "You think?" "Why not?" He could not argue with that logic, so they strolled out into the mall corridor together. Skinner hated malls as a rule. They were too big and too flashy and they were manned, on the whole, by a bunch of pimply-faced punks. But he hated shopping more. Finding Sharon here may have been a stroke of good luck, he admitted to himself, although he would never tell her. A pair of hunter green pumps with high spool heels and an ankle strap caught his eye. He knew she had ruined a pair of shoes with that case involving the clones a couple of years ago. She had described them on her expense report. He seemed to recall a mention of them, anyway. Come to think of it, he'd rarely seen her wear the same shoes twice. He considered the shoes in the window for a moment, but shook his head. He didn't even know her size, and the idea of playing Prince Charming to her Cinderella was patently absurd. Oldies music blasted out of a brightly-lit Walgreen's. It gave him an idea. Sharon's finely drawn face was skeptical. "What? She has a cold and needs throat lozenges?" He ducked into the store with his trailer in tow and headed for one of the back aisles. PET SUPPLIES the orange sign announced in white block letters. He surveyed the plastic dog dishes and vinyl cushions. "She has a dog, huh?" "A Pomeranian named Clyde," Skinner answered absently. "A Pomeranian? Named Clyde?" Sharon grinned, her grey-blue eyes dancing. "I like her already, but this is not good." "What isn't?" "Dog supplies." "She dotes on that dog!" "Nevertheless," Sharon Skinner insisted, "a woman does not like getting presents for her dog on her birthday. A woman's gift should be personal, for her." "You may be right," he admitted. "I am right. Trust me, Walt." A trace of mischief crept into her voice. "Getting her a dog collar will not get you laid." "Sharon! That's not what this is about!" he exclaimed indignantly. "Oh, I see." She swallowed most of the smile, but smears of it still hovered at the corners of her mouth. "So, where are we going?" "To look at perfumes." "Ah, right." Sharon nodded sagely. "Now perfumes may get you laid." He opened his mouth to rebuke her again, closed it and removed his glasses. "You think so, huh?" He cleaned the glasses and put them back on, leaving her to wrestle with that statement. He continued on to the Perfumania and tried to hold his breath. "Good Lord!" he gasped. "How can you tell the difference?" Sharon strode boldly inside. "Here. Let me guide you. When you think of her, what are the first flowers that pop in your head?" "Daisies. White roses. Orchids." Intrigued, she asked, "Does she wear perfume?" He frowned and closed his eyes, trying to remember. "I think so." "Well," Sharon said approvingly, "she doesn't wear very much or you'd have noticed it. You're quite good at that." He glanced at her at the compliment, but let it pass. "Something light, then. Where do you picture her?" "At work," he said immediately, then regretted it. She didn't seem to notice his slip, just waved her hand dismissively. "Other than that. In jeans. Where is she?" "On the beach." "Something clean, outdoors," she muttered to herself and chose a bottle. "What do you think of this?" He sniffed. "No. That isn't it." "Oh. What about this one?" Another sniff. "No. That's not it either." "Why don't you call and ask her what her favorite perfume is?" "Two reasons. One, I want to surprise her. And two, I don't want you to know who it is." His ex-wife sighed the sigh of a woman who is resigned to a stubborn male. "Well, if not perfume, how about some soaps, or bath oils? Lilacs, maybe, or roses?" He shook his head, drawing back from the display she indicated. "No. Definitely not." Looking at the cut glass, the prisms of perfumes in their elegant bottles, the tiny rainbows they sprinkled across the room, he could only think of what she had said about Pfaster. What that psychopath had threatened her with. The nightmares she had admitted to having about that house. No. Nothing to remind her of that dark night. Sharon watched the parade of emotions roll over her former husband's impassive face. He looked so fierce, like Cerberus must look like at the gates of Hades. So protective. She sighed inwardly. She must really be special. "C'mon. Let's get out of here," he said gruffly. She followed wordlessly. They walked through the mall, pausing for one display or another, but never for long. She poked him in the arm. "What about jewelry?" Then she gestured vaguely over a cascade of watches, pendants, and earrings that glittered in luxurious decadence. His eyes were drawn to a pair of earrings. Gold filigree wrapped around a single lustrous pearl. Small, tasteful, elegant. Very much like their would-be owner. Skinner stuffed his hands in his pockets, imagining her expression as she unwrapped them. He smiled. The vision continued. This time, her eyes were uneasy, their serene calm rippled by uncertainty. "It might be taken the wrong way." "How about some truffles or something from one of these specialty stores?" He laughed. "I don't think so. She's more of the popcorn type." The idea struck both of them at the same time. "Movies," they told one another in unison and aimed for the Media Play. Sharon expected him to browse through the chick flicks, but instead he began to go through the Science Fiction and Horror racks. Curious, Sharon began suggesting titles. "_The Day the Earth Stood Still_." "She's got it." "_Forbidden Planet_." "She's got that, too." "_When Worlds Collide_." "Got it." "_House of Wax_." "Got it." "_Logan's Run_." "Series and movie." Sharon stared at her former husband in disbelief. "You're kidding." "What? No, I'm not." He returned to his search. "She's nuttier than he is," she muttered under her breath. "I can't find it," he said at last. "Can't find what?" Rather than answering the question, he peered around for the service desk. "Excuse me," he called to the young man who was bar coding a stack of _Hunt for Red October_ videos. "Do you have _Them!_?" The boy didn't blink. "I'll check sir." "_Them!_?" Sharon's voice was a one-word interrogation. He pled the Fifth. "Yes." The boy looked up from his computer screen a moment later. "No, sir. I'm sorry." Skinner jerked his chin in a nod and turned on his heel, stalking past rows and rows of videotapes and music directly to the bookshelves. Sharon knew what was coming. She pulled a Dave Barry bestseller from the racks and made herself comfortable in one of the cushioned chairs. "You go find some titles. Bring them back here to me," she instructed him carefully. "When you get a selection, I'll be right here." She bent her head over the book, giving him leave to depart. Feeling like the youngest child with a basket during an Easter egg hunt, he set off, taking note of her position as he meandered around the shelves, inhaling the rich leathery smell of new books. As he wandered, he thought. Physically, Sharon and Dana were as opposite as two women could be. Sharon was tall, willowy, with the classic high cheekbones and spare good looks that had attracted him so many years ago. Dana was small, curvy, with ivory skin and delicate bones. Sharon had never seemed so fragile, but Dana's fragility was in appearance only, as he had reason to know. Both women were thin, tempered steel, easy to bend, impossible to break. Sharon had been a good wife, living with his moods and his secrets for seventeen years. But Dana . . . Skinner stopped walking as the thought halted his stride. Dana shared his secrets. Dana shared more than his interests, she shared his fight. Sharon had allowed him to lick his wounds. Dana Scully could bandage them, knowing how by the skill her own scars had given her. And she was so beautiful, a voice in his mind whispered, and for the second time in as many hours, he pictured her gowned in that blue silk negligee. "Yeah, Walt," he muttered to himself. "And the black eye she'd give you would match it perfectly." He returned to his ex-wife's perch with an armload of books and dumped them unceremoniously on the table beside her. She peeked up at him and at the books and sighed. Saving Dave Barry for another day, she began to leaf through his bounty. "The Trilogy of the Ring? She a Tolkien-reading freak, too, Walt?" "As I said," he responded coolly, "she has excellent taste." Sharon grinned. "_Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_. If she loves the same things you do, she probably has these." She laid them carefully aside. "Same goes for the Dorothy Sayers." "I don't have any Sayers." "If she reads them, she probably owns some of them," Sharon reasoned. "You don't want to give her something she already has, do you?" She frowned at the next title. "_The Far Side_? Great cartoons, but you probably won't score with them." He scowled. "Don't shoot the messenger." She threw up her hands. "I'm just telling you the facts." Her hands hovered over the last two volumes. "Now this is more like it," she purred. "These are lovely. _Sonnets from the Portuguese_ and _The Ring and the Book_." She sighed. "Boy, you are whipped!" He snatched the books back. "Next!" She yawned and stretched. "Music?" "Don't know what she listens to, and there's the same danger of giving her something she already has." "Well," Sharon rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "I can only think of one more place to go." "Where?" She gave him a mysterious smile. "Watch and learn." A few moments later, Walter Skinner was standing in the center of a waterfall of glass and china, hoping desperately that he wouldn't embarrass himself by breaking anything. Everything here looked like it would disintegrate at a breath. "Well, come on," Sharon urged him. "No." "Why not, you big baby?" "I'll bust something," he whispered, wrapping his coat around himself more securely so that its flapping hems would not do any damage. "Don't be stupid," she told him impatiently. "Come and look at this jewelry box." Treading gingerly around a collection of small crystal figurines, he found Sharon holding up a dainty porcelain box for his inspection. It was ribboned in gold, about the size of his hand, with pink rosettes and forget-me-nots scattered on the lid. "That's pretty," he admitted. "Mm, hmm. Listen." She cracked open the box, exposing the velvet lining. A familiar tune wafted out, sounding a little tinny, but not discordant. "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." He chuckled. "I like that." Then, with more daring, he began to scout out the rest of the little shop. After a careful search, he found what he was looking for. It was a perfectly polished cedar box the size of a good dictionary. A thin stripe of copper and gold ran around the lip. The lid was rounded like an old sea chest. He opened it, revealing a green satin lining, but no music. This, he thought, was . . . "I don't know if she'll like that." Sharon's voice was doubtful at his elbow. "What?" Sharon continued to look at the box with misgiving. "I don't know if this is Agent Scully's style." It was a good thing he had placed the box back on the shelf, or he would have dropped it. "What? How?" he stammered. She smiled at his bewilderment. "Walt. I lived with a Fed for 17 years. I picked up a few things. It _is_ Dana Scully, isn't it? The one you called to the hospital when you were shot?" He nodded, but managed to say, "I never--" She held up a hand. "I know, Walt. You never cheated on me before we separated. Not even with her. I believe you." He could only stare at her mutely. "You want to know my reasoning?" That was a question he could answer. "Yes." She laughed her low, musical laugh. "Well." She began to tick off the points on her fingers. "It pretty much had to be someone you worked with. You don't socialize much, Walt, and you've had to have spent a lot of time with someone to pick out a gift like these. Besides, all the clothes you picked out were casual, suggesting you saw her mostly in suits or work clothes." "Go on." "I knew it was Agent Scully, too, because of the colors you were looking at, blues and greens, a redhead's best colors. That pink was a test. It would have looked ghastly on her. She had to be petite, because of the sizes I noticed you were looking at." She stopped, and continued more slowly. "You considered the negligee, but didn't buy it. You probably want to see her in it, but didn't know where you stood as far as romantic entanglements go." He looked at his feet, but she resumed. "When we met all those months ago, I noticed how trim and pretty she was. She has excellent taste in jewelry, which you tried to emulate with the pearl earrings. You don't know her size for certain, but you've been to her home socially at least once." "And you know this how?" "The movies," she answered promptly. "You have a familiarity with her taste in entertainment: books, movies, music. She must be a collector like you, because you thought she had everything except that awful _Them!_ movie." His curiosity piqued, he pressed, "What did the perfume tell you?" "That you would recognize it if you inhaled it, but didn't know it by name. That's she's feminine without being fussy or prissy about stuff like that." She gave a triumphant little shrug. "Viola! Dana Scully." "And you're not angry about this, Sharon?" He broached the question with timidity. "No, Walt. No. I'm happy for you and I can certainly understand why you need to be discrete, and why you kept objecting every time I called her your girlfriend." He let out a relieved sigh. "Let me ask you a question, Walt," she said seriously. "Go ahead." "Are you happy?" He deliberated on this for awhile, giving it the thought it deserved. Then he was able to reply, "Yes, I am." She beamed at him. "Then, I'm happy for you." She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and started to exit. "Hey! What about the present?" She gave a flick of the wrist. "Get her the music box." "You sure?" "Yeah." Then she vanished, leaving only the memory of her grin behind. Walter Skinner put his hands in his pockets and laughed quietly to himself. Dana and Sharon may have excellent taste, but when it came to women, he could pick the winners. Apartment of Special Agent Dana Scully. February 23, 1997 "You didn't." "I did. Open the present, Dana." "Walt, you really shouldn't have." He caught her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "I wanted to. Happy Birthday, Dana." He kissed her chastely on the cheek. She accepted the affectionate gesture with a shy smile and began to open the package. It had been expertly wrapped in white paper and tied with a blue bow. Dana allowed the folds of the paper to fall open to reveal a box. "Oh, Walt!" she breathed. "It's beautiful. Thank you." He felt the stupid silly grin on his face, but he couldn't help himself. "You like it? You really like it?" "I love it," she told him fervently and opened the box. She inhaled deeply. "My father used to take us on camping trips when he was on leave. I loved the smell of the woods. That's what cedar always makes me think of." "Are you sure you wouldn't have like a porcelain one better? A music box?" he asked anxiously. "No. When I open a box, I don't want it to shout at me. I'd feel like Senor Wences." She chuckled. "S'Alright?" "S'Alright," he answered instinctively. She gave his hand another squeeze. "Thank you. Besides, the porcelain ones are too . ." Her face screwed up, trying to think of the right word. He thought it adorable and wanted suddenly to kiss her on the nose. He fought down the impulse as she finished her sentence. "Frilly." "I'm glad I got you the right one, then." He locked his fingers behind his head at the nape of the neck. "Tell me," she began, looking at him speculatively. "Did you pick this out all by yourself?" He smiled at her, the expression altering his austere features. "Not exactly. I did have a little help." The End ------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Do you remember me? I came in here yesterday and you wouldn't wait on me? You work on commission, don't you? Big mistake. Huge. I have to go shopping now." -- Pretty Woman Next story: "Day at the Cordon Bleu" by Sally Bradstreet "Day of Shopping" Bonnie Drew amstone@ix.netcom.com ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hold onto your hats, kids. In this story things heat up between Walt and Dana. _Really_ heat up. (Was that a cyber-cheer I heard?) But, at the same time, don't get your hopes up too high. We are dealing with two of the most repressed people on the planet here. DISCLAIMER: Walt and Dana (We should be on a first name basis by now, don't you think?) and Clyde all belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. Any other name or reference you might recognize isn't mine, and neither are the concepts of the superego and id. (Forgive me, Mr. Freud.) But then you already knew that. Thanks to Bonnie, who came up with the brilliant idea of both the visiting nephews and the dancing. Thanks to Sharon Nuttycombe, who thought of the underwear bit, and insisted that there is no such thing as too much angst. (Just when I think one of my ideas can't get any better . . .) Thanks, also, to Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band, without whom this would never have worked. Send all comments to Sally c/o amstone@ix.netcom.com Previous story: "Day for Shopping" by Bonnie Drew Day at the Cordon Bleu by Sally Bradstreet Apartment of Dana Scully March 15, 1997 10:38 am His arms closed around her waist and he pulled her back against him. "Mmm. That smells wonderful." She gave the contents of the pan a slow stir and a steam of tomatoes and oregano swirled around them. "Thank you." He nuzzled at her neck, brushing his lips over the sensitive skin beneath her ear. "But you smell better." "Don't," she sighed, even as her eyes slid shut in approval. "The sauce will burn." "Then we'll order take-out," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the nape of her neck. Turning in his embrace, she ran her hands over his broad chest before lifting them to remove his glasses. She placed them carefully on the counter, then rose up on her tip-toes to kiss his chin. "OK," she purred, locking her hands behind his neck and bringing his face down to hers. "But only if we can order Italian." She felt him smile as his lips found hers . . . Dana realized with a jerk that her sauce was indeed in danger of burning, not because she was kissing him, but because she was staring into space daydreaming about kissing him. Damn! She quickly turned down the heat under the sauce pan. That was happening more and more often as of late, usually when she was doing something that didn't require any concentration. One minute she would be sitting in a meeting or folding laundry, and the next she would be in the arms of Walter Skinner. Though she had only actually kissed him once, these flights of fancy often surprised her with their vividness. It seemed that once it escaped from the closet in her mind where her superego usually kept it locked up, her id had quite an imagination. But no matter how intense these moments became, they always had a domestic element somewhere in them. They were cooking or they were gardening or they were sitting on the couch together reading the paper, and it was this aspect that she found more satisfying than the rest. Almost. Dana sighed and tried to turn her attention back to her cooking. However, as she chopped an onion, she felt her mind beginning to wander down that all-too-familiar path again. In desperation she seized upon an old trick she had learned in medical school for keeping her mind focused. She began listing off the muscles of the human body, muttering as she worked. "Bicep, tricep, deltoid, pectoral, trapezius . . ." . . . all moving smoothly together beneath the crisp cotton of a white dress shirt . . . "Agh!" She all but threw her favorite knife into the sink. This was quickly becoming ridiculous. She needed to get her runaway hormones under control, now, before she did something she'd regret. Walt was her close friend and her superior. She could ignore the fact that he was also incredibly attractive if she tried hard enough. Her id sounded doubtful. Her doorbell rang and Clyde began barking in welcome, bouncing around the apartment like a deranged ping-pong ball. Dana recognized his someone's-at-the-door-that-I-know performance and sighed. If she was lucky, it would just be Mulder. She opened the door-- "Morning, Dana." "Morning, Walt." How did he always manage to appear when he was occupying her thoughts? "Come on in." She stepped back and allowed him entrance. Her eyes moved appreciatively over his form, taking in the well-worn jeans, the blue henley, and, heaven help her!, the leather jacket. her id observed. snapped her superego. "Can I get you some coffee?" she asked as he settled onto her couch. "No, I'm fine, thanks." Walt smiled up at her, truly seeing her for the first time that morning. She was wearing an old denim shirt that was several sizes too large for her, faded Levis, battered canvas tennis shoes, and a striped apron. whispered his id. scolded his superego. "Actually," he said, taking off his jacket, "I've come to ask a favor." "You bought a pet and you want me to take care of it for the weekend?" she asked drily, perching on the arm of the couch. "No," he answered, petting the still-ecstatic Clyde to soothe him. "I want to raid your video collection." "Which one?" She raised an eyebrow in the direction of her sci-fi stash. "The one your niece and nephews use. My nephews are flying in tomorrow to spend the week with me." "That's wonderful!" "Yeah." He grinned like a little kid. "Carl and Meg are going on a cruise for their 15th anniversary, and Scott and Bret decided that they wanted to spend the week with me." Dana smiled widely. His joy over the arrival of his nephews was contagious. "But what about school? And what will they do when you're at work?" "Well, they've made arrangements with their teachers to get their homework in advance, and my neighbor is watching them until Thursday. Then they'll come to work with me on Friday, as a kind of Career Day." He capitalized the words to make them official. "Of course." She nodded gravely. "That's why I need the movies," he continued, still smiling. "I do tend to work late." "I've noticed. You know, I'd be happy to help look after them." Her eyes twinkled with devilment. "If they get bored with your neighbor, bring them to my office. I'm sure I could find something for them to do." Walt's face clouded in mock horror. "Send them down to the depths of the X-Files Division? My brother would never forgive me." Dana laughed. "It was just a thought." Suddenly she sniffed and hopped to her feet. "I've got to check my sauce. The videos are in the right cabinet." He watched her disappear into the kitchen, then wandered slowly to her entertainment system. Walt was too honest a man not to recognize his request for movies as what it really was--an excuse to see her. More and more often he found his mind drifting to thoughts of Dana Scully, replaying the time they had spent together, remembering jokes and insights they had shared. And that was fine. It was his other train of thought that he was trying desperately to control, the one that took him again and again to her arms. Just this week he had sat through an entire briefing without hearing a word because he was imagining kissing her breathless against the door of his office. Or in the elevator. Or on her desk. It was getting entirely out of hand. She was one of his best friends and his subordinate. He could ignore the fact that she was also incredibly beautiful if he tried hard enough. His id was unconvinced. Walt shook his head in disgust. "So what do you do?" he quietly berated himself, "you come to see her. Great choice. Get your movies and get out." He yanked open her movie cabinet with enough force to rattle the shelves next to it. That motion started a chain reaction among her CDs, and he scrambled to catch them before they crashed to the floor. Walt neatly restacked them next to the player, reading the covers as he did so. By now he was used to her eclectic tastes in movies, books, and music, but he still paused at one title--Bob Seger's Greatest Hits. He grinned. Bob Seger was one of his favorites. Walt snapped open the case and was surprised to see writing on the CD, a few words in a bold, black scrawl: "To Dana, Love Ann. NAUY." NAUY? He shrugged, slipped the CD into the player, and bent to find his movies. In the kitchen, Dana stood in front of her stove, lecturing herself. "Tell him you're too busy to talk and that he needs to go. He'll understand." Just as she prepared to voice her own rebuttal, music erupted in the living room. She stopped her one woman debate and listened to the lyrics. "Took a look down a westbound road, Right away I made my choice Headed out to my big two-wheeler, I was tired of my own voice." He likes Bob Seger, she thought with a smile, then frowned. That was the CD that her old roommate Ann Davidson had sent her, the one she had inscribed with-- Well, maybe he hadn't noticed it. She turned to her bubbling sauce pans, but the song followed her. "She didn't have to say a thing, I knew what she was thinkin' Roll, roll me away, won't you roll me away tonight?" "Hey, Dana, where . . ." She jerked around and saw the expression on his face change from curiosity to bewilderment to shock. "Is there a problem, Walt?" He didn't answer. He just stared in disbelief at her kitchen and then began to laugh. Dana looked around her in confusion. "What's wrong?" "What's wrong? Dana, this place is a disaster area!" He gestured to the counters and the table, which were littered with dirty pans, dishes, and utensils. She shrugged. "So I'm a messy cook." He laughed harder. "Messy? You should apply for federal aid!" Dana arched an eyebrow at him, amused by his reaction to her cooking style. "Are you done?" Walt managed to choke the sound of his laughter back, but his shoulders still shook as he nodded. "Good." She watched him struggle with his mirth for a moment, wiping her hands on the dish cloth she habitually draped over her shoulder while cooking. "You know, I think I'm going to take your advice." "Really?" The word was strangled by his good humor. "Yup. You're a federal employee." She paused to wad the dish towel into a ball which she threw at his chest. "Aid me." He caught the cloth and balanced it in his hand as if weighing something of value. "I'll help you clean up on one condition." His voice was even, but he still grinned like a madman. "Which is?" she asked, an answering grin tugging unbidden at the corners of her mouth. "You have to tell me what NAUY stands for." Dana felt the blush work itself all the way up from her toenails to her hairline. "I, uh, no," she stammered. "I'll clean my own kitchen, thanks." "What's the big deal?" "It's nothing," she continued, flustered. "It's an inside joke. You wouldn't understand it." "Try me." Walt's curiosity grew as she flushed an even brighter crimson. "Dana, it can't be that bad." "It's not bad," she replied, pacing between stove and sink. "It's a girl thing, that's all." "A girl thing, huh?" He tied the towel in a loose knot. "Well, let's see if I can guess it anyway. Uh, nothing admitted unless yellow?" "Uh-uh." Dana set her mouth in a firm line. "OK. Nice and ugly yo-yos?" "No." Walt kept on, trying to make each attempt more ridiculous than the last. "No? Uh, never ask unless Yiddish? Not another untouchable Yeti? Not acceptable under Yemen? Naughty aardvarks usually yelp?" At that she giggled. "You're insane." "No, I'm persistent. Am I even close?" "Nowhere near." She was silent a moment, studying the man leaning so casually against her counter. "Do you really want to know?" "Yes." "I mean, do you _really_ want to know?" "Yes." Walt almost changed his mind as she stalked toward him, her blue eyes blazing. "It stands for," she pronounced each word slowly and clearly, "Naked And Under You." Walt gulped. She was right. He was nowhere near. "Oh?" "Mmm-hmm." Dana had already answered his question. She didn't need to say anything else, really, but she so rarely saw him shocked by anything that the temptation was too great to resist. She could almost see him trying to decide whether to stay or go, and her lips curved into a smirk as she stepped closer to him. "Do you know what that means?" "No." He braced his hands on the edge of the counter, determined to see this out though his better judgment suggested that he get the hell out of Dodge. "It refers to a group of songs," she explained, taking another step toward him, "that, when played in the right circumstances, will get a woman naked and under you quicker than anything else." She was only a breath away now, and he could smell her perfume. "Could you give me an example of one of these songs?" Dana cocked her head, focusing on the music still coming from her CD player. "This is one." Walt followed her example and heard Bob Seger sing, "Workin' on our night moves, Tryin' to lose those awkward teenage blues, Workin' on the night moves And it was summertime . . ." Her eyes were still on him he fell into their blue depths. "But we aren't teenagers. And it isn't summer." "Does that matter?" she purred. "I guess not." Fine. If she wanted to play dirty, he would play along. He pushed off from the counter, suddenly towering over her at his full height. "So. We've got the music. We've got you and me. Are these the right circumstances?" Dana's pulse fluttered and her id replied, , but she simply raised an eyebrow. "In my dirty kitchen?" "Yes." She opened her mouth to answer, then smiled. "No." She turned on her heel and went to her stove. Walt blew out the breath he had been holding in an explosive sigh. "You're a cruel woman, Dana Scully." Dana gave a throaty laugh. "You started it. Besides, my kitchen _is_ a disaster and I need the help. The dish soap is under the sink." He found the blue liquid exactly where she said it would be, but he stared at the contents of the cabinet for a moment anyway. He knew she was teasing him, and he was teasing her in return. So why had he been so disappointed when she said no? his id informed him. his superego contradicted. "So," he asked, squirting soap into the sink and turning on the hot water, "where did you learn that charming phrase?" "From Ann Davidson, my best friend in college," Dana answered with a laugh. "The one who sent me the CD." "Ah, got it." Walt began on the stack of dishes nearest the sink. "Actually," she clarified, turning off the burners, "the phrase was hers. I came up with the initials so we could use it in mixed company." "Why does that not surprise me?" he muttered. "What?" "Nothing." Walt dutifully scrubbed at the dishes before him. "It looks like you're cooking for an army here." "Navy," Dana corrected, pouring her finished sauces into the Tupperware she had waiting near the stove. "Bill's been back for a month now, and we finally managed to schedule a family dinner." "And you're cooking for all of them?" "There are only nine of us, Walt. It's no big deal." He dried his hands on his jeans and moved to stand behind her. "I count three different sauces, all made from scratch, right? That's a big deal." "Well, the plain spaghetti sauce is for the kids, the marinara sauce is for Mom, and the alfredo sauce is for Bill." "That marinara sauce smells awfully good." She looked back at him, hovering hopefully at her shoulder. "Would you like a taste?" He nodded enthusiastically. Rolling her eyes, she scraped a spoon along the bottom of the pan and turned to face him. She held the spoon up, cupping her other hand beneath it to catch any drips. "Here, you big baby." "Thanks." Walt blew on the sauce to cool it, then swallowed it. "That's fabulous. No wonder your family's coming here." Dana didn't reply, as she was currently studying his mouth, watching the way his lips closed over the spoon, noticing how his tongue flicked out to catch a stray smear of sauce. She realized she was staring and dropped her eyes, cheeks flaming. "Thanks," she said softly. "It's my specialty." Walt saw the emotions playing over her face and thought, She feels it, too. He leaned closer. "I can tell." Suddenly Dana ducked past him. "I need to start my pasta," she exclaimed hurriedly. "OK." He returned to the sink, understanding her need to flee and not commenting on it. They were supervisor and subordinate, after all. They shouldn't be flirting shamelessly in her kitchen. And he most surely shouldn't be wishing for the flirting to become more. Dana began throwing ingredients into her mixer, causing clouds of flour to rise above the bowl. With each cup- or spoonful she dropped in, she mentally hit her head against the wall. What was she thinking? This wasn't a game to be played lightly with anyone, and especially not with Walter Skinner. And she shouldn't be wanting that game to become something more. her id observed, cried her superego. "I'll take my chances babe I'll risk it all. I'll win your love or I'll take the fall." Dana looked up from her mixing, surprised that the song had broken through her thoughts. Then she realized that the music was coming from Walt. "I've made my mind up girl it's meant to be Someday lady you'll accomp'ny me Someday lady you'll accomp'ny me." He stood unconcernedly washing pots and pans, singing in a remarkable baritone. Dana closed her eyes briefly, letting his words wash over her. "It's written down somewhere, it's got to be. You're high above me flyin' wild and free Oh, but someday lady you'll accomp'ny me. Someday lady you'll accomp'ny me." "You have a beautiful voice." Walt jumped at the sound of her compliment. He hadn't realized that he was singing at all, let alone that particular song. "Thanks," he answered, rather sheepishly, "but you should hear Carl. He's the one with the real talent." "Not from where I'm standing." Their eyes met and clung, and suddenly her kitchen seemed very small indeed. By unspoken agreement they returned to their tasks, each whispering a heart-felt "Damn!" as they did so. warned their superegos. asked their ids. They worked in companionable, if tense, silence, Walt quickly plowing through the mound of dishes, Dana deftly making a thick dough. She was kneading the flour and oil into smoothness when something tugged at her apron. A glance over her shoulder showed her untied apron strings and Walt's innocent back. "Walt." "Hmm?" "Tie my apron for me." "It came untied?" "Walt." She moved next to him and nudged his hip with hers. "Tie my apron for me. My hands are covered with flour." "So they are. But mine are wet." "That didn't keep you from untying it in the first place." Holding her dirty hands in front of her like the surgeon she was, she turned her back to him. "Tie it, please." He stood behind her, picking up the apron's strings and running them through his fingers. "You know," he observed, crossing the ties behind her back, "these are really long enough to tie in front." Dana gasped as he brought his hands around her waist, pulling her against him. She watched as his strong fingers tied the striped fabric in a neat bow over her stomach. "See," he whispered, his hands lingering on her waist. "Now I can't reach it." "You say that like it's a good thing," she replied, letting her head rest against his chest. yelled her superego. "Isn't it a good thing?" He rubbed his chin on the top of her head. "Not necessarily." "Dana." "Mmm-hmm?" "Your pasta." Walt released her with a gentle push toward her cooking. "Tease," she muttered, taking up her dough again. "I learned from the best." Dana quickly finished the dough and covered it with plastic wrap. "All done. Uh, excuse me, Walt." She stood next to him, pressing against his side as she put her hands in the dish water. Her fingers flirted with his under the soap suds as she washed away the traces of flour that stuck to her skin. "Excuse me again," she said, reaching across him for the towel that lay on the other side of the sink. Her shoulder brushed against his chest as she stood to dry her hands. His eyes were focused on her hands, fascinated with the way the cloth wrapped around her fingers. shouted his superego.