TITLE:  Nice Man
AUTHOR: Michelle Kiefer 
E-MAIL ADDRESS: MSK1024@AOL.COM 
DISTRIBUTION: Archive if you like, just tell me where.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to 1013, 
Chris Carter, and to the X-Files. 
SPOILER WARNING: none in particular, but a kind of 
season 7 feeling.       
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: Story. MSR (is that necessary anymore?)
COMMENTS:  See author's notes at end.
Please visit my other stories at: 
http://members.aol.com/msrsmut/MichelleKiefer.htm 
Maintained by the wonderful Jennifer.

Nice Man part 1 of 2

Georgetown
Friday, March 10   8:10 PM

"Where the hell is he?" she muttered to herself as 
she stood by the window.  The street was wet from
the rain that had been relentless all day, the 
shiny pavement painted red and white by the street 
lights.

Mulder was over an hour late and she was nearly 
faint from hunger and an overwhelming desire for 
Aditi's curried shrimp over basmati rice. Her
annoyance hadn't shifted to worry yet, but that
would undoubtedly happen soon.  

With an irritated twist of the wrist, Scully closed
the mini-blinds.  Standing there wasn't going to hurry 
Mulder along.  He'd show up, enthused about some 
discovery, dinner forgotten.  Smiling, he'd grab her 
hand and try to pull her into his exciting madness.  
Well, he'd better plan on feeding her if he wanted 
her along. 

Flopping onto the sofa, she drew her stockinged 
feet under her.  She'd really had her heart set on
spicy Indian food.  How many years had it been since 
she first tasted Aditi's curry?  

She remembered a time when her clothes hung on 
a frame that seemed to be shrinking.  Her advancing
tumor had dulled her sense of taste, robbing her
of any appetite the cancer hadn't killed.  Mulder
had watched her declining weight with growing
concern.  He cajoled her to eat, but she confessed
that everything tasted like library paste.

One night, he'd shown up with fragrant curried chicken
and an order of nan, savory Indian bread.  She hadn't
felt hungry, but seeing Mulder's worried expression, 
decided to force down a few bites to humor him.  

Her eyes had widened as the strong flavor of the curry
registered with her dulled taste buds.  A few bites
turned into a few more until the shiny aluminum of the
container could be seen through the yellow rice. She'd
looked up from her food, surprised at having finished 
the entire serving, to find Mulder watching her, his
eyes filled with relief and what might have been tears.

Well, perhaps she shouldn't be so annoyed with him
after all.  She jumped at the knock at the door, grimacing 
at the foolishness of startling over something she'd been
waiting for. 

"Did you remember the double order of nan, Mulder?"
she asked, pulling the door open.  One look at the man 
in her doorway answered that question.  Mulder stood 
before her, dripping wet, muddy and empty-handed.  

"Oh crap. I, uh...I forgot to pick up dinner. I'm sorry."

"You forgot?  Aren't you hungry?" she asked, studying 
his disheveled appearance. "*I'm* hungry," she muttered 
under her breath. 

"Look, I said I was sorry. Something came up."  His voice
was muffled as he bent to remove his wet track shoes.

"Something always comes up, Mulder.  Where the hell were 
you tonight?" She took the shoes out of his hand and 
placed them near the heating vent in the front hall.

"It's a long story, and frankly, I'd rather not get into
it right now."  Something in his voice made her drop 
pursuit of the matter for the present.  He shrugged out of his 
dripping leather jacket, trying not to leave a puddle 
on her hardwood floor.

"You're bleeding, Mulder." The sleeve of his tan sweater
was dark with blood and his hand was stained rusty red.  
She pushed his sleeve up, examining the cut that stretched
along the top of his arm from his wrist halfway to his elbow.

"It's just a scratch," he said, trying to pull his arm out
of her grasp.  She touched the cut, causing Mulder to hiss 
in pain.

"Just a scratch?  Mulder, a little deeper and we'd be 
heading to the emergency room." Her voice was harsher than
she intended.  Taking in Mulder's bedraggled condition, she
felt her mood soften.   "Listen, you're soaked through. 
Why don't you take a hot shower, and I'll take care of 
your arm." 

A huge shiver wracked his body, and he wrapped his
long arms around his midsection.  "Good idea," he
said, a somewhat rueful expression on his face.    

"You know where everything is."  She nodded in the direction
of the bathroom.  "I'm going to see what I can do about
some dinner for us."

With a grateful smile, Mulder headed for the bathroom. She
watched his retreating form, her mind filled with questions 
that swirled like leaves in the wind.  She hated secrets. 
Unfortunately, Mulder was a man who kept many of them. 

"I think I have some of your clean clothes in the bottom
drawer of the small dresser," she called after him.  It 
pleased her in an odd way that there was a stash of sweats 
and shirts in her bedroom.  It had been a very long time 
since there were men's clothes in her home. 

She listened to him moving around in her bedroom, opening
and closing drawers, getting a towel from the linen
closet, turning on the shower in the bathroom.  She stood,
staring as if she could see through walls into the bathroom,
as if she could see right into Mulder's head and figure 
him out.  

She'd decided to check out the food situation before they 
both collapsed from hunger.  The cupboard was pretty bare, 
but the fridge yielded some promising items: a half dozen 
eggs, a tiny wedge of parmesan cheese and three tomatoes, 
one of which was past its prime.  Tossing the squishy 
tomato into the garbage, she pulled frying pan, bowl and 
wisk out of the cabinet and left the assembled items on
the kitchen counter.

Retrieving her medical bag from the bedroom, she paused
and listened to the hiss of the shower in the next room.
She clutched the bag in her arms and wondered yet again
about the man under that spray of water.  

What was it that caused him to keep such a tight rein 
on the truth?  Was it a lifetime punctuated by too 
frequent betrayals that kept him from opening up even 
to the people he trusted?  Maybe he just needed a little 
control in a world where innocent people were treated 
like pawns in a mysterious chess game. 

The ceasing of the shower set her in motion again, and
she carried the bag out to the kitchen table.  She 
was searching for the items she would need when she felt
Mulder's presence behind her.  

Turning to him, she inhaled deeply, relishing the 
scent of soap and toothpaste.  His hair was still damp,
standing up in little spikes from toweling.  She
was overcome with a wave of affection for this man,
with his gentle eyes and wry smile.

Nodding in the direction of the table, she indicated
that he should sit down and she followed suit.  She 
grasped his arm, turning it to inspect the cut.  
Sparing a glance at him, she noted the gray t-shirt 
and navy sweatpants he'd left behind weeks ago. She 
must have shrunk that t-shirt in the laundry; it 
looked a little snug across the chest. With a sigh, 
she forced her attention back to the task at hand. 

The cut stretched to almost three inches, but she was 
pretty sure it would heal without any difficulty.  She 
applied antibiotic ointment, causing Mulder to grimace 
theatrically.

"Watch it, Scully.  You've got a live patient this
time."

"Big baby.  What happened to 'it's just a scratch'?"

"Well, it felt like a scratch until you started working
me over."

"Ooh, and I haven't even hauled out the stryker saw." 
She raised her eyes to meet his gaze. "So, are you going 
to tell me what happened tonight?"

"Scully, honestly, it was nothing.  I swear, I'm not
in trouble. I'm not in danger, and I'm not keeping 
anything important from you."

His eyes held a plea--trust me, don't baby me, let this 
drop.  She searched his face for any evidence of trauma 
or anxiety and found none.  She could press him and he'd 
probably tell her what had happened, but he was asking 
her to respect his wishes.  

With a deep sigh and an exaggerated shrug, she rose
and reached for the gauze.  Standing between his knees,
she wrapped the white strip around Mulder's arm, her 
movements precise and quick as she covered the cut.  
Securing the end with surgical tape, she dropped the 
roll of gauze into her medical bag.

She felt his arm encircle her waist, pulling her against
him.  Her arms came around his neck, as if she had no
control over them. Face resting on his soft, still 
damp hair, a secret smile played over her lips as she
inhaled the clean scent of shampoo.

Her hands roamed over the strong muscles of his back and 
shoulders.  His breath was warm between her breasts, his
arms tight around her.  Neither of them moved for long
seconds, until the silence was pierced by a rather loud
growl from Mulder's stomach.  

"Didn't you mention finding us something to eat?  I think
I'm hungry after all."  His voice rumbled against her chest,
vibrating with laughter.

* * *

Georgetown

Wednesday, March 22   7:25 AM

There was no stronger evidence of the pathetic state of
her life than three days worth of accumulated mail.  She
sipped her coffee and sorted through bills, department
store advertisements, more bills, a notice from her landlord
and one lone post card.  Even the post card wasn't much fun.
Bearing a sad-faced cartoon tooth, it was from her dentist, 
reminding her she was overdue for a cleaning.  

Scully checked the digital clock on the microwave and noted
that she had time for a second cup of coffee.  She wasn't
going to rush this morning, having arrived home late the
night before from a case in Kentucky.

The Louisville case had turned out to be as exciting as 
the stack of bills in her hand. The reported alien 
abduction had been nothing more than a philandering 
husband on a forty-eight hour drunken tryst, much to 
Mulder's chagrin and her amusement.   

Mulder had grumbled over the womanizer's deception, 
but Scully hadn't been able to detect any real upset in
his eyes.  He'd wisecracked that the man would soon wish
he had been abducted once his angry wife saw her lawyer.

It had been more than a week since the night Mulder had 
shown up on her doorstep, soaking wet and bleeding.  
She'd watched him carefully in the days since, both in
the office and out in the field.  

Long years of observation had made her an expert on
Mulder's moods.  She could take his emotional temperature
within seconds.  This week, she would have estimated him 
at a steady 98.6.  Whatever had occurred that night, he
wasn't dwelling on it, so she had tried to leave it behind
as well.

Once she had stopped pushing him that night, he'd relaxed, 
enjoying tomato and parmesan omelets with her and settling 
in to watch a movie. They laughed and talked and made plans
for the weekend.  A perfectly ordinary Friday night.

The subsequent days had also been unremarkable.  Mulder had
groused a bit when she checked his cut for infection, but
it was mostly show.  He had a reputation to protect as 
a man who hated being fussed over.

Pouring her second cup of coffee, she spread the morning
newspaper over the kitchen table.  Corruption in local
politics, a mother abandoning her children in a unheated 
apartment, more traffic delays due to road construction.  

With the crazy schedule she and Mulder kept, she didn't 
always get to read the newspaper.  She wondered, sometimes, 
why she bothered to keep up with the news at all.  It never 
seemed to change.

Six pages in, a headline caught her eye: "Woman Seeking
ID of Good Samaritan."  Folding the paper, she settled back
to read the accompanying article, her hand curled around the
hot mug.

"Jennifer Zemeske is searching for her knight in shining
armor.  The young mother and her three-year-old daughter, 
Callie, had been heading home after running errands last
Friday night when she crashed into another vehicle on M
Street in Georgetown.    

Zemeske's leg was broken, but she was able to limp out
of the car.  While attempting to get her daughter out 
of the back seat, she collapsed onto the pavement and
watched terrified and helpless as smoke billowed from
under the car's hood."

The article continued on, describing how a tall, dark-haired 
man had reached through the broken window to unlock the back
door and pull the child from her car seat.  The mysterious
good Samaritan had carried the child to her mother and
called for help, staying with them until police and 
paramedics arrived.  When Mrs. Zemeske turned to thank her 
daughter's savior, she found that he had disappeared into 
the crowd that had gathered at the accident scene.  

"Jennifer and Callie Zemeske want to thank their 
unidentified hero, described as being between thirty and
forty years old.  'Callie asks about him every day.  He
was so sweet, making funny faces so Callie would stop 
crying.  She wants to thank the nice man who pulled her
out of the car', Zemeske said."

Coffee forgotten, Scully stared at the article as 
the events of that Friday night played out before her
eyes.  She shook her head and stacked the newspaper
for recycling.  She was jumping to conclusions here.

Mulder could have been on M Street, if he'd gone to 
Aditi's to get dinner. He fit the description of the
kind stranger, but then so did thousands of other men
in the greater DC area. Certainly, he was wet and
muddy and over an hour late when he finally arrived,
but none of that meant he was the mysterious good
Samaritan.  Wouldn't he have told her if he was?

One image kept moving to the front of Scully's 
mind.  Far away, both in distance and time, a sad 
little girl had giggled when Mulder had charmed her 
with a Mr. Potatohead face.  The sound of that
long ago laughter echoed softly in her ears, faint
as windchimes.  

Why would he have been secretive, she wondered.  Yet,
somehow, she knew he'd feel awkward speaking of his
own heroism.  Retrieving the newspaper from the recycling
bin, she tore out the article. 

She reached for her cell phone and dialed Mulder's number.
When she heard his abrupt voicemail message, she felt a
wave of relief.  She wanted to get a handle on this before
she spoke to him directly.

"This is Fox Mulder.  Please leave a message."

"Mulder, I'll be late to work this morning. I have 
an errand to run."      




Falls Church

9:30 AM

Scully rang the doorbell on the modest brick home and 
thrust her hands into the pockets of her coat, fingers still 
cold despite her gloves.  A few well placed phone calls 
had provided an address and phone number for Jennifer
Zemeske, here in suburban Falls Church.

The door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman, who was
drying her hands on a dishtowel.  "May I help you?"  

"Hello, ma'am.  Is Jennifer Zemeske available?  My name
is Dana Scully."  

"Jennifer is here.  Come in.  I'm Grace Maher, Jennifer's mother.
Just helping out for a few days. Are you from the newspaper?"

"No, Mrs. Maher.  I'm with the FBI," Scully said, producing 
her identification. 

Grace Maher regarded Scully with nervous fascination. 

"Oh my. Jenny! Jenny, you have a visitor," she called out as
she led Scully deeper into the house.  

Jennifer Zemeske sat on a sofa in the comfortable living
room, her casted leg partially covered by a crocheted blanket.
The young woman had an almost healed scrape on her chin and
smiled as Scully entered the room.  The sounds of a children's
television show echoed from the next room, little voices 
singing a counting song.  

"Jenny, Miss Scully is with the FBI." 

"How do you do, Mrs. Zemeske. I'm Dana Scully," Scully 
said, offering her hand to the reclining woman.  "I 
was hoping to ask you a few questions about the 
accident you had last week."  

"I'm not sure I understand.  It was a pretty straightforward
accident.  Our insurance is handling things."  Tension was
evident in Jennifer's voice.

"This isn't an official matter, Mrs. Zemeske.  I wanted to show
you a picture," Scully said as she pulled a snapshot out of
her coat pocket.  "Is this the man who helped you that night?"

"Is he in any trouble?  I don't want to..."  Jennifer's hands
were firmly gripping the crocheted throw, unwilling to take
the picture from Scully's hand.

"Oh no.  He's not in any trouble at all."

Jennifer finally accepted the photo from Scully, recognition 
dawning in her eyes.  "Oh my God. This is the man who saved 
Callie.  You know who he is?"

"We work together.  Can you tell me about that night?"  She 
isn't sure why she needs to know what Mulder did that night,
and why she was behaving as if this were an investigation.  
Old habits, she supposed. 

"Well, Callie was crying because she'd dropped her toy.  I 
was trying to reach Mr. Bunny when I lost control of the car.
It all happened so fast. In what felt like a split second, 
we'd crashed into a parked car.  My leg hurt like crazy, but
I could see some smoke coming from the hood, so I knew we 
had to get out of there. When I managed to get out of the car,
my leg buckled under me and I fell onto the pavement.  
I tried to get up, but I just couldn't, and the smoke was 
getting thicker and Callie was crying." 

Endless recitations of the accident's details had obviously
not numbed Jennifer Zemeske to the terror she must have felt
at that moment.  She took a deep breath and reached for a 
glass of ice water on the end table.  Looking calmer after
a long drink, she continued.  

"And then he was there." Jennifer nodded in the direction of
the photo she still held.  "I remember thinking that he 
seemed so calm, as if he was used to this kind of thing.  
He reached in through Callie's broken window and unlocked 
the door.  He pulled her out and brought her over to me.  
He cut himself on the glass, but he didn't seem to notice. 
He yelled out to one of the people standing there to call
911, and then he sat down on the pavement with us. My leg
hurt so bad and Callie was crying.  He sat behind me and
held me up so I could comfort Callie.  I think it was the
kindest thing anyone's ever done for me."  

Jennifer handed the picture back, almost reverently. Scully 
found herself studying the photo of Mulder.  It was one of 
very few pictures she had of him, taken at a retirement
party for an agent they were both fond of.  Mulder had looked 
up as she entered the room, an unselfconscious smile breaking
over his face, just as the camera flashed.  The photo was one 
of her most cherished possessions and she was grateful to the 
agent who sent it to her.  

"Mommy, I drawed a picture of the nice man."  A small girl bounced
into the room, glossy light brown hair swinging.  Clutched in one 
chubby fist was a crayoned drawing.  Spotting the visitor, the 
child drew close to her mother.  

"Ms. Scully, this is my daughter Callie.  Callie, say hello to Ms.
Scully.  She works with the nice man."

Callie's expression turned from caution to excitement in the space
of a moment.  "Hi," she whispered.

"Hi, Callie.  May I see your picture?" Scully asked.  The child
came forward and proudly displayed her artwork, a rudimentary
drawing of a man that seemed all head and legs.  

"That's the nice man who taked me out of the car."

Scully breathed in the sweet baby smell as the little girl stood
close to exhibit her work.  The child was leaning against Scully's
leg, her body pliant and warm. The dull ache always present in her 
heart sharpened just a bit.  She'd always enjoyed children,
with their innocent trust and complete confidence that the
world would be to their liking.  She feared that bitterness
over her infertility and anger at the men who caused it would
rob her of that small pleasure.  Forcing a smile, she
turned back to the child and her mother.

"Will the nice man come here?" Callie's eyes were so bright
and earnest that Scully wondered if anyone ever had the heart
to say no to her.  A child could get awfully spoiled that way.

"Well, I'll ask him.  He may not know you've been looking
for him."  Scully looked from Callie to her mother.  "Let me
talk to him and I'll give you a call."

* * *

Hoover Building, Washington DC

11:20 AM

"Glad you made it to work before lunch, Scully.  I'd hate for
you to miss the best part of the day."

She smirked at him as she hung up her coat.  Lounging behind
the desk, his look of curiosity intensified as she walked
toward him.  With a glance at the door, she leaned in to plant
a firm kiss on his mouth followed by an even firmer mock punch 
to his shoulder.

"Hey, what'd I do?" he asked, laughing.  His laughter stopped
abruptly as she pulled the newspaper article out of her pocket
and smoothed it out on the desk before him.  "Oh. That."

"You couldn't tell me, Mulder? You couldn't say, 'Hey, Scully,
I was late because I stopped to help a lady and her little girl'?"  

"I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, Scully.  I did
what anyone else would have done.  Nothing death defying.  I 
barely broke a sweat."

"The fact is, most people *wouldn't* have done that.  People
don't want to get involved.  Don't minimize what you did, Mulder.  
You may have saved that child's life."

He looked down at his hands, and she wondered if he was thinking
about the people he hadn't been able to save.  "I was in the
right place at the right time.  That's all."

"Mulder, the reason I was late this morning....I went to see 
Jennifer Zemeske."  He was quiet, his face expressionless, 
and she found herself studying a scuff on the floor, unable
to look at him.

"I can't believe...Scully, I asked you to trust me.  Why
couldn't you just leave it alone?"

She raised her eyes, forcing herself to face him.  She'd told 
herself that she'd been concerned for Mulder's welfare, when 
she drove out to Falls Church.  As she looked into Mulder's 
eyes, though, she saw it for the invasion of privacy that it was.  

The man was still a puzzle to her, even after so many years 
together.  Of course, she could predict his response in any 
given situation, but that was mostly out of habit and 
familiarity. She wondered if she would ever truly understand 
the complicated thought processes that ruled his actions.  
The opportunity to gain some insight had been too tempting to 
pass up.

"I'm sorry, Mulder.  I should have spoken to you first.  I
don't know what I was thinking."  

"Were they okay?" he asked, after a moment.

"They looked fine.  Jennifer's leg is in a cast, and her 
mother is helping her. Oh, I have something for you," she 
said as she pulled a folded piece of paper out of her pocket.  
"Callie drew this picture of you."

"Gee, I can't remember the last time somebody drew a picture of 
me."  Mulder took the drawing from her and smiled.  "Pretty 
good likeness, don't you think?" he said, holding the picture
next to his face.  She relaxed a little, glad that his 
anger seemed to have passed.

"They'd both like to thank you, Mulder."

He placed the drawing on the desk and picked up the newspaper
article. "I don't need thanks.  I'm glad they're well, but
I just don't think I'm up to a big fuss."  

She nodded silently, trying to imagine Mulder in the onslaught
of media attention.  There was no doubt in her mind that the
newspaper would eagerly latch onto the story of a handsome
FBI agent coming to the rescue.  With Mulder's luck, the 
story would go national.  No matter how it played out, he
would find the experience torturous.

Unbidden, a line came to her from a book she'd read a very 
long time ago and never forgot:  "Well, it'd be sort of like
shootin' a mockingbird, wouldn't it?"  Mulder was a far
cry from a pale recluse like Boo Radley, but he was an intensely 
private man.  She understood the need for privacy, and she 
understood the need for thanks.

"Maybe there doesn't need to be a fuss, Mulder.  Would you 
let me speak to Jennifer and see if you can meet them
privately?"

He shook his head.  "I only did what needed to be done."

"They need to thank you, Mulder."  She reached for his
hand.  "I think that maybe you need to hear it."

* * *    

Falls Church

Saturday, March 25    3:30 PM

Scully pulled her coat tighter around her as she watched a
gaggle of preadolescent boys walk by the Zemeske home.  Their
voices rang out, jeering at each other, as they jostled their
way down the street.

The bright sunlight had been deceiving, luring her out here in
an effort to give Mulder some time alone with Jennifer and 
Callie.  Sitting on the brick steps, she shivered a little and 
hoped Mulder wouldn't be much longer.  

She knew she wouldn't ever forget the look on Callie's face when
Mulder came into the living room.  The memory of Mulder, crouching
to receive the child's hug, would stay with her for a very 
long time as well.  She felt the prick of tears as she pictured
his face, eyes squeezed shut as he perhaps remembered another 
little girl's embrace.  

She'd called Jennifer after her conversation with Mulder, requesting
that the meeting be kept private.  Jennifer had agreed, though 
perhaps a little disappointed that Mulder wasn't getting all he was
due. "I think he deserves the key to the city and all the commendations 
they can heap on him, but if he'd rather keep it quiet, I won't 
tell anyone."

The door opened behind her, and she swiveled her neck to look up
at Mulder.  She had to shade her eyes against the sun's glare as
she tried to gauge his emotional state.  

"How did it go?" she asked as he sat on the step with her.  She
shivered again, and Mulder put his arm around her shoulders. 

"It felt...good.  Strange, I guess, but good. Callie says 'Hi'
by the way.  She asked me if I liked you."

"What did you tell her?" she asked, turning to face him.

"I told her you were all right.  For someone with girl cooties."

"You know, Mulder, you really know how to make a girl feel
special."

"I'll show you special," he said as he leaned in to kiss her.
His lips were warm and soft, his arms strong around her. 
He was smiling when the kiss ended.

"Callie's a pretty smart little girl, you know.  She said
you were a nice man."

"Obviously, a gifted child.  So, would you like to have 
dinner with a nice man?" he asked as he stood and offered
his hand.

"Sure, you know any nice men?" She took his hand, and pulled
him, laughing, along the sidewalk.  "You up for some curry,
Mulder?"

End

Author's Notes:   Many thanks to Dawn for terrific beta,
and to a wealth of fanfic friends for unending support. 
I am truly blessed.

This was inspired by an incident reported several weeks ago 
in our local paper.  Our unknown hero was actually described
as tall, dark and between 30 and 40.  The details are almost 
exactly as I've shown them--the man pulled a little girl out 
of a smoking car, brought her to her mother who had suffered 
a broken leg and then supported the mother's back, so she 
could comfort the child.  He disappeared when fire and medical 
personnel arrived. As of this writing, there has been no 
further information in the paper, so I assume he is still 
anonymous, or contacted the family privately.  

Michelle Kiefer