Minya Minuet
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com
Category: S, some H, MSR, post-ep for Empedocles
Timeline: Assumes "Requiem" took place in September.
Spoilers: Through Empedocles
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Summary: Mulder and Scully do Fred and Ginger while
Godzilla DJ's.  It's just fluff, folks.

Note: This story, while not part of the "Intuitive
Reasoning" series, takes place in that universe.  I
borrowed one little tidbit from "Inexpressible" that I
couldn't resist using again.  There are also vague
references to that story, but I really think it's not
necessary to read it.  Though it can be found here, if
you'd like to see where the 'tidbit' came from:

www.geocities.com/mish_rose/Mishsite/Reasoning.html



Minya Minuet


"I miss the cheesy rubber suit and the dancing karate
lizard."

He sees her steal a glance at him but he doesn't react
other than reaching for another slice of pizza.  With
one bite, it's cut in half.  His appetite lately is
ravenous;  it's a wonder his forty-ish metabolism
hasn't given up the ghost yet.

Maybe it's a by-product of his trip to the great
beyond.  He once told her that the dead, if and when
they get a chance to come back, want only to eat,
drink, dance and make love.

Well, pizza makes a pretty damn good meal and the cold
beer in his hand certainly qualifies as drinking.  So
it's two down, two to go.  Too bad the 'two to go' are
the ones he's sure to miss most.  And he's not much of
a dancer, unless you count the ballet he and Scully
have perfected in lieu of personal discussion.

He tries hard to shove that out of his mind.  There's
been too much skirting around the issues since his
return and he *ain't* Baryshnikov.  But that doesn't
mean he wants to abandon their version of "Swan Lake."
Just take a commercial break, sort of.

Tonight, he just wants to relax with his best friend
and pretend he's her number one pizza man.  But he can
almost hear the lilt of that haunting oboe coming from
the imaginary speakers perched on either side of the
couch.

Pas de deux, anyone?

"So do I."

What?  Did he just recite wedding vows in his
beer-induced stupor?

"Godzilla.  I miss the old version, too," she
explains.  Picking at the lone slice on her plate, she
pops a mushroom into her mouth.

At her soft admission, he turns to give her an
astonished smile, hiding his relief.  These days, his
tongue seems to have an agenda separate from his
brain.  "You do?  You of the 'if it doesn't have
subtitles, it's not worth the celluloid' camp?"

Nice recovery, he thinks.

The smile she gives him in return is luminous in the
lamplight.  "And this surprises you?"

Everything she does, everything she is now is... soft.
 He's amazed at how much he likes it.  Sometimes, he's
tempted to rile her, just to hear her biting logic and
see her ice blue determination.

But there's plenty of time for that - later, when
things settle down.  Right now, he likes her smoothed
out edges.  It means that he gets to be responsible
for making sure her velvet surface isn't crushed.

Her eyebrow rises, making a familiar dent in her
covering of patience and perseverance.  "Mulder?"

With a lopsided grin, he colors and turns his head,
faking interest in Godzilla's trouncing of New York
City.  "Sorry... just thinking."  He brings his beer
to his lips and takes a bracing gulp, forcing the
cobwebs down his throat.

"About what?"

About... dancing?  Pizza men?  Pink and blue tutus
wrapped around storks?  How God damned soft and
kissable she looks?

If he told her, she'd likely kick his ass.  Well, not
that she *could* at this point in time.  But she'd
certainly bristle at his conclusions and he's not
willing to risk the mellow evening for one moment of
telling the truth.

Good thing those ballet slippers still fit.

"Until you embrace 'Plan Nine from Outer Space'
Scully, you're still a cheese aficionado."  Humor
works better than the truth.  Always has, always will.

She hands him her plate and wordlessly, he sits up to
lay it on the coffee table, waiting for her response. 
It's a doozy, knocking him over with feathery purpose.

"Well, it's not a record like yours, but I'm up to
twenty-two.  Does that count as 'embracing?'"

Snapping his head in her direction, he says,
"Twenty-two?"

"Third shelf on the left," she answers, with a tilt of
her chin at the bookshelf in the corner.  "It needed a
good home."

As he settles back into the couch, he spies it. 
Squinting, he notices it between 'Jane Fonda's
Workout' and 'Caddyshack.'

And right down the row from 'Lamaze Made Easy.'


**********


"So... was this Samantha's doll, or was it yours?"  It
sits in the spot recently vacated by her plate,
perched on the roundness of her stomach.  Her fingers
cradle it, picking off imaginary fuzz from the brown
strands of yarn hair.

The question is almost lost in the blare of the
Mountain Dew commercial, and he picks up the remote to
mute the sound.  She's so much quieter now and he can
tell that too much noise gets on her nerves.

He thinks he knows why, though he's never asked her. 
It's very difficult to get used to life again after
living in limbo for months.

Major difference in their respective limbos, however. 
His is one big empty chalkboard, with only a flash of
white memory now and then that is erased as soon as it
hits the green board.  Hers has been marred with the
scrape of fingernails, the almost-permanent grief and
frustration etched into her face with tiny lines. 
Though she's still as beautiful as she ever was, maybe
even more so these days, those new lines scratch into
his soul, making him hurt for her.

"Whose do you think it was?"

However nonchalant his question, he feels a wave of
anxiety at her answer override the muted air between
them.  He knows it comes from him, but he's unable to
stop it.  It's not the question he really wants to
ask.  He doesn't think he'll ever be able to bring
himself to ask.

"Doesn't matter, I guess.  It's mine now."

Minutes ago, she beamed at the gift.  Now, her eyes
shift away from him.  Typical, he thinks.  He can't
ask and she can't answer.  But he so wants to know. 
However, the time for questions has passed, and it
saddens him to see the fire of the chase gone from
her.

Still, he's not comfortable with point blank demands
for the truth and apparently, from her listless slump
on the couch, neither is she.

But despite his awkward walk through life these days,
he still remembers how to dance.  And he knows she
does too.  Dana Scully was never a wallflower and
she's not about to start now, not if he can help it.


**********


"If he starts flying, I'm gonna scream."

"Mulder -"

"No, Scully.  This is crap."

"You've seen this movie before," she says with a
resigned sigh.

His head lolls in her direction as he delivers a
murmured, "No, I haven't."

You haven't? her eyebrow asks.

"If memory serves, that was the summer of '98.  The
only movie I saw that year was on a plane from Miami
to Rio de Janeiro.  And the military transport to
Antarctica wasn't big on in-flight entertainment."

Her face closes in just a bit and her eyes drop. "Ah,
I see."

For a moment he regrets bringing up the subject of
that awful summer, but he brushes it aside. In fact,
he's glad he can take the opportunity to so something
he's waited years for.

"I discovered something else that summer, you know." 
At his soft declaration, he sees her head sag onto her
right shoulder as she mirrors his lazy pose.

"Hmm... what's that?"  The eyes that look up at him
again are clear, but jaded and resigned.  He knows she
expects to hear him say once again that the truth laid
under that ice.

But what he really wants to say is that the biggest
discovery of his life wasn't a mile-wide spaceship, or
corn crops in the Texas plains.

It was the fact that he realized once again just how
important she was - *is* - to him.  But their
emotional dance is still tentative, despite the way
they'd once perfected the heavy, sensuous rhythm of
physical intimacy.  They're not yet ready to resume
such a momentous drum beat, especially since he found
it difficult to approach her across the huge gulf of
the ballroom once he'd returned from the dead.

Instead, he completes their twirl around the subject,
keeping a loose hold on her with his serious gaze.

"Having to suffer through 'Hope Floats' was worth
every painful minute."

Her sobriety matches his, though he swears her eyes
widen just a millimeter before she answers, "Well, at
least it wasn't 'Dumb and Dumber.'"

"What?"

In the warm glow of the lamp, he sees those new lines
in her face smooth out as the corners of her mouth
flirt with a grin.

"D.C. to Tacoma.  February 1995."

His lips part in a smile, the bittersweet remembrance
of his trip to Deadhorse, Alaska giving him sheepish
pause.  He's not sorry he ditched her to chase after
the shapeshifter those many years ago; he wouldn't
have burdened her with the dangerous path he'd taken.

But he can say with conviction that he's so very glad
she came after him.  And at this point in their lives,
he doesn't want to bring up the obvious stress he put
her through.  He'll never forget her smile when he
woke up, just as he'll never forget the circles under
her eyes and the paleness of her face.

"One of my favorites," he murmurs, eager to banish
thoughts of the past.  "I can't believe  you didn't
enjoy one of the finest examples of cinematic low
comedy."

"Oh, I didn't say I didn't enjoy it."

His heart skips a beat.  Panic flirts in his chest as
he asks, "You liked it?"  He can't fathom the thought
that she relaxed enough on that flight to get into a
movie.  He had trouble even remembering the name of
the film shown on the Miami flight, but he wanted to
prove a point....

"I didn't say I liked it, either."

It's worse than he thought.  She actually took the
time to form an opinion, for Pete's sake.  "Then how
*did* you feel about it?" he snaps, tired of this
tango already.

She reaches for his hand and gives it a gentle
squeeze, her attempt at calming him having the
opposite effect.  Especially when she turns her gaze
back to the TV.

"Let's just say I want to watch it next time it's the
Sunday afternoon Superstation matinee."

"Why?"  Jesus, she sat there and calculated every
camera angle?  Caught every hair out of place on Jim
Carrey's helmet head?

"Because I hardly remember any of it except for the
idiotic title.  That flight is a blur to me." 
Piercing him with her eyes once again, she finishes,
"I was preoccupied."

His breath catches and he nods in total agreement,
mostly because he's unable to speak past the lump in
his throat.

Her eyes suddenly brim with mischief, breaking the
spell of remembered anxiety and frustration.  "But I
*do* remember everyone laughing.  Quite a lot,
actually.  Is it really that funny?"

"Classic slapstick, Scully. *Classic.*" Though he's in
for it when she finally does see the film; it's not
exactly her cup of tea and he knows it.

"Good.  Next weekend, we rent both videos.  Low comedy
*and* high romance... what do you say?"

"I say... 'Hope Floats' is *not* high romance."

She dips him so low he's immediately dizzy.  "And you
speak from experience?"

He's stunned, but not for long.  The joy at her fancy
footwork makes him bold and he recovers, leaning in to
whisper, "Back seat of Skinner's limousine, 12:20
a.m.... champagne and strawberries, 1:16 a.m.... black
satin sheets, 2:37 a.m.... and one very *long* bubble
bath, 3:18 a.m.  Beverly Ernesto Hotel, May 1, 2000. 
Ring a bell, Scully?"

She gives him her profile as she falls silent for a
moment.  When she does answer, he can feel the warmth
in her cheeks radiate to his face.

"Ding, ding, Mulder," she concedes in a dry whisper,
but he hears the tremor in her voice.  Without looking
his way, she clears her throat and speaks up, in
control in a flash.  "Now, watch the movie."

With a grin, he leans back to his side of the couch.

"Yes, Mom."

If looks could kill, he'd be dead.  Again.


**********


"Oh, come *on*... first we get techno-Godzilla.  *Now*
we get hundreds of techno-babies?  Gimme a break."

"Mulder...."

"It pisses me off. It just isn't... normal.  Godzilla
reproduces asexually?  He's not a frog, you know."

"If I remember correctly, Godzilla was never shown to
reproduce sexually.  Certainly not in the early
movies.  Yet, later on he had a son. Explain *that.*"

"Ah, but he was never shown laying eggs.  He *found*
an egg on Monster Island.  Which leads me to believe
he can't reproduce at all, sexually or asexually."

She pauses and he waits.

"Well, sex is as sex does."

Is that a commentary on his version of high romance? 
He gulps, then hazards a look her way.

Nope.  Her profile is playful, the corners of her
mouth twitching with mirth.

She got him, but good.  He has no choice but to put on
the disco moves.  His 'Hustle' is rusty, but it does
the job.

"Scully...."

"What?"

"You have my copy of 'Forrest Hump' too, don't you?"

That earns him her rendition of the 'Bump.'

"Mulder!"

For a small fist, it packs a punch.  His arm smarts...
for about two seconds.

Because though her lips may not smile, her eyes do.


**********


"Well, it looks like Godzilla's kids are chips off the
old block, wouldn't you say?"

This time, he doesn't mute the television; he just
turns the sound down until it's a low, pleasant hum. 
He studies her profile and is startled by her wry
observation.  The corners of her mouth go up; he can
tell she's trying hard not to smile.

"With or without sex, nature seems to have found a
way," she continues, as if explaining the birds and
the bees to junior high biology. 

He can't find his voice.  Godzilla has perched on his
chest and he finds that his levity gene, heretofore
invincible, is squashed under the awesome weight.

So he says nothing, just turns back to the TV and
keeps his eyes glued to the screen.  He also ignores
the cold sweat breaking out under his t- shirt.

He began the evening with a repertoire of dances that
rivaled Fred Astaire.  And to be honest, the reason he
did it was to arrive at this very moment.

But suddenly, he's got two left feet.

Scully doesn't press him; from the corner of his eye,
he sees she hasn't moved either.  She appears to be
fascinated with the movie.  But her next words make
Godzilla shake, rattle and roll.

"Amazing, isn't it... 'Monster Boy.'"

Though her feet tend to swell these days, those
dancing shoes still fit.

After a few moments, he's settled enough to say,
"All this talk of Godzilla side, 'Mrs. Spooky'-"
He feels the couch shake with her chuckles.

"Things are... normal... aren't they?"  He has to ask.
 No matter what lies between them, no matter the
outcome, he has to know.

Sobering, she nods and replies, "After the Hendershot
fiasco, the Gunmen helped me find Dr. Speake.  She can
be trusted, Mulder."

He knows this already.  It's not the integrity of her
doctor that's in question here.  "But are you sure?"

"One hundred percent?  No."

Blinking, he gulps and turns away from the uncertainty
he's brought upon them.

"But I'm ninety-nine percent sure.  Normal results
just like millions of other women.  Ultrasound and
amnio show no green blood, or atomic breath... just a
normal, healthy baby."

He faces her, searching her eyes for doubt.  But there
is none.  The smile at her attempt to lighten the mood
is small, but heartfelt.  

"No atomic breath, huh?"  That's not the only thing he
wants to know, but it will do for now.

"Unless it's the cause of my ever present indigestion,
no."


**********


Pregnancy hasn't dulled her senses or her wit,
especially as far as he's concerned.  He imagines he
can hear the workings of her mind.  She's planning her
next move and he's not sure he's ready for it.  She
brings the glass of milk to her lips and takes a small
sip, then returns it to the table at her left, knowing
he's watching her every move from the corner of his
eye. 

He grimaces at the combination.  Milk and pizza
definitely do *not* go together.

"Godzilla didn't have sex with anyone else, Mulder. 
Neither did Mrs. Spooky."

His sigh roars in his ears, outweighing Godzilla's
growl.  What a move.  She just skipped the waltz and
went straight to the jitterbug.

"Scully, Godzilla never had sex, *period.*"

He pauses and she waits.

"And Mrs. Spooky and Monster Boy only got some once,
after...."

He bites his lip over the words, sudden sorrow at all
they've lost making him ache.  No use bringing up the
failed IVF attempt, or their one and only dance before
he joined the ranks of the mostly dead. 

After the trip to Los Angeles, Scully had approached
him about the possibility of a baby.  Though her trip
with Spender had built a wall between them that seemed
insurmountable, he couldn't deny her the chance.  It
took so long for them to recover from the loss, to
regain what they'd once had.  Her brush with the
spiritual had helped her gel again; they'd spent his
first night home from England sleeping in each other's
embrace, not wanting to rush into the physical side of
their relationship once again.  But it wasn't until
*his* brush with a genie that he realized he wanted it
all again.  And his wish came true when she said she
wanted it as well.

She pinches his thigh, rousing him from introspection.
 "More than once, as I recall.  'Caddyshack' closing
credits... two a.m. wakeup call... and, if I'm not
mistaken, early morning shower.  August 22, 2000. 
Three times, if my math is correct.  Ding, *ding*
Mulder."

Astonishment at her memory makes him scramble for a
reply, though he really shouldn't be surprised.  That
night is seared upon his brain, so why shouldn't it be
the same for her?

This lambada is making him squirm.  But in a good
way... though he groans inwardly at the only thing he
can think of to say.

"Three times, one night.  Counts as once."  He feels
his face heat up at the hoarse attempt at deflection.

"Counts as three, Monster Boy."

"Whatever."  He was really into this an hour ago.  Now
it seems the tables have turned.

One thing he should have thought of - Scully was
always a much better dancer than he was.

He hears her grunt, shifting on the couch.  "What? 
What is it?" He's up in an instant, towering over her,
his heart racing.

She smiles up at him, assuring him with a soft touch
at his waist.

"Nothing.  I'm okay, Mulder.  I'm just hot and
uncomfortable."  She struggles with her sweater and he
helps her remove it.  "I need to stretch out a bit. 
Sit down, you're making me nervous."

He tightens his jaw, but complies.  In moments, she's
curled up against him, burrowing like a kitten, the
doll tucked under her neck.  He imagines he hears a
purr...

"Whether it was once or three times," she says
quietly, "it still counts."

He shifts, putting his arm around her.  It feels good,
and he allows his breathing to slow, to match hers. 
"Yeah, well... we're good at 'onces' aren't we?"  His
dry question hovers in the air.

She doesn't miss a beat in her reply.  "'Onces' are
better than 'nevers' - ask Godzilla.  At least *we*
got some."


**********


The credits roll as her head rests against his chest. 
He doesn't know how exactly it happened, but they lie
on the couch now, Scully stretched out upon him.  He
breathes in the scent of her hair... already she
smells of milk and babies.  It warms him and he
glances down, letting a smile go at the sight of the
doll, still clutched in her sleepy fingers.

"Mulder?"  The hand not holding the keepsake snakes
into his own.

"Yes?"  Her bare feet brush against his and he brushes
right back, liking the way their toes are lit by the
television screen.  They are stars in the universe of
her living room.

"Let's say, for argument's sake, that Godzilla - the
new *improved* techno-Godzilla - *did* get some once. 
It only takes one time, you know."

He allows the hand resting lightly upon her hip to
move to the swell of her belly.  That makes twice he's
braved the amazing.  Well, not counting the times
Monster Boy 'got some.'  This time, her slight form is
noticeably larger.  And his hand is not trembling near
as much.

Neither is his question, breathed into the down of her
cheek.  "Even for Monster Boy and Mrs. Spooky?"

She looks up and meets his gaze, answering the biggest
question of all with her grin.

"*Especially* for Monster Boy and Mrs. Spooky."

His grin complicates matters, but he manages to raise
her hand to his lips.  First he brushes the delicate
web of veins on the back, then turns it over to press
his open mouth to her palm.  It's soft, so soft.

He feels her gaze, but doesn't meet it, just lowers
her hand to meet his other on her stomach.  Their
hands make a sandwich of interlocked fingers.

He's not surprised it took them this long to reach the
last dance.  Even after the 'three' times that he
considers 'once' they didn't take the opportunity to
just sway on the floor like lovers do, murmuring sweet
nothings before leaving together.

Almost nothing surprises him anymore. Especially where
Scully is concerned.

What *does* surprise him is the flutter beneath his
palm.  The sudden firmness within the more yielding
woman by his side.

"Hey Scully?"

"Yeah?"  She nestles into his side, her eyelids
drooping as she yawns.

He rests his head lightly upon hers, his own lids
slipping low.  "You think after the miracle child here
finally makes an appearance, Monster Boy and Mrs.
Spooky can...."

"Do the horizontal mambo again?"

He takes a deep breath and ventures softly, "I was
thinking more along the lines of 'the wedding dance',
but the mambo is good."

She stills and he waits.

When she finally answers, her voice is shaky and her
heart thuds against his chest.  "Well, barring the
appearance of 'Godzuki' anywhere on the birth
certificate... I'd say the odds are pretty good.  For
both."

He laughs, relief warming him.  "Minya."

"Come again?"

"Godzilla's son was named Minya."  He says this
through lax lips; the blockbuster has worn him out. 
The one on TV was pretty action-packed, too.  "Godzuki
was Godzilla's nephew in the cartoon version."

"Minya, Godzuki, whatever.  Our child will have a
nice, normal name.  To go with his or her nice normal
parents."

The dance is over, call it a night.  But he can't
resist dipping her one more time.

"Then I think I should inform you the doll was
Samantha's.  The bracelet was mine."

Her head snaps up.  "What?"

His hand lifts from hers and picks up the doll's
skirt, revealing a dusty leg.  Around which is wrapped
a small, blue baby bracelet.

M-U-L-D-E-R.

A flood of tears swims in her eyes as she spies it,
then looks back to him.

"Aw, Scully, if I'd known you were gonna cry I'd never
have gotten the damned thing back... Karen told me
she'd never given it to you, so I figured - stop it,
okay?" Her cheeks are sopping now and she hiccups,
trying to speak, which makes him feel even worse.

"I'm - I'm pregnant, you idiot," she says, tremors of
happiness lending her voice a sexy rasp.  "What do you
expect?"

"Just stop it... you know I can't stand it when you do
that.  Shit."

As if she just connects the dots, she asks, "Karen? 
Karen Kosseff?"

Right now, he doesn't feel like explaining why Karen
was in possession of the bracelet.  Especially since
it's guaranteed to bring a fresh barrage of
waterworks.  Maybe he'll tell her during next
weekend's 'low comedy vs. high romance' film festival.

"Next band break, Mrs. Spooky," he promises, doing the
only thing he can to shut her up, though it involves a
dip of neck-cracking proportions.

When she scoots up his body and sighs into his mouth,
he congratulates himself on his fancy footwork.

Ladies and gentlemen, the lights go out in the
ballroom.



END


Author's Notes: This little ditty has been sitting on
my hard drive for quite some time.  I thought about
throwing together a Valentine's Day piece of fluff to
break the angst I seem to be wallowing in lately, then
found this once again.  No, it has nothing to do with
Valentine's Day, but it makes me smile.

Many thank to Musea for the long-ago beta; I know this
is coming out of nowhere, but I couldn't resist
resurrecting it.  Happy Valentine's Day, ladies!

And a Happy V-Day to the wonderful people at the Haven
Fic Board.  Going back to angst now, I promise. :)

=====
Visit my fic at:
http://www.geocities.com/mish_rose/

Musea, A Collection of Beauty:
http://www.geocities.com/museans/