Ten Things I Like About You By Sally Bahnsen ********************************************* July 2001 Catagory- V,MT,A,H,UST Rating- PG-13 Summary-- When Skinner suspects a problem between Mulder and Scully he orders Scully to seek counselling. Scully turns to an old friend to vent. Spoiler-- 731, small references to Irresistable, Duanne Barry, Lazarus Thanks to- Ten and Judie for their expert beta reading, and to Vickie and Peg for looking it over and offering their opinions. You are much appreciated. Dedication-- This is dedicated to Clarissa, my partner and friend in appreciation of all things Mulder. Cheers Tippi! Author's notes-- One day I was thinking about all the things I love about Mulder and started wondering how Scully could work with Mulder and *not* notice what I notice. For the convenience of turning my lustful thoughts into a story, I borrowed the timespan between the explosion at the end of 731 and Mulder returning to work after coming out of the hospital. I realise I've just touched the tip of the iceberg here so please feel free to email me and let me know what you like about Mulder. I'd love to hear from you. Feedback- is lovingly adored, cherished and answered. Constructive criticism is also appreciated. ***************************************** TEN THINGS I LIKE ABOUT YOU BY SALLY BAHNSEN 1/1 xXx "WHAT!?...Sir." "I said, I want you to talk to someone, Agent Scully." No. Those are not words the AD normally directs at me. Those are for Mulder. Not me. Not now. Not ever. FORGET IT. "Sir, can I ask why you think I need to talk to someone?" I try to keep my tone professional, try desperately to keep the growing intonation of insubordination out of my voice. "Agent Scully..." Skinner hesitates. At least he has the decency to look uncomfortable about this. "It's come to my attention that you and Agent Mulder have been having some..." he pauses again, stares resolutely at his hands which are clasped securely together on his desk, "that you two have been having some..." Come on, Sir, spit it out. "Difficulties." Difficulties? DIFFICULTIES! "I don't know what you mean, Sir." He sighs, and I see that look on his face. It's a particular look which I don't believe I've ever seen him use when talking to me by myself. Not only is he using words usually reserved for Mulder, but he's also making 'Mulder-you're-lying' faces at me. "I think you know what I mean, Agent Scully. I'm not going to spell it out for you, I respect you too much for that, but I cannot have the agents under me refusing to talk to one another. It's unprofessional, unacceptable and I especially don't expect to see it from you and Agent Mulder." I feel the heat rise to my cheeks, reflecting both humiliation and my suppressed fury. "Sir, may I ask if this same invitation is being extended to Agent Mulder?" "When Agent Mulder gets out of the hospital I'll be speaking to him too." Ooh, I'd love to be a fly on the wall when Skinner drops this bombshell in Mulder's lap. The thought almost makes me smile. Instead, I clasp my hands tightly together on my lap in much the same way Skinner has his resting on his desk. My fingernails dig into the back of my hands as I fight to maintain control over my temper. "I've made an appointment for you to see Karen Kossoff at 8.30 tomorrow morning." Really? Well, we'll see about that. How many sick days do I have owing to me? Because I can feel one hell of a headache building and by tomorrow morning I'm sure it will be a full blown migraine. The only place I intend to be at 8.30 tomorrow is in bed! "Thank you, sir. Will that be all?" Skinner heaves another deep sigh, drops his head momentarily to his chest then snaps it up, looking me right in the eye. I watch him clench his teeth. The little muscle that always indicates his discontent--usually with Mulder--jumps and twitches along his jawline. He blows a gusty puff of air from his lips then says, "that will be all, Agent." I rise from my chair and leave Skinner's office without another word. ************************* Scully's Apartment 7.06 PM "Can you believe it? He had the nerve to suggest *I* talk to someone. As if this is my fault!" I shift the receiver to my left ear, securing it in place with my shoulder. With my free hand I yank the freezer door open, cringing as the hinges give a little under the force. "Dana, I'm sure your boss only has your best interests in mind." "My best interests? You know, Ellen, if he had my best interests in mind he'd send me to the firing range with a life size model of Mulder as the target." I'm fuming now and the fact that the Ben and Jerry's is wedged at the back of the freezer behind two packets of frozen vegetables, a half loaf of bread and three Lean Cuisine meals is only making it worse. I burrow my hand under the peas, over the bread and...Shit! scrape the back of my knuckles on some unidentified frozen object before finally hitting the jackpot. I free the carton of ice cream from its hiding place and slam the freezer door shut, sending a variety of refrigerator magnets into a vibrating frenzy. Damn it. "What exactly is happening with you and your partner that has your boss so wound up, Dana?" "He ditched me." "Mulder ditched you?" "Yes. Again. And you know what? Every time he does it he nearly gets himself killed. He has absolutely no consideration of how his actions affect me. He usually winds up in the hospital fighting for his life and I'm left to pick up the pieces. To explain to Skinner what the hell he was doing, to track him down, find him and somehow save him before the consequences of his actions put an end to his pursuit for the truth once and for all." I take a breath, sighing loudly into the telephone receiver. "How many times am I supposed to sit by his bedside while he teeters on the brink of death? Then, when he does finally recover, just smile, forgive him and pretend it's all okay?" "Dana, I'll tell you a little story. Last year Trent ran away from home. My first reaction when I discovered him gone was to panic. He was missing for about an hour. During that time my emotions see-sawed between fear and anger. I was angry at him for what he was putting me through. And I was scared to death because I kept imagining that something awful had happened to him. Anyway, he eventually turned up safe and sound. When I found him all I remember feeling was relief. Of course later, although I'd calmed down, I was still upset with him for putting me through the heartache." Ellen pauses before continuing. "Dana, what I'm trying to say, is that when you love someone, it's natural for you to feel angry when they do something that causes you to worry about them, to fear the worst." Love someone? Has she lost her mind? "I don't *love* Mulder!" I protest, stunned at the implication. "No?" "No. Where on earth would you get that idea from?" I pry the lid off the ice cream carton with my spoon, exercising all the finesse of a road worker using a crowbar to free the lid off a manhole. "I...sorry, Dana, I guess I was mistaken. It's just that you...the way you talk about him...well, I naturally assumed..." "He's my partner, and, yes, I care about him, but I don't *love* him." "Fine, whatever you say." "In fact if he wasn't already in the hospital I would be happy to put him there myself." My words immediately boomerang back at me, hitting me solidly with the guilt and shame I deserve. I *know* it's not true, I *hate* seeing Mulder in the hospital. "He's in the hosital now? I thought he was released a few days ago?" "He was. But, as usual, he refused to rest, to take proper care of himself. His wounds got infected, so he's back in." "Sorry to hear that. How is he?" "I don't know. I haven't been in to see him." "You...Dana?" "I've been busy. There's been paperwork to catch up on and...and...I haven't had time." I hate the whiney defensive tone that's crept into my voice. "Oh Dana, you're going to have to lose this attitude before your appointment with the counsellor tomorrow. If you go in there with only negative things to say, then you're the one who's going to look bad." "Who says I'm going?" I stab at the hard mass of icecream with my spoon, thinking a pneumatic drill would probably be more effective than my feeble utensil which is now looking as if it's just done a hard session with Uri Geller. A loud silence stretches on from the other end of the phone line. "Okay already, I'm going, I'm going." Finally, the spoon has a modicum of success and makes a dent in the ice cream. I manage to gouge out a tiny morsel and pop it in my mouth. "Good. Well, we better work on your list then." "What list?" I ask, trying not to spit the hard-earned dessert all over the receiver. "I want you to think of ten things you like about, Mulder." "Ten things I like about him! I can give you a list of twenty ways I'd like to *hurt* him." I can't believe the words that are coming out of my mouth. Every last one of them is totally untrue, but I just can't seem to stop myself from saying them. "Dana, that kind of thinking will definitely do nothing to endear yourself to the counsellor." I sigh to myself, then push the bent spoon back into the now slightly softer ice cream and take comfort in a large scoop of cookies and cream, squishing the little bits of chocolate Oreo between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. The perfect sedative after a particularly stressful Mulder moment. "Come on, there must be *something* positive you can say about him." Something positive. Well, he's taught me how to lie to my superiors, to escape from black hawk helicopters, how to treat gunshot wounds in the field, how to take on the government in a dozen different ways...and lose every time. He's even got my boss making appointments for me to seek counselling. Yeah, I'm really in the mood for thinking warm, fuzzy thoughts about my partner. "Dana, come on, it can't be that difficult. There has to be *something* you like about him. You've been together for nearly three years." I can see Ellen has no intention of letting up on this. So, I tap the spoon against the side of the ice cream carton and wrack my brains for something positive to say about Mulder. All right. "His feet are kinda cute in a clunky, overgrown Afghan-pup sort of way," I say quickly. "His *feet*? Dana, you have been out of circulation for way too long. Let's think about this..." Ellen goes silent while she ponders a way for me to find something good about my partner. I take another spoonful of ice cream and go through that squishing exercise again. "Okay, Dana, lets start at the top rather than the bottom. What about his hair?" His hair? Oh. Oh yeah. His hair. I picture him sitting at his desk in the basement first thing in the morning. Freshly showered and shaved. His hair catching the overhead light: shiny, silken, soft. I think about the way it kind of cow-licks at the front, splays out slightly at the side. Not like it did when I first met him. Then the bangs were longer, swept precariously to the side, the same old errant lock stubbornly falling across his brow. I picture it sweaty after a long run, mussed from a restless sleep. Oh, yeah, I do like his hair. "Well, Dana?" "His hair's okay I guess." "All right, what else do you like?" His eyes. The many different shades of brown, hazel and green. I think about the way they turn dark and serious when he's postulating one of his paranormal theories. And then become a smoky grey when he's sad, or worried, or suffering the pain of another's troubles. I could lose myself in his eyes when they look like that. But then there are the times when he's amused and the dark brown is flecked with green and golden lights. It's hard to concentrate on anything else when his eyes dance and sparkle as he quietly chuckles at one of his own jokes. "He has great eyes." I realise my tone has become wistful. I quickly scoop another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth. "You're doing really good, Dana. That's two, what else? "Well, he has a nice mouth." "What do you mean by nice?" His bottom lip is full and sensuous and so damn sexy. When he pouts like a petulant two year old I'm putty in his hands. Oh, and the way that mouth of his can free a sunflower seed from its husk... "Dana?" "Hang on a second I'm thinking." ...a sunflower seed from its husk, biting down with just enough pressure to crack the shell, tongue working its way between kernel and husk, flipping the seed out of its covering and swirling it around his mouth before swallowing it, sending his Adams apple bobbing as the tiny morsel slides down his throat. Then pffft, the husk goes hell west and crooked as it is shot from his lips. How many times have I lost my train of thought watching Mulder manouvre that damn little seed around in his mouth? "Dana, what do you mean by nice?" "I mean his mouth is a nice shape for a guy." I hear Ellen sigh again. "All right, all right maybe nice is an understatement. His mouth is...it's...it's...*really* nice." Ellen's exasperated sigh puffs through the receiver before she continues, "Anything else?" An image of Mulder bending over, searching for a file from a cabinet, flashes into my mind. The fine-tailored cut of his Armani suit pants, clinging--but not too tightly--across his perfect ass. And then I'm reminded of another image. Casual Mulder. And 'The Jean Factor'. Of course there's also the 'grey t-shirt, the black polo, the blue shirt, the leather jacket, the white t-shirt--all very exciting factors in their own right. But, 'The Jean Factor' wins hands down. Denim is a whole different ballgame to wool. Denim hugs. Fits snug and tight in all the right places. I do like to walk behind him when he's wearing jeans. That's not to say the front view is something to be ignored. Black satin boxers, green contour-clinging cotton boxers, and all of them more than adequately filled. Ever since the time I had to undress him after he suffered from smoke inhalation and I discovered what he wore under those well-hung pants, well...I just can't look below his waist without seeing his underwear superimposed over whatever he happens to be dressed in at the time. It's very disturbing. And boy, has it been hard to remain clinically detached in subsequent situations when I have been required to remove Mulder's outer clothing. Many a time in the office I've inadvertantly allowed my eyes to stray south of his belt buckle and ended up having to excuse myself to cool off in the bathroom. "Dana, I'm finding these long pauses very discouraging. Is there anything else you like?" "Yeah," I say thoughtfully, "he dresses well." "Really?" "And he has a cute ass." "Very good, that's two in one go. I'm very pleased you've been able to acknowledge so many positive things about Mulder's physical attributes. But, you really need to come up with something you like about *him*. Not just his body, but his personality." Mulder's personality? For some reason, my immediate thought is to recall our first meeting in his basement office. I'm not sure what I expected to find. I'd heard all the 'spooky' stories, the larger-than-life tales of his profiling skills. I guess I expected some kind of eccentric nutcase. Not the heart-stopping good looks that just about took my knees out from under me. And I'd never seen a man look *that* good in glasses before. I adored him on sight. That is until he opened his mouth. Cynical, sarcastic, so-far-up-himself-he-can't-see-the-light-of-day. Those are just a few things that came to mind within the first minute of meeting him. Five minutes later I was totally enthralled. Intelligent, brilliant...weird--yes, weird was in there--but most of all, I sensed an air of respect. The fact that he took the time to read my thesis impressed me straight away. Right from the very start, he asked my opinion and listened, really listened. He didn't necessary agree, and there was a certain amount of amusement on his part as I shot down his theory with science, but he seemed to respect me. And that was something new, something I had never experienced from my male peers before. "Well, he's always respected me. My opinion, my science," I tell Ellen. "Good." "He has a sense of humor." I love his off the cuff remarks, his corny innuendos, his quick-witted repartee. Even if I don't always show it. "Humor is a good thing in a relationship. It can help relieve stress, can diffuse potentially volatile situations." Ellen sends her sagely advice down the telephone line. "Hmm, I've heard that." I dig my spoon around the bottom of the ice cream carton looking for the last remnants of Oreo cookie. "Dana, you've always seemed to have such a solid partnership. What do you think makes it that way?" Ellen's starting to sound like a counsellor herself. I think about her question for a minute. I don't think I've ever tried to analyze our partnership before. What would I consider the foundation of our success to be? Actually that's easy. I really don't have to think about it at all. Trust. We trust each other. Equally. I know beyond all doubt that Mulder trusts me, and I know for sure that I trust him. It's one of the most important things I like about him...Then suddenly a light bulb clicks on in my mind. And a whole lot of things start to fall into place. He trusts me enough to know I'll take care of things while he's gone. He trusts me enough to know I will arrange the paperwork, head Skinner off at the pass. And most of all he knows I will move heaven and earth to find him, to bring him home safe. Just like I know he would do the same for me. *Has* done for me. Jack Willis, Donnie Pfaster, Duane Barry. And I know Mulder tries to protect me. Not in a stifling, you-can't-do-this-because-you're-a-woman sort of way, but more subtly. I mentally flinch as the answer leaps up and slaps me in the face. He protects me by ditching me. In some misguided attempt to keep me from the danger he inevitably has no second thought about placing himself in, he leaves me behind for my own good. I feel the ice in my heart start to thaw. Dribbling its freezing runoff deep into the pit of my stomach . A lump forms in my throat, a lump too big and too painful to swallow around. "Dana, are you still there?" Ellen's voice cuts through my thoughts. Imposing itself on my sudden attack of guilt. "Dana?" "I...I'm sorry, Ellen, I have to go. I...um...I left something on the stove." I hit the end button on my phone and lay it gently on the coffee table, staring at it, dumbfounded at how stupid I've been. How unforgiving. And how much I have probably hurt my partner. My best friend. I stumble from the living room, into the bathroom and come face to face with my reflection in the mirror. I lean heavily on the basin, staring at the horrified look of realisation that has settled on my features. I splash some water on my face and gently towel it off, still watching myself in the mirror. I hesitate a moment, the towel stilled against my cheeks, covering my mouth so only my eyes and nose are visible. I see fear looking back at me, and I know exactly what it is I'm fearing. As I come to a decision, I pray it's not too late. Pray that any damage I've caused to our partnership will not be permanent. The towel is tossed onto the edge of the bath and I jog into the living room, scooping up my car keys from the side board as I head out the front door. Georgetown Medical Centre Washington DC Outside Mulder's hospital room, I hesitate and wonder what the hell I'm going to say to him. In my haste to get here I hadn't considered that maybe I wouldn't be welcome. That maybe Mulder has been feeling the same way I have and won't want to see me. Nerves tug at my stomach, drawing the moisture from my mouth, sending it straight to the palms of my hands. No. This is my fault and I need to face up to what I've done. I have to mend the hurt I've caused. Taking a deep breath, I grip the door handle and let myself in. My eyes fall immediately on the sleeping form of my partner. I stand just inside the doorway, watching the slow, even, rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps. There is no noisy beeping from a heart monitor, no intimidating leads attached to machinery, no nasal cannula or oxygen mask. A simple IV pumps the mandatory antibiotics into his blood stream, fighting the latest assault on his system. I love to watch while Mulder sleeps. It's one of the few times when he looks completely at peace. As if nothing is worrying or upsetting him. Long, dark eyelashes rest gently against his cheeks. Eyelashes that most women would kill for. His face is smooth, no tell-tale pain lines drawn about his eyes, furrowing his brow. He looks so young. I catch a glimpse of how he might have grown up had he been spared the trauma of Samantha's disappearance. In sleep, I see a man who is relaxed, confident, self-assured--at peace with himself and the world. My stomach clenches in a painful knot as I consider that he may not forgive me. I take another step inside, moving quietly towards his bed, not wanting to wake him. And knowing damn well that all I'm doing is delaying the time until I will have to face up to the consequences of my actions. For now though, I am content to just stand here, basking in the fact that Mulder is alive and well. Maybe not 100% healthy yet, but a whole lot better than he could have been, than I feared he was, just a few short days ago when I was informed of the explosion. I tip-toe all the way across the room and carefully pull the lone plastic hospital-issue chair closer to his bed and settle myself into it. I fear that my movements will wake him before I have a chance to compose myself. But I needn't have worried, Mulder remains still and silent. The kind of stillness usually associated with drug induced slumber. I sigh heavily under my breath and reach for the limp hand lying on top of the sheet. A hand unnaturally warm with fever. I slide my right hand under his and rest my left on top, absently drawing little circles across his knuckles, occasionally diverting to take in the fine, dark hairs along the back of his fingers. Mulder's hands could belong to a surgeon. Clean, soft and smooth. But he uses them like an artist. I often wonder if Mulder would still be able to talk if he lost the use of his hands. I love the way he gesticulates as he tries to make me understand the validity of one of his theories. And the way he pulls at his bottom lip or chews on his thumbnail while deep in thought. Runs his fingers through his hair in an act of frustration, rests them at the small of my back, caresses my cheek, squeezes my shoulder in reassurance, pulls me to him and enfolds me in an embrace, offering comfort and support. I lift the hand clasped between mine to my lips, feeling the heat radiate off his skin. I'm sorry, partner. I'm sorry for not understanding, for not seeing the reason behind your actions--but you scared the hell out of me. A soft groan pulls me from my contemplation. I hold my breath as I watch Mulder's eyelids flicker, a pained look crosses his face as his tongue licks ineffectually at dry lips. I lean towards the nightstand and pour some water into a plastic cup. "MMrrrm...Scully." His eyebrows rise, then plummet as he works at figuring out what I'm doing here, more than likely also trying to work out where 'here' is. His eyes rove around the room, eventually settling on my face. He tries again, "Scully?" I lay his hand, still clasped in one of mine, back on the sheet, and smile at him. "Hey." "Wha..." He stops and swallows hard, wincing. I hold the cup of water to his lips. "Small sips, Mulder." He keeps his eyes locked with mine as he drinks from the cup. When he lays his head back against the pillows I put the cup back on the night stand. "What are you doing here, Scully?" His voice is dry and raspy. Confusion mixes with the pained expression on his face. "I..." How do I answer him? Perspiration floods the palm of my hands again, the heat from Mulder's skin compounding my discomfort. I stare down at the blue cotton sheet, unable to meet his gaze. Mulder slides his hand free of mine. A surge of panic rushes through me. My worst fears are realised. He doesn't want me here. The knot in my stomach tightens. Oh God, he can't even stand me touching him. Then something brushes against my cheek and pushes my hair from my face. I lift my head slowly and look at my partner as the warmth from his fingertip trails along my jaw, then back up to my cheek to repeat the action. All the while he is watching me. Holding my gaze with smoky grey eyes. I feel the tears welling behind my own eyes, the painful lump growing in my throat. "Mulder...I...I'm." He places his index finger across my lips. "Shh, Scully. I know. Me too." Then he smiles. And so do I. But not before a lone tear escapes and drops soundlessly onto the sheet. Mulder snakes his arm around my neck and pulls me down so my head is resting on his chest. I hear the thud of his heart through his hospital gown, beating a steady rhythm. A strong, comforting rhythm. I'm not sure how long we stay like this. Neither of us speak, but the silence is companionable. The knot in my stomach loosens and I realise then that we're going to be okay. There is a soft rap on the door, so quiet that at first I'm not sure I really heard it. Then the door is slowly pushed open. I would lift my head except Mulder seems to have fallen asleep again, the dead weight of his arm draped across my shoulders, holding me securely in place. Someone walks into the room. My first thought is that the night nurse has come to tell me I have to leave. My breath catches slightly as I recognise the person standing before me. Skinner. It must take him a second to get his bearings, but when he does he stops abrubtly and stares at me, eyes flicking quickly to Mulder's face before falling back on mine. I wonder what we must look like. What Skinner must be thinking. I try and ease myself out from under Mulder's arm, feeling extremely awkward and vulnerable. Skinner holds his hand up, halting me. He glances at Mulder again. Back at me. Then he quickly swipes at his mouth. But he's too late. Amusement dances in his eyes and I catch the tail end of a smile before he is able to cover it. And that damned muscle in his jaw is bouncing and jumping like an out of control ping-pong ball. Suddenly, Skinner becomes very engrossed with his shoes. Right before he takes a breath, working at getting himself under control. "Agent Scully." "Sir." There is something very disconcerting about talking to your boss while your head rests on your partner's chest, trapped under his arm. "I...um...just brought this for Agent Mulder." Skinner takes a few more steps into the room and places a book on the nightstand beside Mulder's bed. Regardless of Skinner's good intentions about not wanting to disturb Mulder by having me stay right where I am, I just can't stand it any longer. I ease my head out from under Mulder's arm and sit up straight in my chair, roughly combing my hair back into place with my fingers. "Will you see that he get's it?" Skinner says. "Tell him I called in to see how he's doing." "Yes Sir, I will." "Good." Skinner seems almost as awkward about this as I am. He turns and takes a couple of steps towards the door before pausing and turning to face me. "Oh, and Agent Scully, about tomorrow morning. Why don't you take a few hours. I have a feeling you won't get much sleep tonight. I'll make a phone call when I get home and cancel that appointment we talked about." "Yes, Sir. Thank you." Skinner nods quickly then leaves, taking the tension with him. I breathe a sigh of relief and drop back against the hard plastic chair. I feel a smile start to creep across my face. Assistant Director Skinner, you old softie. "What...appointment, Scully?" Dammit. I thought he was sleeping. I sit forward on the seat, scooping Mulder's hand in my left, then brushing my right one against his hot, dry forehead. Fever still not broken, I note to myself. "Nothing, Mulder. Don't worry about it." "You sure? Are you okay?" "I'm fine. Everything's all right. Now go back to sleep." "Mmm. 'kay. You'd...tell me...if there...was a problem...right?" "Shhh. There's no problem. And yes, I'd tell you." I lay my hand on his forehead again, soothing him. "Good." He heaves a deep sigh and then quiets down. I watch his breathing even out as he slips back into oblivion. I smile to myself, and think: 'only ten things?' Mulder, I could write a book about all the things I love about you, all the things I admire and respect. But I don't need to write them down. Every day we're together I'm reminded why I care about you, why you are the most important person in my life. And why it hurts so much when faced with the possiblity of losing you. I settle in for another bedside vigil, making a note to myself to call Ellen, both to apologise for my abrupt end to our convesation and to thank her for bringing me to my senses. Another knock on the door and I see a large recliner chair being pushed through the opening, followed by the night nurse. "Here you go, Agent Scully. I have your regular chair for you." I stand and help her drag it beside the bed, happy to exile the plastic one to the far corner of the room. "Thanks, Judie." "You know where the extra blankets are kept. Just call if you need anything. We were getting worried about you." She nods towards Mulder. "He's been here over 24 hours and we hadn't seen hide nor hair of you." "Yeah. I know. Something came up, but I'm here now." I rub my hand along Mulder's arm. "I'm glad. He was asking for you when his fever spiked." She smiles gently at me. "Remember, just call if you need anything." "Thank you. I will." I sink into the soft, pliable cushions of the recliner, and pick up the book Skinner brought for Mulder. "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus." I stare at the paperback in disbelief before the irony of it all hits me. Is this a hint? To Mulder? To both of us? Did Skinner bring this in because, deep down, he knew I couldn't stay away when Mulder was in the hospital, and he knew I would inevitably get my hands on it? I clamp my hand over my mouth and stifle the hilarious chuckle that threatens to errupt into a loud fit of laughter. This is too much. I turn the book over in my hands, studying the cover. 'Once upon a time Martians and Venusians met, fell in love and had happy relationships together because they respected and accepted their differences. Then they came to Earth and amnesia set in: they forgot they were from different planets.' Hmmm. I begin to see an analogy developing here. I wonder if Skinner really expected Mulder to read it? I decide I better do some research, just in case Mulder does read the book and I'm required to argue on behalf of all the women in the world. So I open the first chapter and begin to read. 'Imagine that men are from Mars and women are from Venus....' The end. So, what do *you* like about Mulder? Disclaimer-- I borrowed the excerpts/quotes at the end from the book 'Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus'. By John Gray.