Thai, Game, Beginning
By Anna

*

Whimsical piece that floated into my head this morning. M/Sk. Archive MSSS,
elsewhere by permission. If these aren't my clones, I guess they aren't my
personal property either, but I can live with that.

*

Dana Scully walks into the office alongside Mulder and sits down with him
in front of Walter Skinner's desk. The morning light shines brightly
through the window, washing out her pale face. Both men, before collecting
themselves to get started, are drawn to look at her with gauging eyes.

"Agent Scully, are you--" Skinner hesitates, makes a show of glancing at
his watch. "There's no reason we can't reschedule this meeting for later in
the day." As Scully squints against the light at him he seems to realize
the blinds are wide open, and gets up to slant them down.

"I'm fine sir." She blinks, adjusting to the redirected light, and nods
with an aloof amiability, polite, undemonstrative, her specialty for
meetings and mornings. Inside she is feeling secretly frisky, itchy with a
need to broadcast her tumbling thoughts, which would surely startle the two
men to no end.

The meeting proceeds--not a long one, for a change. Mulder does most of the
talking, and Dana is aware that both he and Skinner have subtly engineered
the distribution of talk, complicit in allowing her to sit quietly. Do they
have any idea she is zoning out almost completely on the recap of case
highlights? Even Mulder's sprightly assessment of the whole trained-spider
element to the case--the poison delivery system, he calls it--fails to drag
her into alertness. She only feels a mild queasy twinge as she thinks of
the spiders again. Spiders. She suddenly shudders; it's a very real,
physical shudder, rising from its deep deposit of nerves, the product of a
mind screaming "Arghhhh!" to itself as it finds a spider in its hair.
Never, again, Mulder, she thinks. Next time, you're on your own.

The men have noticed her shudder and fallen silent. It takes Dana a moment
to catch up. She blinks, quirks a brow with a rather jaunty tilt that the
men seem to find bewildering. "Sorry? Sir?" She glances between them.

Skinner clears his throat, plays with a pencil. Dana has the very real
impression he his about to suggest a vacation. She readjusts herself in her
chair. "Sorry, sir," she repeats. And then, though she'd meant not to say
it (she'd *meant* not to say it, hadn't she?) she blurts: "I had a
precognitive dream this morning." Appalled at herself, she snaps her mouth
shut. Mulder is boggling wordlessly at her. She flicks him a smooth glance,
then returns her gaze to Skinner, as if this were somehow part of the
debriefing. As if.

Skinner clears his throat again, a small flat little sound like a lion
preparing for oratory. "Well, I guess. . .you're entitled." He projects a
subtle sense of smirking while in no way actually doing so, while Mulder
pulls himself up in his seat slightly as if unsure whether to be, by
implication, affronted.

There is a little pause, then Mulder says, quite earnestly and
helpfully--Dana tries not to laugh--"Is this relevant to the case?"

"Oh, no." She twitches, smooths her skirt, looks up to see the men looking
undecided between annoyance and amusement. Or perhaps *bemusement*. "It was
about the two of you," she says, rolling the words off her tongue, unable
to entirely swallow the bubbling of laughter that is threatening her throat.

They look at her blankly, quizzically, then look at each other, exchanging
a very clear invisible shrug between them with only their eyes.

"Is this *important*, Agent Scully?" Skinner asks, beginning to get that
subdued, silken tone to his voice that almost always preceded a shift to
scathing, however gentle.

"Well, actually--" Pausing thoughtfully, she realizes to her surprise that
it is. "Yes, I think it is. . .sir."  Her lips twitch slightly.
Precognitive dreams. Her mother would be so proud. Her sister--her
tumultuous humor cools a little, just for a moment. Ah well.

"Uh, Scully." Mulder jiggles his legs, fiddles a bit with his long fingers,
but is obviously trying to keep the impatience from his voice. "I don't
think Assistant Director Skinner is really interested in conducting you in
catechism."

Dana wants to smack him. Does everyone, at some point or another, want to
smack Mulder? She has to admit, though, that his point is valid; Skinner,
rather than rebuking Mulder's words, seems more inclined to bear them out
with his own faint impatience. Well, they'll get what's coming to them, she
thinks with satisfaction.

"I'm not really sure I should go into it here. Can we be sure this office
isn't still bugged?" She allows a light unmistakable emphasis to rest on
the word 'still' and watches as Skinner flushes a bit, embarrassed by old
manipulations--not so much his own as others'. He hates looking the fool.
Despite this he is never afraid to face facts.

"Probably best not to assume," he admits bluntly.

Then again, thinks Dana, perhaps he's just trying to avoid her revelations.
"We could meet somewhere for lunch," she suggests, with so much bland
casualness that it takes a moment or two her words to impact on the men.

"Lunch?" Mulder says, radiating astonishment at her, as if she'd suggested
cannibalism.

Skinner frowns--the wattage does not quite equate to a glare. "I'm *busy*,
Agent Scully." His voice is terse, dismissive, but his face holds a hint of
puzzlement under its crust of impatience.

"I think you should both hear this." Dana's tongue curls in her mouth. She
can almost taste unmelted butter. She does not, however, smile. . .exactly.

Now Skinner is beginning to look suspicious. "If this is some kind of
set-up--" He pauses, brow furrowing, eyes narrowing to something just short
of menacing her. "If someone has the mistaken idea that this is my
birthday, or if you're trying to shoehorn me into showing up for some kind
of roast--" His gaze slews pointedly to Mulder, who jerks to attention.

"Hey, don't look at me." Defensive, almost flustered voice.

Something in the byplay triggers Dana's dormant, long-simmering giggles and
they begin to escape her as a seep of muffled, hissing peeps, sounds that
would have horrified her at any other given time. The men stare at her. She
gasps and smothers a hiccup. "I'm fine," she says. Lightly brimming tears
stand out in her eyes, wet her lashes. She touches a hand to her hair,
attempting to look nonchalant.

Skinner looks unreassured--if anything, more suspicious. Mulder looks put
out and pouty, as if  beginning to suspect he's been left out of a joke.

After a long moment of sizing her up, Skinner abruptly gives in (masking
his surrender in a facade of noblesse oblige), says, "I can get away for a
few minutes. Grab a hotdog from the vendor. I don't have time for anything
else."

"Well, yeah, but--" Mulder sounds reluctant, but compelled to point out:
"If we're really worried about someone overhearing this grand message,
there's always the possibility of directional mikes." He seems faintly
apologetic after speaking.

Dana's giggles threaten again, but she says with successful
expressionlessness, "We could drop in for a minute at Fazio's." She raises
a brow at Skinner.

"Fine," Skinner says, as if settling the matter. "One o'clock."

Now Mulder is the one frowning. "It'll be crowded as hell," he points out.
"Lunchtime. Packed like a yuppie sardine tin."

"One o'clock, Mulder," Skinner says.

"Hold on a minute--hold on--" Mulder straightens in his chair, his glance
darting between Skinner and Scully.

Oh, the paranoia is surfacing, Dana realizes with muted glee.

Mulder's face has set into a parody of internal calculations. "It's not
*my* birthday," he says. He gazes thoughtfully at Skinner, who in return
looks outraged, disgusted.

"Are you in on this?" Mulder asks, point-blank.

"Agent Mulder--Agent *Scully*--"

But Scully has lapsed again. She feels exactly like the Catholic schoolgirl
she once was, tickled by her own perverse mischief. A blurt of laughter
nearly chokes her; there is no way to disguise this as a cough. She begins
to laugh, then has to cover her mouth with the tips of her fingers. Just a
cough, she thinks, trying to adopt this demeanor. Just a woman with a
slight cough.

The men have begun to look positively outraged, incensed. She has them
hooked now, no doubt about it. "Why don't we make this later in the day,"
she says, catching them off guard with a smooth, sudden switch into vanilla
professionalism. "I'll be in Quantico most of the day anyway. I have a lot
of bodies to cut up." Chop, chop, she thinks, her face placid and cool. She
glances at her watch, mercilessly composed. "How about Gilligan's--seven?"

Helplessly, Mulder shrugs. "Your party, Scully."

Skinner makes a face he probably isn't aware of making, sighs noisily. But
the discussion and juggling of schedules has diverted him neatly from the
actual absurdity--the *point* of the meeting. He is used to this, the
ritual of group consultations, day-planner comparisons. In fact, he is
looking through his day-planner now. "Fine. I can do that."

The meeting winds up; Mulder and Scully stand. Skinner, surprisingly,
stands also, and more or less follows them to the far door that opens on
the hallway. Dana leaves first, slipping out before any more laughter can
jeopardize her mission. Mulder watches her walk down the hall, as does
Skinner. Skinner looks at Mulder, pinning him with dangerous eyes and
mutters, "If you know what this is about--"

"I don't have a *clue*." He holds up his hand, makes a boy scout oath sign,
then looks sadly down the hall after his partner. "I think she's finally
flipped. It's my fault. Spookiness is contagious."

"And not covered under major medical," Skinner says grouchily, closing the
door on him.

***

Both Skinner and Mulder show up nearly at the same time and find a table.
The bar is dense with members of federal law enforcement, congressional
aides, and lower political animals. They have to push their way through the
evening crowd when a table begins to vacate; Skinner's hard face and tall
body part the crowds like a knife, and a small group of flashy lawyers
who'd also been converging on the empty seats notice his cool approach and
suddenly reconsider, melting away and yielding him the prize.

They sit on either side of the scarred barrier and order drinks and wait
with variable degrees of irritation for Scully, making small talk while
they do. Both, without realizing the mirrored nature of their actions,
suspiciously scan the bar's thick crowds on a regular basis, as if fearing
to see its members cohere suddenly into a chorus of congratulatory song.

At seven-fifteen, Scully arrives, weaving her way briskly to them. Mulder
moves over on his bench, but instead of sitting next to him she pulls up a
chair from a nearby table, with consummate seat-stealing skill, and perches
at the end of their own table, partially blocking the aisle.

Mulder is wearing a dry face. "You're blocking the aisle," he says rather
brattily, before taking a swig of his beer.

"I can't stay. I had another body come in that needs to be expedited
tonight. I just came up to drop in at my apartment and stop by here."

Skinner looks very displeased. "They can't work you into the small hours,
Agent Scully. I can call the--"

"That's not necessary, sir." Dana interrupts him, her voice unmoved but
firm. She does drop a glance at her watch though, thinking tiredly of the
hours to come. This isn't what she had planned, but it will have to do. She
waves off the waitress offering to take her order, and then gives the men a
faint, arch look. They are wearing twin expressions, and to Dana's eye
resemble a couple of nervous horses bracing uneasily for bad weather. She
thinks: Dana Katherine, you really should *not*. . . .

"If you could expedite *this*, Agent Scully, I would appreciate it."

"No kidding," Mulder carps, popping a peanut into his mouth. "There's a
Knicks game coming on."

Fine, Dana thinks. "Well, this is more important." She looks down demurely.
"A very important day for you. A kind of--" She pauses, thoughtfully rolls
the word on her tongue. "--kind of an anniversary."

Mulder immediately looks over his shoulder, expecting to see a group of
people hanging over the side of the booth, about to break into song.

"Anniversary?" Skinner frowns.

"I had a dream." (Mulder rolls her eyes. Dana sees but ignores him.) "I
don't usually put much stock in oneiromancy, but I've always been told it
runs in our family, on my mother's side. I've never really had one I found
credible. . .until now." She gives them an innocent look.

"You had a dream about--" Mulder hesitates. "This isn't one of those
you-will-be-hit-by-a-bus dreams, is it, Scully?" He darts a small look at
Skinner under half-lowered eyelids, and Dana receives the distinct
impression he is apologizing for her.

She would be irritated under other circumstances, but the content of her
message tends to make her feel more smirky than not. "No. It isn't. I
don't--" She hesitates. She has been riding on her own vast amusement, but
she doesn't usually do things like this. Decorum is kicking in. How
impertinent of her, how inappropriate--how on earth can she be thinking of
telling Skinner. . .this? "I don't know if I really should tell you," she
begins.

"Scully!" Mulder barks, aghast, loud enough that a few heads turn. He
lowers his voice, ducks down a bit to glare at her. "I've been shooting
darts at a slide of you all day. You don't want to toy with me any further."

She tries to pull herself into a semblance of dignified self-possession, to
communicate that whatever threats might be issued, this is of course
entirely her decision. . .she caves. Not without some malicious pleasure.
"Well, if you really want to know. . .I had a dream that you and Skinner
were married." She gives her watch a glance. "October thirteenth. I guess
that means that a year from now--" She tries not to smirk, fails. Her
smooth face curls a bit around the lips. "I don't rule out the likelihood,
of course, that this is just a figurative state of--of matrimonial bliss."
Can she continue speaking levelly for much longer, she wonders. Mulder's
and Skinner's faces are identically blank, their brows equally furrowed.
They look at her, then one another. They obviously don't get it.

She stands. "I really do have to go--"

"Hold on a minute--"

"Agent Scul--"

Mulder overrides Skinner, grabs her arm, perhaps more strongly than he
intends. "What do you mean, *married*? To who--whom?" His eyes say: don't
you dare tell me--

"To each other, of course. What did you think I meant?" It's a good line to
exit on, and she takes advantage of Mulder's blown-over shock to remove her
arm and dart off. "Good night, sir. See you tomorrow, Mulder." She decamps
at top speed. Really, this was very naughty. She's going to regret this
immeasurably. Skinner--her supervisor--well, if you want to get technical,
even *Mulder* is her supervisor, head of the department. . .oh to hell with
it. She feels righteous. Precognitive dreams, indeed. Having discharged the
content of the dream, she can now dismiss it as she's been wanting to do.
It has nothing to do with *her*, after all. How dare they come and have a
dream in her head, while she's trying to get a good night's sleep? It's
practically a violation of her rational mind. She feels only relief and
peaceable contentment as she gets in her car and drives off. By the time
she reaches the expressway she is thinking fondly of her cadaver.

***

"I'm really sorry, sir. I don't--I don't know where this came from."

"Don't you?" Skinner was nearly glaring at him, irked and surly.

"Hey, don't look at *me*!" Mulder's mouth dropped open slightly.

"You're *definitely* contagious," Skinner opined.

Mulder scowled, gaze drifting to the invisible wake of Scully's departure.
"I bet if we checked her stomach contents, we'd discover fermenting pizza.
Some weird mushroom is responsible, I'll bet money on it."

"That's not your usual credulity speaking."

Mulder gave him a wounded look. "Thanks a lot," he said, and then his eyes
glinted. "Besides, if I believed in her dream--"

"Yeah," Skinner agreed, sounding completely understanding and vaguely
disgusted.

"It's a well known phenomenon that people, on hearing their fortunes told,
will either act to fulfill a prediction or to evade it." Mulder ate a few
peanuts, absently. "By telling us, she's almost guaranteed an invalidation
of the prediction."

Skinner nodded, then frowned. "That's a moot point, Mulder. It wouldn't
have come true regardless." And then, with a double-take, "*Almost*?"

Mulder grinned cheekily. "Oh come on, you never know. A few drinks at the
Christmas party, some spilled fruit punch, a little fumbling in the
executive washroom--"

Skinner looked torn between horror and--Mulder thought--perverse amusement.
"Dream on, Agent Mulder." His body had pulled itself up slightly, with a
hint of masculine affront. "It's not gonna happen."

"It's more fun than getting hit by a bus." Mulder continued to grin a little.

"How would you know?" Skinner retorted.

"Uh--" Mulder's lips parted, then snapped shut. After a moment during which
his cheeks turned a faint pink, he cleared his throat. "Don't ask, don't
tell. . .sir."

Skinner blinked. "Oh." He looked away from Mulder, out into the bar, though
his eyes were not really focused on anything there. It was an instinctive
negatory gesture that Mulder always thought of as his "going gruff" response.

There was a silence, complicated and filled with inchoate movements as each
man tried in himself to regain a facade of professional normality, an
attempt that failed when, as one, their eyes lifted and locked. They'd both
been about to speak, but their breaths sighed in a conspiracy of
resignation; both recognized the pointlessness of it. Both smiled slightly.
There was no way they would fulfill Scully's prophecy--come together under
her oblique watchful eye, with the threat of smirks always hovering over
them. No. Not a chance.

Mulder glanced at his watch: that ever-present, ever-normalizing gesture of
checking in with the passage of time, that shakes out the rumpled chaos of
social situations and irons it back into order. "Knicks are on." Regret
colored his observation. "I hate missing the beginning."

"Is it that late?" Despite the question, Skinner sounded unsurprised and
resigned. Late evenings. When, after all, did he ever get home before eight?

"Wanna come over and watch the game?" Mulder's eyes caught Skinner's again,
twinkled mischievously.

"I think *not*," Skinner said dryly as they stood and gathered into their
coats and dug for wallets.

"I've got Rolling Rock."

"Does that ever get you any dates?" Skinner snorted. They paid and worked
through the still crowded floor until they reached the chilly evening air.
Almost simultaneously they both turned up their collars, breaths steaming
into the street.

"So you probably have a lot of work to do tonight," Mulder said. For some
reason they were still both standing outside the bar's bright doors, hands
in pockets, bodies shifting in place.

"Yeah."

"Yeah, me too."

Skinner gave him a skeptical glance, then drifted his look to contemplate
the plate glass window of the bar. He seemed to be chewing on something.
Peanut, decided Mulder, who had snagged and shoved a handful into his own
coat pocket.

"It's late," Skinner said, distractedly.

Mulder began to harbor an existentialist, waiting-for-Godot kind of
feeling. "Not that late."

Skinner brooded, thinking of things he apparently didn't care to express.
"It's not really necessary for us to make a point of defying the prophecy,"
he noted at last.

"Oh, I agree with you absolutely," Mulder said easily.

"But then again, we shouldn't have to feel that every action or word from
now on has any bearing on--on--" Skinner waved his hand in a vague
direction that seemed to indicate, shortly but sweepingly, the lingering
trails of Scully and her words. He looked irritable, or as if he were
trying to be.

"Exactly," Mulder said.

Skinner nodded. "You can't live worrying about whether or not everything
you say or do might fulfill a prediction--"

"Whether you're going to die at fifty-three because your father did,"
Mulder finished for him.

Skinner blinked, wondering if Mulder thought he were fifty-three and if
he'd somehow picked up misinformation about how his father had died, which
had certainly not been of a heart attack, but then he nodded again. "Exactly."

"There's this great Mexican delivery place I like to order from," Mulder
said, as they began walking toward the parking lot.

"I can't eat Mexican," Skinner said. As they disappeared and the ripples of
their voices thinned and spread out on the air, words floated up toward the
stars like the cryptic abbreviation of a message: "Thai. . .game. .
.beginning. . ."

*

End.