Title: The Eyes of the Beholder
Author: Catherine Earnshaw
E-mail: cathy.earnshaw@gmail.com
Classification: vignette, challenge fic, Scully POV
Spoilers: Detour, bits and pieces of season six
Archive: I'll take care of Gossamer and Ephemeral. Anywhere 
else, please let me know.
Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and the X-Files 
belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. But 
they'd be nothing without David Duchovny and Gillian 
Anderson. I mean no copyright infringement with my 
story; I just love them too much to let go of them. 
The rating of "PG" is trademarked by the MPAA.

Written for Fandomonium's Voyeurism Challenge. Elements listed 
at the end.

***

"I remember watching the boy I secretly liked walk past my grandparents' 
house, and wondering why the other kids needed to take drugs."

Ellin Anderson

***

The Eyes of the Beholder


They say beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. 

It might be true. In Mulder's case, however, I don't think it applies. 
Anyone who looks at him certainly sees what I see, unless their sense of 
aesthetics is seriously twisted.

My partner is beautiful. I don't want to sound maudlin, but he really is, 
and the beauty of his soul outdoes his looks, impossible as it might 
seem. 

Right now, sitting in front of our boss as Mulder explains to him how he 
could wreck two rental cars and destroy a brand new laptop while 
investigating a voodoo-induced possession case in Louisiana, all I can do 
is bask in his presence. I can't stare at him openly as I do on occasion 
at a crime scene as he examines a piece of evidence, his eyes intent, his 
mind already putting the pieces of the puzzle together, or while he is 
driving, focused on the road as he munches on sunflower seeds and annoys 
the hell out of me changing the radio station every two minutes until he 
finds something he likes. Then he hums, completely off-key, to Elvis or the 
Rolling Stones, and I pretend to be asleep, but the truth is I'm enjoying myself 
immensely. 

I know he knows I watch him, as I'm sure he knows I know he watches me. 
It's a game we play, something like a tug of war, and I wonder who's 
gonna let the rope go first.

But I digress.

Skinner is saying something I'm sure I've heard from him before, and I do 
my best to look interested. Mulder senses my mind is wandering, and 
throws me a sideways glance which makes matters even worse. He's wearing those 
killer glasses, and I can't help hoping he'll develop a permanent allergy 
to his contact lenses so I can see him like this more often. I wish he 
hadn't had that criminal haircut after Antarctica. I loved the way he'd brush 
that stubborn lock off his forehead from time to time and I often wanted to do 
that myself. I have to confess, though, that I find this new look quite 
endearing. It's as if he tried to cut his hair himself, did an awful job of it, 
then had to go for broke at the barber's shop.

Mulder raises his voice, and I blink. He's leaning forward in his seat, 
trying to get Skinner to see the validity of the case, and our boss shakes his 
head, visibly irritated. They're locking horns again as I watch. Whoever says 
Mulder's voice is a monotone must be out of their mind. He pours his soul 
into his voice the same way you can see it in those amazing eyes of his. 
Mulder is an open book; he wears his heart on his sleeve, and if you just listen to 
him for five minutes, you'll know what I mean.

Be open to extreme possibilities, I warn you.

Skinner keeps rambling, using words like reckless and foolhardy to 
describe my partner. I look at Mulder, who takes everything in stride.
I told him once I admired his relentlessness, and I wonder if I'm the 
only one who can see him for what he really is. The Bureau sees him as 
a loose cannon, I regard him as a man with a mission. Mulder makes an 
abrupt move, and his jacket, which he'd draped on the back of the chair, 
slips to the floor. He doesn't take notice. 

It might look like carelessness to others, but I know him. This is 
something that comes from birth. He doesn't care about the puddle of 
expensive Armani on the floor because he has always taken it for granted. 
Of course other agents see his designer's suits and expensive watches as 
signs of arrogance. They haven't been to his almost Spartan apartment, 
nor do they know about the countless nights he has spent at my bedside, 
sprawled on a hard hospital chair. He doesn't care for his own comfort. 
The way he carries himself is just the way he was taught to be.

Even his chivalry, which irked me a bit at the very beginning - his way 
of opening doors and guiding me through them, of giving me the best motel 
room, of making sure I have coffee ready in the morning. Soon I realized 
he was not patronizing me. Just treating me right, in his weird 
old-fashioned view. 

Mulder's fingertips tap against the armrest, a clear sign of his 
frustration. His hands are never idle. I often raise my head from my 
work to see him twisting a pencil between his fingers, playing with a 
clip, shredding a Styrofoam cup. 

Such beautiful hands. They've been the stars of more than one midnight 
fantasy for me. If I'm honest with myself I have to admit they're also 
a somewhat painful reminder of what I'm missing.

My reverie is interrupted by a torrent of harsh words. 

"I hope I won't have to see you two here in the near future, Agents. Now 
get those reports straightened up and send them over to Kim asap, or I'll 
make sure the basement serves its storage purpose. Dismissed," barked Skinner. 
I know better than to say anything, so I gather our papers from the desk, 
nod my agreement and stand up, touching Mulder's sleeve.

Just to reassure him. Or myself.

Mulder gets up with a relieved sigh, leans down to get his jacket and 
stops at the door when he realizes I'm still standing by our boss's desk, 
staring at him. He looks puzzled. "Scully? You coming?"

I don't answer. I cross the room and walk through the door, his hand
automatically taking its usual place on the small of my back. I smile as 
he mumbles something like "stupid paperwork" and jabs his thumb onto the 
elevator button.

Once in the office, he drops himself heavily into his chair and I wonder 
for the thousandth time how in the hell he manages not to flip the damned 
thing over. His feet move to the top of the desk and he grabs a pencil 
from the blotter, absently munching on it as he turns his computer on and 
waits for the machine to work.

I realize I'm still standing at the door, holding a stack of papers and 
ogling my unsuspecting partner. He doesn't seem to have noticed my scrutiny, 
so I send my guardian angel a quick thank you. Just as I'm getting ready to 
busy myself with the paper-mess Mulder has done in lieu of paperwork, he 
loosens his tie, throws his reading glasses at the desk, stands up and 
looks at me.

"I'm going for a walk. Join me?"

He doesn't wait for an answer and bolts out the door, leaving the 
computer on and not caring a bit. I shake my head and follow, and as 
I get to the corridor he's already holding the elevator door open. 
I enter, raise my eyebrow at him, and he leans against the back wall, 
pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing. 

He looks tired.

We walk out of the Hoover towards the reflective pool and I know where 
he's heading to. Our bench, the one which still stands as a symbol of 
our unwavering loyalty to each other. I don't miss the silent message 
he's sending me, and as we sit facing the water, he leans forward, 
elbows on knees, squinting his eyes against the hot afternoon sun. 
I watch the play of his back muscles under his shirt, fight an urge to 
touch him, and lose. My hand lands softly on his shoulder, and he 
understands, moving his hand to my knee and squeezing it.

Stonecypher and Kinsley might be experts in communication, but I bet we 
could teach them a trick or two.

Mulder's gazing at the dirty water, his mind churning. An elegantly 
dressed woman passes by -- a lawyer or a government clerk, I muse -- 
and gives my partner the once-over. She looks at me, the corners of her 
lips move up a bit, and I nod almost imperceptibly at her. Lady, this 
one is taken, but I won't hold it against you if you look. Mulder misses 
the whole exchange, lost in thought.

I know, and he knows, it's inevitable. We're moving towards each other 
and we couldn't stop it if we wanted to. The pace is slow, and although 
there are times when I just want to grab him by the collar and crush my 
mouth against his, I wait. 

Our time will come, and then I'll be able to look at my heart's content.

Now, as he stands up and holds his hand out to me, I just take it without
hesitation. I don't care if anyone sees. The imp which resides deep 
inside my soul smiles at the thought that one of the secretaries will 
observe indeed, and we'll be the main subject in the ladies' room tomorrow. 

I smile. Mulder notices, and he smiles back. It's one of those moments --
we've just been scolded by our boss, we have a mountain of paperwork to 
go through, we've just gotten the X-Files back and there are people who 
want nothing but to take them away from us, but all it matters to me now 
is my partner's hand holding mine and the green sparkle of his eyes as 
he looks at me.

And if beauty truly lies in the eyes of the beholder, I am the most 
beautiful woman alive.


The end

***

Author's notes:

- This is my first attempt at first person POV. Cut me some slack :)
- Mulder in glasses is a special treat for my beta-Godmother, Mimic117.
Mimsy dear, I hope I did him justice.


The elements for this story were:

-Scully or Other POV (i.e. Scully/other as the voyeur)
-Can have Mulder doing anything (eating seeds, reading
over a casefile, changing clothes, mowing the lawn,
washing dishes, surfing the net, pumping gas etc. etc.)
-Pure description (i.e. little or no dialogue)
-It must be a new fic