The Advantages of Button-front Shirts by 
Addicted2fanfic@hotmail.com
TITLE: The Advantages of Button-front Shirts 
AUTHOR: Addicted2fanfic
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: Sein Und Zeit
CLASSIFICATION: V
SUMMARY: c 
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, never were.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to Mish for her encouragement on this 
first posting.
Scully POV


When I was recovering from being shot by Peyton Ritter, these 
button front 
shirts were a godsend. The scar tissue just didn't like an 
additional layer of fabric. Waistbands were bad enough. Having 
a shirt or blouse in addition was too much. Leaving the blouse 
untucked, keeps fabric from rubbing. Comfort is more important 
than impressing some FBI bigwig. No need to dress to impress I 
think wryly. My reputation is made, for better or worse. I have 
the good opinion of those who matter, and I don't give a damn 
what the rest think. Those that know my work know who I am. A 
shirt or blouse isn't going to make any difference. Besides, if 
shirts are good enough for the male agents, why shouldn't they 
be good enough for the female? Of course, I smile to myself; I 
don't have to wear a tie.
 
And, my conscience reminded me; there is another reason for 
wearing these 
shirts. Leaving the shirt untucked is more comfortable for me 
and has certain 
other advantages. Leaving a few top buttons unbuttoned usually 
gets any male's attention more effectively than shouting. It 
also distracts Mulder. Sometimes this is a good thing. After 
this week he needs to be distracted. Get his mind on something 
besides the Amber Lynn's disappearance and the fact that his 
mother is gone in body, as she had been emotionally most of his 
life.

This is our fifth transcontinental flight. I need to catch up 
on some sleep. 
Mulder had snagged the two seats together for us, leaving 
Skinner to sit with 
strangers in the row in front of us. Good move Agent Mulder, my 
look 
congratulates him. Taking the blanket and pillow he hands me, I 
take off my 
jacket and cover my legs with it, using the blanket to cover my 
upper body. I 
scrunch the pillow between my neck and head and turn toward the 
window. (Mulder has the aisle seat of course.) As I curl around 
the pillow and make sure the blanket is properly draped, Mulder 
raises the armrest between us, allowing him to slip his hand 
under the blanket and under my shirt and finally rests it skin 
to skin. I can almost hear and feel his sigh of relief.

I accept that he needs to touch me, to connect this way in 
order to hold himself together after the shocks of this week. 
With luck, he may even fall asleep. I know he needs to rest, to 
turn off, or at least slow down, his overactive mind, his over 
taxed emotions. I wish it were over. I wish just once we could 
find some answers. Wonder what we will find going through his 
mother's house. Why did she burn the photos? Odd, but no odder 
than her behavior towards Mulder over the years. Mulder is 
moving his fingers against my back, careful not to tickle but 
rather to soothe himself with repetitive stroking and circling. 
His gentle rubbing in the limited space is something I too find 
soothing. I feel like purring. Gradually his hand works its way 
between me and the seat back, around my side. His fingers curve 
to my front, to my stomach, tracing the scar from Ritter's 
bullet. The nerves there haven't grown back yet. It's a strange 
feeling, or rather lack of feeling. I can feel when he touches 
the edges of the scar, but not the middle. I may never regain 
sensation in the scar tissue itself. 

While I close my eyes and feign sleep, Mulder is kneading my 
soft stomach 
skin the way a cat kneads a favorite blanket. He has dropped a 
file folder where his arm goes under the blanket, circumspect 
for my sake, for my reputation. His fingertips gently massage 
the same area over and over, then move to a new spot, and 
repeat their gentle touch. I sigh, and relax, and hum to 
myself. At least I hope my humming isn't audible. Skinner is 
right in front of us. Bless him for not asking questions or 
requiring any briefing updates now.

Skinner, now there is a mystery. Mulder trusts him more than I 
do. 
I know Skinner has a special regard for me, but I have never 
quite figured
out if it is the appreciation for a competent dedicated agent, 
or something 
personal. I find it hard to imagine Skinner in a personal 
context. Maybe because as my boss he is an authority figure, 
like Ahab? I think highly of Mulder, but it's not the same. I 
know Mulder's faults (and they are many) and his demons, and he 
knows mine. Mulder treats me as an equal, despite his Senior 
Agent status. We both report to Skinner and Skinner feels 
responsible for us, just as my father felt responsible for the 
men under him and for me. I can understand that. Sometimes, in 
Skinner's eyes, in the hoarseness of his voice, in the softness 
of his concern I hear something else. I just can't quite grasp 
what it is. Or maybe I can, but prefer not to name it.

Mulder's fingers have stopped. Checking the window I can see 
his
reflection, head thrown back, resting on the seat, eyes closed. 
Good. I hope he is really resting, not torturing himself with 
what ifs, if onlys and might have beens. The muscles of his 
hand seem lax against my skin, touching, but not pressing, not 
moving at all. Good. This is the best I can hope for. Yes, 
button front untucked shirts have their advantages. And Mulder 
knows exactly what they are.