He was testing her. That hadn't been his intention when he booked them on the next flight to Albuquerque--he was sure that the lights sighted over Elkin, New Mexico were legitimate UFO reports--but his conviction would not explain why he had toyed with her questions on the plane, deflecting them with his standard evasions.

"That's why they call them unidentified," he'd finally said and that was the last time she opened her mouth until they arrived in the motel lobby. His certainty would not explain why he had not made reservations at the one shoddy and substandard motel in a fifty mile radius, why he had failed to call and ask Mr. Ron Miller, owner of the Double LL ranch, if there would be anything that might interfere with their investigation of the mysterious lights he reported, anything, like, say, for example, a *rodeo* that might cause certain FBI agents to have to share a room, and his conviction certainly did not explain why he, Fox Mulder, had not planned ahead.

He never planned these situations--that was part of the reason they were situations, he supposed. They simply occurred, they way socks got lost in the dryer, over and over again, against his will, perhaps even out of his control, infuriating his partner time and time again. This time, though, Mulder thought he might have gone a little beyond the term "situation" and into the realm of major fuck-up.

He turned on the water in the cracked porcelain sink, letting it run until it was clear of rust before he started to brush his teeth.

Scully was pissed. She had a right, of course, and he would have to do something, say something, to make it up to her. The idea shamed and thrilled him, and he knew he wouldn't be able to get to sleep until she had forgiven him, or at least relented enough in her disapproval to speak to him. After all they had been through in the last five years, all the traumas and tribulations, all of the danger and fear and hatred and risk, now she had to forgive him for being an idiot too. It was a lot to ask.

She was probably fuming right now, he thought, rinsing his face with cool water and turning off the ancient faucet. He pulled his t-shirt over his head and ran his fingers through his hair. She was probably lying in bed right now, thinking of more horrible names to call him, waiting for him to get out of the bathroom so that she could jump all over him. Waiting for him.

Mulder sighed and opened the door, turned off the bathroom light, turned on the television. CNN. It wasn't The Fly, but it would have to do. He couldn't risk any more wrath by channel flipping.

Scully was no more than a small lump under the blankets, but he knew she was awake. He could feel it in the tension of her back as he stretched out beside her. He wondered why he did it. He could have explained the nature of the sightings on the plane. He could have investigated the area surrounding the Double LL from the office before they'd arrived. He could have called the motel. He could have done a hundred small things that would have made life easier for him and his partner and he hadn't done a single one of them, so that she would get mad and he would get the payoff--the undivided attention and full fury of his . . . of Scully. Sometimes he thought he enjoyed it.

He lay on his back next to her, feeling the displeasure radiate off of her in impalpable waves. If they had been standing up in the office of the Elkin sheriff he would have put his hand at the small of her back and watched: if she pulled away he was the one bothering her, if she did not, it was someone outside their dynamic duo. Not that there was much question here, but even if there had been, he couldn't. No touching your partner when she was in the same bed. That had to be in the FBI handbook somewhere.

"Scully."

If she didn't say something to him he would worry her the way a dog worries a bone, because he wouldn't be sleeping. Without some indication that she had absolved him, he would be up all night, so it was up to him to broach the subject.

"You awake, Scully?"

"Yeah, Mulder."

Finally. "Is something wrong?" He tried to sound innocent, nonchalant.

"No. Why?"

"You seem . . . frustrated."

"Do I?"

He looked over at the immobile form under the sheet. It wouldn't take much more, he knew, but he had to have it, had to take it.

"I just ask because, you know, if you were frustrated, which I am not asserting in any way, but if you were, I was wondering if it might be related to something I might have said or done, you know, tangentially."

"What would make you think that, Mulder?"

"There was that incident at the front desk--"

And then it began, a torrent of words so swift and furious that Mulder almost felt the proverbial floodgates open. Her words rushed over him, a rising and falling pitch of anger and irritation and thwarted affection. She wanted to like him, he knew, wanted to tolerate him and be his friend, and he knew he made it almost impossible, choosing instead to drive her to this maddening pitch because this way he could be sure she was telling the truth. He hardly heard the words, offered only token resistance, until he knew from her tone that she had almost wound down.

"--any reason why I should not be frustrated at this moment?"

He felt drained and relieved, as if he had been the one shouting. She was sitting up in the bed, almost leaning over him, but she had forgiven him: he heard it in the resignation of her question.

"Has anyone ever told you you're sexy when you're angry?"

"Has anyone ever told you you're an insufferable asshole?"

Mulder smiled. She was glaring at him, but she didn't mean it.

"Would it help if you thought of this as a slumber party?"

"A slumber party."

"Sure," he said, watching her slump back into the pillows. "I could find us a good horror movie on t.v. and we could have a pillow fight. You'd have to loan me a nightie or something, but the situation has possibilities." He stuck his arm behind his head and looked up at her. She was pretending to be annoyed still, but he had amused her, he could tell.

"You're not forgiven, Mulder."

"I'm resigned to that," he said, rolling onto his side, resting his cheek on his arm. He lay in silence like that for a moment, letting the flickering pale light of the television was over him, feeling the faint warmth of Scully's arm near his face. She had closed her eyes.

"Scully."

"Hmm?"

"Does this mean I'm not going to get lucky?"

He didn't see her hand move, but he felt it thudding into his stomach right below the rib cage, pressing the air out of him in one solid whoosh. His knees came up and he reached under the blanket, gasping and grasping for her hand, grabbing it between both of his. She hadn't even opened her eyes.

He felt the tension in her arms for a second and knew she was debating whether or not to pull her hand back, but he threaded his fingers through hers, moving nearer to her side of the bed. He wanted for a second to pull her close, but he settled for drawing her hand near his chest. She would let him have it for awhile, he thought, now that he had obtained it through her own actions.

Maybe she would allow it even for the minutes it would take for him to fall asleep.

"Hey," he heard her say through the lazy fog of sleep that clouded his brain.

"You gonna keep that?" Her fingers moved faintly in his.

He thought he might have said yes, but he did not remember opening his mouth.

*****end*****