*************************************************
JUST SAY YES   (2/10) 
jeylan@earthlink.net  
This story is rated R  -- See part 1 for headers and warnings.
*NO ARCHIVE* except by request.
*************************************************

Scully was sitting stiffly on one end of the couch, clutching the 
Manhattan Justin had put in her hand.  Mulder was down on the 
floor, deep in conversation with Jonathan, and leaning right up 
against the man's knees. 

Jonathan, who apparently lived here in this apartment with 
Laurie, was the literature professor.  He was slender and wiry, 
with short sandy hair, glasses, gentle blue eyes, and a softly 
clear English accent.  He looked rather shy, but when he smiled, 
his smile was infectious.  When Jonathan had first come in the 
door, he had gone directly to Mulder and clasped Mulder's hand 
warmly between his own.  "Serves me right for not checking 
Laurie's messages," Jonathan had said, "I'd have rung you right 
back instantly had I known."  And Mulder had leaned down and 
kissed Jonathan on the cheek.

The two of them had fallen almost at once into a deep and 
impassioned discussion involving ifrits, djinn, and Romantic 
poets.  

"Folkloric beings almost *always* have some phenomenological 
basis," Mulder was saying now, resting his arm on Jonathan's lap.  
"The 'night hag' phenomenon may account for some of these 
reports, but --"

"-- As well as incubi and succubi --"

"-- Right, but a chemical imbalance just can't explain away 
everything we've seen.  Ask Scully, she'll tell you.  If I had to 
guess, I'd say that your poet, there, may have been fighting off 
some real demons.  Well, not demons, exactly, but calling up 
spirits -- ifrits or djinn, at the very least.  A good percentage 
of the world's population will swear to the existence of ifrits, 
you know.  Ifrits, succubi -- almost the same thing."

"Ah, bollocks!  Shelley just got his kicks by telling the girls 
ghost stories, that's all.  Nothing supernatural about it.  I'm 
not having it this time, Fox.  But what I would care to hear is 
your opinion about Shelley's visions at the Gulf of Spezia.  I 
can get you copies of the primary sources, if you wouldn't mind 
having a peek.  It seems that right before he died, Shelley was 
visited several times by *himself.*  One vision of himself walked 
right up to him and asked, 'How long do you mean to be content?'  
Mary records it in her journal.  Now, was Shelley willing himself 
to die, or was this possibly precognitive?" 

Mulder rubbed the edge of his cocktail glass absently against 
Jonathan's knee.  "Either," he said.  "Either one's possible.  It 
could also be some kind of doppelganger phenomenon.  Or ... well, 
there are other possibilities.  Our ifrits again, maybe, although 
offhand I'd have to say that's less likely.  I'd like to look at 
the documentation ..."

Scully's focus glazed over. 

It was weird to watch them talking.  Weird to see the way 
Jonathan took all Mulder's bizarre theories right in stride, yet 
didn't let him get away with anything.  She couldn't remember the 
last time she'd heard Mulder talk with anyone else this way, this 
easily.   This was the way he talked to her in private.  Except 
with her he didn't sit on the floor at her feet, draped over her 
knees.  She would have been burning with jealousy, if she hadn't 
been so perplexed.  

Mulder, while she was watching him, happened to graze his eyes 
over the situation at the other end of Scully's couch.  Scully 
was perfectly aware of that situation.  She'd refrained from 
moving to another seat out of some nebulous feeling that it might 
be ill-mannered to draw attention to it.  No sense in making 
anything more awkward than it already was.  So while she sat 
there frozen, forcing herself to concentrate on what Mulder was 
saying to Jonathan, all the time, right next to her elbow, 
Bradley and Justin were taking turns putting their tongues down 
each other's throats.  

Yes, Scully knew exactly what was going on.  She wasn't blind, 
she was just tactful. 

Mulder, on the other hand, was neither blind nor tactful.  He 
didn't mind looking.  When Mulder happened to look that way, he 
seemed to watch only because it was something to watch.  He 
didn't miss a single beat in his argument about ifrits.  He 
didn't appear surprised.  In fact, he didn't even appear to be 
interested.  He remained totally absorbed in his conversation.
 
Scully couldn't resist stealing a quick peek.  Justin was in 
Bradley's lap, adhered to him like a limpet, and Bradley's hands 
were buried under the cascading waves of Justin's flowing hair.  
They were groping and kissing furiously, making out like kids.  
Which Justin, in fact, was, and Bradley decidedly wasn't.  

In fact, Bradley reminded her of Skinner.  Bald.  Powerful.  With 
intelligence in his eyes, and a neatly starched shirt.  Owner and 
director of a top New York image consulting firm and a small 
modeling agency, Bradley looked like what he was: a successful 
fashion industry mogul.  He was easily the most handsome of the 
men.  (Well, except for Mulder, of course.)  Bradley carried 
himself with an attitude of power that made it clear he *was* 
somebody.  

Looking at Bradley, disquieting memories and weirdly skewed 
images from the past crowded uncomfortably nearer to the surface 
of Scully's awareness.  Shades of her younger self; she shoved 
them fiercely down. <Daniel.>  She dragged her eyes away.  

"...how long do you mean to be content..." she could hear Mulder 
repeating, distantly, while her thoughts slipped back to some 
college party, to the memory of Gary's hands up her skirt, right 
out in public, half getting it on and oblivious to everything 
while everyone else in a dark, dingy room drank too much beer, 
and talked too hiply about whatever it was kids talked about in 
college.  And god, how rebellious she'd felt every time she wore 
that black dress, that lacy black Madonna-wannabe dress.  The one 
her parents hated.  God, that dress!  What a charge that had 
been!  How come all her clothes now just made her feel 
responsible all the time?  

Daniel liked that dress.  <Don't think about Daniel!>  

Scully stared at Mulder sightlessly, and shook her head as if to 
shake the memories away.  There was stuff Mulder never needed to 
find out.  Lots of stuff.  <Randy and Richard!  God, whatever 
happened to Randy and Richard?>  Blinking, she tried to pull 
herself back to the present.
 
Was Justin one of Bradley's models?  She was dying to know.  The 
boy looked like a fragile fairytale prince in the older man's 
arms.  In fact, he looked like the kind of prince who might need 
rescuing, any moment now.  Without her volition, her eyes were 
drawn that way again. 

Bradley, when he'd first walked in the door, had kissed Mulder 
hotly, on the lips.  *And* he'd grabbed his ass.  And all 
Mulder'd done was laugh, and kiss him back. 

Mulder had kissed him back.  And it was hard to keep her mind 
from straying off on that topic, too.  Excruciatingly difficult 
not to speculate as to just *how* different Mulder might have 
been when he was at Oxford.  How intimately did he really know 
these guys?  Her imagination kept running wild, try as she might 
to reign it in. 

Just then, Laurie looked in from the kitchen, taking in the whole 
situation at a glance.  "Dana, sweetie, I wonder if you would 
mind giving me a hand in here?"

"Sure."  Mechanically, Dana Sweetie stood, and followed Laurie 
into the kitchen.  *Dana Sweetie.*  When had she suddenly started 
answering to Dana Sweetie?

But in the kitchen, Laurie put her instantly at ease.

"How about slicing some tomatoes for the salad?" he said.

"OK."  Gratefully, she took the knife in hand.  It was good, 
mindless work.  The results were visible.  The juice ran slimy 
and red.  Laurie was bent over the oven, basting a pan of 
roasting game hens.  The kitchen smelled delicious.  It was a 
friendly, orderly, reassuring kind of place, comforting in the 
way that kitchens are always comforting.  Scully paused in her 
slicing, breathed in deeply, and raised her glass.  The strong 
drink was starting to go to her head.

"Feeling better?" Laurie asked politely.  "You know, Dana, he 
talks about you rather a lot."

"He does?"  She frowned.  She found that hard to believe, 
especially since Laurie persisted in calling her Dana, which was 
a thing Mulder never did.

"Yes, love, he does.  He's called me in London in the wee hours 
of the morning to talk about you."

"He's never mentioned you at all."

"Ouch."  Laurie winced.  "Claws in, please, darling."

"Sorry," Scully muttered.  She didn't know what else to say.

"I have the strong impression that some things this evening are 
coming as rather a shock for you."

"You could say that."

"Would you like to tell me what's on your mind?  I'm a bloody 
good listener," Laurie said.  He was leaning against the counter 
with his arms wrapped around his waist, cradling a scotch on the 
rocks, and watching her with friendly dark eyes.  She liked his 
eyes.  Laurie was a shrink  and a hypnotherapist, Scully 
remembered suddenly.

She looked away from him, and slid the sliced tomatoes into the 
bowl.  Shrugged.  "I have a hard enough time keeping up with his 
*women,*" she said, lightly.

"His women?"  His voice sounded confused.

Scully's heart skipped a beat.  Feeling panicky, she flashed back 
on what Laurie had said earlier on the phone -- 'it's so rare 
that a woman can really turn his head.'  Images of Mulder, 
twining together with muscled men with three-day beards, flashed 
queasily in her mind.  It couldn't be possible.  It just 
*couldn't.*  

Could it?  Mulder'd said in the bar that this was a part of his 
real life he wanted to share with her.  

Suddenly she was nauseous.  

"Whoa, whoa!  Steady there!"  Laurie set down his drink quickly, 
with an icy clatter, and put his hands on her shoulders.  "We are 
definitely not on the same page about something, now let's figure 
out what it is."  He sat her down.  "Why don't you tell me about 
his women."

Mulder's women.  "Tall, beautiful, manipulative," she blurted 
stupidly.  

Laurie sat down beside her, frowning.  "Ah," he said.  "I see."  
He picked up his drink again.  "You've met Phoebe."

Scully's blood went cold.  "You know Phoebe?" she whispered.  Of 
course he must know Phoebe -- they'd all been at Oxford together.

"My dear, we all knew Phoebe, and knew her to our peril.  Phoebe 
made it her business to be known.  I think of us all, Bradley was 
the first to understand her for what she really was."  

"What was she?" 

"Ambitious.  Only ambitious.  She never really loved him, you 
know.  Sweetheart, let me explain something to you about Fox and 
Phoebe.  Fox ..." Laurie's voice halted for a moment, and he 
swirled the ice in his glass.  "Fox, as I think you understand, 
Dana, is one of those people who can be lonely in a crowded room.  
Most people are content to move lightly over the surfaces of 
life, but the Fox isn't.  And that is precisely why we all love 
him."  Laurie was speaking very seriously, now.  His voice 
calming and level, he was looking her right in the eye.

"When Phoebe came into his life, she dipped in deeper than the 
surface.  She was very deliberate about it.  You or I might see 
what she did as a sort of manipulation.  But for Fox -- I think 
he was just glad someone was finally making an effort.  Someone 
was trying to reach into his head, and for a while he enjoyed 
that.  He needed it.  Do you understand?"

Scully bit her lip.

"You mustn't blame him for his youth, Dana.  Nor for being 
lonely.  We all did things we weren't proud of, when we were 
young."  

"Yes," she whispered.

"Good," Laurie patted her knee, and the tone of his voice 
changed.  "Now, who else is on our list of worries?"

Scully made a face.  "Who isn't?" she said dryly.

Laurie laughed out loud.  "Well, there's the crux of the matter!" 
he said.  "Now listen to me, my dear.  Let me tell you something 
else about our Fox.  He likes to growl a lot, and ruffle up his 
fur, but underneath it all he's really a puppy dog, and 
frightfully, annoyingly loyal."

She blinked.  What was *that* supposed to mean?  

"Dana, sweetie, I can't even remember the last time Fox talked 
seriously about *anyone* -- other than you.  Are you listening to 
me, now?"  

She nodded dumbly.  And her eyes flicked involuntarily towards 
the living room.  

Laurie seemed to read her mind.  He grasped her chin gently, and 
made her look at him.  "*We're* no threat to you, you know.  We 
all three of us love him dearly, for all the good it does us.  
That boy is brilliant, and infuriating, and he definitely has his 
finer qualities, but he is, alas, *not* gay.  Much as I, for one, 
would love to reform him.  Now, shall we go out and see what's 
what out there?" 

"All right," she said quietly.

Laurie paused to strike a dramatic pose at the edge of the living 
room.  He clapped his hands briskly.  "May I have your attention, 
gentlemen?  Dinner will be served presently.  Justin, if you 
wouldn't mind putting on some appropriate cocktail music, 
please?"  Justin, glassy-eyed, flush-cheeked, and aroused, 
scrambled up quickly out of Bradley's lap.  "Jonathan, I think 
we're ready for a little aperitif?  Fox, if we might have a word 
with you, please?"  

The room scattered into motion.  Mulder clambered to his feet and 
came over, glancing back and forth between Laurie and Scully, and 
swallowing nervously.  

"Fox, sweetie," Laurie said in a low voice, "I think it would be 
a good idea if you spent a little time right now making the lady 
feel like a lady."  

"Uh," Mulder gaped at her.

Laurie tisked in exasperation, and whispered something in his 
ear.  Mulder blushed.  Laurie swatted him on the ass, pushing him 
towards Scully.

"Laurie says I am to apologize immediately for being a fucking 
asshole," Mulder recited.  Laurie winked at Scully over Mulder's 
shoulder, and turned away.

"Well, he's got that right," Scully muttered under her breath.  
She was squarely face to face with Mulder, but looking at him now 
in a slightly different light.  

Mulder frowned.  "Scully, uh, you do understand that these guys 
are just my *friends,* right?  I mean ..."  He swallowed again, 
and his eyes drifted over her face.  There was something soft and 
vulnerable, something almost like longing in the way he looked at 
her.  It surprised her.  

"It's OK, Mulder," she said more softly.  "I've had gay friends 
myself."

"Gay women friends?"  His voice rose hopefully.

"No, you idiot!  Gay *male* friends."

"Oh."

Just then the lights went down.  Bradley had been busy lighting 
candles, and some drifty, New-Agey music started up on the 
stereo.  The mood of the room shifted like quicksilver.  Jonathan 
came up at Mulder's side, grabbed his head and pulled him down to 
whisper in his ear.  Mulder's face went blank.  "I ... don't 
know," he said out loud.  "I *think* she'd be OK with it."  He 
looked curiously at Scully.  "That's another thing we never talk 
about," he said.  

"Well, why don't you ask her, Fox?" Jonathan said.  And for some 
reason he, too, just as Laurie had done, winked at Scully past 
Mulder's shoulder.

"Ah."  Mulder kept looking at her.  "Ah," he said.

"Spit it out, Mulder."

"Ah, you wouldn't have any objection to, ah, smoking a little 
pot, would you?"

"*What?*"  Her voice squeaked.

A goofy smile began to spread across Mulder's face.  He closed 
the distance between them, looped an arm behind her the back of 
her neck, and tipped his head close to hers.  "Come on, Scully, 
what'd'ya say?  When's the last time you smoked, huh?  It'll be 
*fun.*  Jonathan says it's good stuff."

"I can't believe you're saying this!"  She tried feebly to push 
him away.  "What makes you think I *ever* smoked, Mulder?"

"Oh, come on, Scully, don't get all prissy on me.  I *know* you 
smoked."

"*How* do you know that?"

"I just *know.*  I know *you.*  I also know you'll enjoy yourself 
tonight, once you let your hair down."  She realized with a shock 
that he was toying with her hair as he spoke.  "Come on," he 
wheedled.  "Don't make this weird."

"This is already weird, Mulder."

His eyes flashed.  "These are my friends, Scully.  Please 
remember that.  And if we weren't FBI nobody'd think twice about 
a little weed, certainly not me.  We're all waiting on *you*, 
Scully, 'cause these guys want to trust you because you're my 
friend.  But you're still FBI."  He was holding her by the hair, 
now, speaking very low, and pinning her with his eyes.  There was 
heat in his eyes.  

Scully's stomach did that sickening, dropping, vertigo thing it 
always did whenever she felt herself on the verge of rushing off 
after Mulder into some insane, ill-conceived adventure that might 
cost her her life, or her badge.  It was, as it always was, a 
giddy sort of feeling.  A kind of rush.

His eyes were still searching hers, hotly, making her wish to say 
yes, but she took her time answering.  Across the room, the 
others were all milling around, sipping wine, and trying not to 
be conspicuous about stealing glances at the two FBI agents, who 
must seem to be conferring very seriously.

"Shit, I mean, if you really want to go -- I mean, you *don't* 
want to go, I *know* you don't.  *Do you?*  But if you'd rather 
just wait outside or something..."  Mulder was mumbling, talking 
very fast.

"You actually want to do this?" 

"God, yes."  Mulder breathed out.  "Right now, I can't think of 
anything better than getting stoned out of my mind.  Are you with 
me?  Or not."  He kept looking her right in the eye.  "Come on, 
Scully -- say yes."

"OK."  She heard herself, and almost jumped.  "I'm with you." 

Mulder grinned, and kissed her on the nose.  "Come on," he said.  
And he pulled her over towards the group.

Looking to Mulder for approval, one by one everyone found a place 
to sit on the floor, around the candlelit coffee table.  Jonathan 
took a paper bag out from under the couch.  Mulder pulled Scully 
to the floor beside him.  He was holding her hand, for some 
reason, and he didn't let go.  

Scully looked around at all the faces, shyly.  Feeling like she 
had just stepped back in time.  When *was* the last time ...?

Jonathan was pinching bud out of a plastic baggie, and tamping it 
down into the bowl of a little brass pipe.  Laurie, who was 
sitting next to Scully on the floor, had set out wine glasses, 
and was pouring red wine.  He handed her the first glass.  "So, 
Dana," he said as he poured, "Fox tells me that you're reading 
Joseph Campbell ..."

"Uh, yeah," she said, blankly.  Why the hell was Mulder telling 
Laurie a thing like that?  And then it suddenly hit her, and it 
was so obvious she felt stupid for not having figured it out 
before:  Mulder must call her 'Dana' when he was talking with his 
friends.  What a weird thought.  Why would he do that?

"Are you enjoying it?  It's rather a reach from the hard 
sciences, I know, but it *is* such fascinating stuff."

"No, no, I like it.  I spent too much time in school reading 
medical texts.  I think I missed a lot."  

Laurie smiled a very warm smile.  "Fox'll be happy to catch you 
up, I'm sure.  So where did you start with Campbell?  'Hero with 
a Thousand Faces'?"

"Cheers!" Jonathan said, lifting the pipe and lighting it.  He 
drew air through the pipe, and the contents of the bowl glowed.  
Then he passed it on to Mulder.  Fascinated, Scully forgot what 
Laurie was saying.  All she could see was the reflected glow on 
Mulder's face as he lifted the pot pipe, and touched it to his 
lips.  Catching her eye, he inhaled deeply, dragging the smoke 
down deep into his lungs, and holding it.  Then he offered it to 
her. 

She took the pipe from his hand, bemused, catching a whiff of the 
enticing, pungent, sweet smell of it.  Mulder was watching her.  
She raised the pipe, put her lips against it.  Hesitated.  And 
then sucked, tentatively.  The smoke tasted sweet.  She'd 
forgotten how good it tasted. 

Mulder was still holding his breath, still watching.  She'd been 
planning to just take one little puff, just to be polite, but she 
couldn't do it half way -- not with him staring at her.  
Defiantly, she inhaled a little deeper, careful to take it slow, 
and not to cough.  A good hard hit.  She held it, and passed the 
pipe to Laurie.  Mulder smiled.  He let out his breath in a slow 
sigh.  Not much smoke came out.  

Scully tipped her head back, breathed in a little through her 
nose, and waited.  She could feel her blood tingling in her 
throat, her chest.  Christ, this stuff was strong.  She let out 
her breath, and reached for the wine glass in front of her.   

*************************************************


They ate incredible food by candlelight, laughing and clicking 
wine glasses, and pulling apart the orange basted game hens with 
their fingers, and then licking their fingers.  Jonathan had 
insisted that all the "couples" be split up, so Scully found 
herself between Bradley and Jonathan.  Mulder, diagonally across, 
was deeply engrossed in a discussion with Laurie, who sat at the 
head. 

She never remembered seeing Mulder more animated.

"But if that's true, then it should also be possible --"

"Yes, yes, of course it's possible!  And if so, then -- "

While she tried to keep up a polite conversation with Jonathan, 
who was asking her about the X-files, Mulder and Laurie were 
interrupting each other in their excitement, talking with their 
mouths full, finishing each other's sentences.  It seemed Laurie 
had spent the last two weeks visiting some colleagues in a dream 
research center in Atlanta, and was bubbling over with all the 
latest information. 

Whenever Scully could get her mind off her food, which wasn't 
very easy, she found herself staring at Mulder, wondering who the 
hell he was, and why she'd never seen him like this.  He was on, 
on, on, burning.  

"-- you're talking about directed dreaming!  My god, Laurie!  
What did you find out?"

Jonathan's voice in her other ear said, "It must be challenging 
work.  I know Fox feels very fortunate to have you for a 
partner."

"Uhmph ..." she said noncommittally, sucking a delicious bit of 
sweet-salty sticky stuff off the inside edge of her thumb.  

"I think *she's* lucky to have the Fox for a partner," Bradley 
announced loudly.  He had stopped eating, and was staring across 
the table at Mulder with a predatory gleam in his eye.  Or was 
she imagining that?  Mulder, oblivious, his flashing eyes locked 
with Laurie's, looked flushed, radiant, compellingly handsome.  
"How do you keep your hands off him, Dana?" Bradley asked, and 
then he turned to face her.  His eyes were grey, and piercing.  
"More to the point, *why* do you keep your hands off him?"

"I -- I --"  She realized she was probably blushing, but she had 
no idea at all what to say.  

Jonathan rescued her.  "Bradley: behave!"

"I'll think about it," Bradley replied calmly.

Scully reached for her wine.  

Dinner was almost over, and everyone at the table was listening 
to Mulder tell an anecdote about a particularly irritating local 
police chief at a paranormal crime scene.  "And then Dana just 
walked right up to the guy -- I mean, this guy must have weighed 
at least 250 - and she just stood right up to him and said, 
'Captain, would you mind waiting outside please?  That is, unless 
you're willing to risk tracking home ectoplasm.  Nasty stuff, you 
know, ectoplasm.  I don't think your wife would appreciate it all 
over her clean carpet.'"  Mulder quoted her in his best deadpan 
voice, and then started to smirk.  "You should have seen the 
guy's face." 

"Ectoplasm?" Justin blurted.  "Is that stuff real?"  

Everyone started laughing, except Bradley.  Mulder put down his 
last game hen bone, and raised his sticky fingers towards his 
mouth, wagging his eyebrows.

Bradley was staring openly at Mulder.  Without warning, he 
reached right out across the table and grabbed hold of Mulder's 
wrist.  Then, very deliberately he pulled Mulder's hand towards 
him, and *Bradley* licked Mulder's fingers.  

Scully was electrified, horrified.  She felt a shock run right 
down to her toes, and an acute sense of not belonging. 

Mulder just laughed.  So did Justin and Laurie.  But for Scully 
it was as if Bradley had picked her up by force, and dumped her 
bodily outside of Mulder's real life.  And at that moment, all 
the things Laurie had tried to tell her were no consolation. 

"Cheeky little sod!" Jonathan said loudly, and draped his arm 
around the back of Scully's chair.  "Bradley's mum never taught 
him table manners," he explained to Scully in a stage whisper. 

Scully gulped, and tried to remember to breathe.


*************************************************
... end of part 2