Title: Tyson Fight Author: XRie Contents: MSRish Rating: PG Summary: Fluffy like popcorn, but not sappy like that red, candied popcorn stuff. Mulder coaxes Scully into watching the Tyson fight with him and the Lone Gunmen. They talk about trivial things and flirt. Mulder wears a black t-shirt, and Scully thinks about Tennyson and brussels sprouts. Stuff like that. Disclaimer: They are not mine. I'm just airing them out for freshness. Don't sue. Feedback: Confessions of a feedback junky: LOVE IT, LOVE IT, LOVE IT!! Send it to x_rie@hotmail.com. Notes: After writing two serious fanfics, I started to wonder if I was even capable of coming up with anything that didn't contain trauma or stream-of- consciousness dream sequences. So this story is the result of a little personal experiment. And for anyone who doesn't know, the last time they boxed, Mike Tyson bit off Evander Holyfield's ear. ********************* Tyson Fight ********************* " ... no appreciation of the technical aspects. You just want to see someone's ear get chewed off again." That comment got Scully's attention. She looked up from her expense report to where Mulder sat at his desk, feet up, smiling into the telephone. "... not making any bets," he continued. "Last time, you didn't pay up." A pause, a chuckle. "Alright. Eight o'clock." He hung up the phone and saw her watching him, noted her curious expression. "That was Langly," he responded to her silent query. "The latest Tyson/Holyfield fight is on Pay- Per-View tonight, and," he stretched his arms above his head, cracking his shoulders, "since I happen to know a couple of guys with a lot of experience in the fine art of obtaining free cable ..." She blinked, looked at him stone-faced. "*Boxing*, Mulder?" "Yeah, and I've just been informed that since they're providing the entertainment, I'm footing the bill for the ..." He stopped midsentence, dropping his feet heavily to the floor and staring at her in feigned disbelief. "Scully! Are you suggesting that you don't appreciate the beauty of the great sport that is boxing??" She decided to go with him on this one. The expense report was mindnumbing anyways. She kept her voice flat, sarcastic, turning her attention back to her work as though dismissing his comment. "Hmm. Let's see. Two guys beating each other until one of them is too wasted to stay on his feet. That sounds real ... uh ... beautiful, Mulder. Really." Mock sincerity. He was hooked. He stood and slinked over to her desk, spreading his fingers firmly over the report to disrupt her work. She looked up in time to see a leer spread mischievously across his face. "Yeah. And sometimes these really hot chicks in bikinis and stiletto heels prance around the ring holding up signs ..." His face fell to its normal expression. "Seriously, Scully. Have you ever *seen* a boxing match?" She looked up at him, blinked twice, expression neutral. "I saw Rocky." "Scu-lly. That was a *movie*. The blood on Stallone's face was fake! Make-up." This he said as though announcing a revelation. "You haven't truly lived until you've experienced the real thing." She sighed, crossing her arms in front of her chest and leaning back in her chair. "What *is* it with men and violence? And you, Mulder ... I always thought you were more of a ... Keats and Tennyson kind of guy." "Violence?? Boxing is *poetic*. Every movement powerful ... yet ... graceful." He performed what resembled something of a shadow-boxing semi-twirl in front of her desk. "Nimbly, they lunge. Quickly, they strike. And, like the great Ulysses, vanquish their foe." He waved his hands fluidly in the air as if searching for his muse. "Beauty is boxing, boxing beauty; that is all ye know on earth --" "Quit it, Mulder." She smiled in spite of herself, laughing at his romanticism in response to her challenge. He basked in her laughter for a moment, a goofy grin pasted across his face. "You should come tonight," he added as soon as silence had settled between them. Her smile faded, her eyes flickered down to her desk. "Oh. No, Mulder." "Come on. It'll be fun. A true awakening of your highest ideals and human desires." She fidgeted with her pen. "Free pizza." He paused, cleared his throat. "Charming company ..." Her face softened, giving him hope that one further tactic might do the trick. "Tell you what, Scully." He dropped his chin to his chest, bit his lower lip, and began to trace small circles over the expense report with his finger. "You come tonight ... and I'll finish this report." He looked at her seductively with this last phrase. A smile teased the corners of her mouth. "Now, *that* is an offer I can't refuse. That and the charming company.'" "We won't tell Frohicke," he responded conspiratorially. "See how he reacts." "I was talking about Frohicke ..." ********************** ********************** 7:03 p.m. Scully's apartment Mulder looked her up and down and shook his head in dismay. "What?" she asked defensively, hand still resting on the doorknob. "Them's not boxin' clothes, Scully." She glanced down at her suit pants and untucked blouse and shrugged, not caring a bit about her attire. "I didn't have time to change. The lines were long at the grocery store, and my mom called the second I walked in the door. Mom radar," she added as she reached to grab her coat. His hand intercepted her elbow before she could reach the coat rack. He looked down at her solemnly. "Scully, you have to change." "Why? So I can impress Frohicke?" "Scully," he began patiently as though talking to a struggling student, "watching boxing is all about atmosphere." "Atmosphere." "Yes. Atmosphere." Still holding her elbow gently, he guided her away from the coat rack and back towards the couch, shutting the door behind him. Scully only fought him enough to perform her role well. If Mulder wanted to be playful, she could play--and love every minute of it. She could especially rise to the occasion in their cat-and- mouse games of exasperation. She crossed her arms and shot him a fully-raised eyebrow: his cue to explain himself. "You see, if someone shows up wearing something like ... like *that* ..." He waved his hands in her direction. "I dunno, it just kind of ... ruins things." "Mm-hm. And what does one wear so as not to ruin things'?" He pinched his lower lip as if deep in thought. "Jeans. Definitely. And maybe a ... t-shirt." He paused, thinking harder. "But a long sleeve t- shirt, of course, because it is, after all, November. Maybe a green one. With a real small v- neck thingy ...?" He mimed a v-neck on his chest. "Mulder, have you been going through my closet?" He threw her an almost sheepish grin that still managed to reveal nothing. "Is there anything else I should know about this boxing dresscode? Footwear?" "Tennis shoes; it has to be tennis shoes." He bounced a little, rolled his shoulders, threw a punch at the air. "They allow for mobility." "Guess I'll need that to dodge Frohicke, huh. Give me ... ten minutes." Mulder plopped down on the couch as Scully made her way to the bedroom and shut the door behind her. He took in the familiar surroundings--the pictures, the lamps, the potpourri--and sighed contentedly. Leaning sideways, he buried his face in her couch pillow and inhaled deeply. Mmm. Smelled like Scully Shampoo. A proud smile tugged at his lips; she had been napping on the couch again. He was really rubbing off on her. After enjoying one more deep inhalation of Scully- scent, Mulder laid his head back, content to stare blankly at the ceiling for what seemed like an eternity before she returned to do a slow and exaggerated 360 in front of him. He savored the opportunity of glancing without reserve up and down the body of this new-and-improved Casual Scully. Made to order. But not a cookie-cutter sort of made to order. Handbuilt to his exact specifications, complete with a stubborn will and an ice-cool eye that he couldn't really put a finger on ... "Do I pass?" Mulder fought the urge to tell her the truth--that he had rarely seen her look more beautiful. The lighthearted approach had served him well thus far, so he continued in that vein. "I give you my Inspector 12 stamp of approval." "Good," she stated, accepting his outstretched hand and pulling him up off the couch. "Let's get out of here." He helped her on with her jacket but let her open the door. Scully didn't like *too* much chivalry. "We better hurry," he said glancing at his watch. "Don't want to miss all the fun stuff at the beginning of the broadcast." Mulder's conversation rattled on amiably as they made their way down the hall. "We gotta stop on the way and pick up the pizza. I would've done that before showing up here, but I *assumed* I would be forced to enlighten you on the finer points of boxingwear, and I didn't want the cheese to get all gummy ..." ********************** ********************** 8:12 p.m. Lair of the Lone Gunmen Scully heard the familiar slide and click of seven bolts turning before Langly's face peeked out from behind the door like a myopic turtle. "Mulder. Scully," he greeted them in his familiar monotone staccato. "You're late." Byers came up unassumingly and closed the heavy door, sliding each lock back into place before turning to Scully and offering to take her coat. Scully made a mental note that the boxing dresscode' obviously didn't apply to him: he was neatly dressed in his usual suit-and-tie ensemble, hair and beard impeccable. The same could not be said of her partner. Mulder's hair was as unkempt as ever, and a faint dusting of stubble had begun to appear on his cheeks. His jeans were fraying and faded, and his black t-shirt had probably been used as pajamas sometime in the last week. In short: he looked wonderful. "Yeah, sorry, we got hung up in traffic," Mulder explained, setting three boxes of pizza on the coffee table before tossing his leather jacket in Byers' general direction. "Where's Frohicke?" Langly pushed his glasses back up his nose before answering. "He saw Agent Scully on our early-alert detection system and headed to the bathroom to freshen up.' Made us stall for a minute." As if on cue, the subject of their conversation walked into the room. His hair was slicked freshly back, his cheeks were smooth, and he reeked of aftershave. Frohicke ignored Mulder and walked suavely up to his redheaded partner. "Agent Scully. A pleasure to meet with you in this informal setting. Since this *is* a social occasion, may I call you ... Dana?" "Scully's fine, thanks," she replied with equal smoothness. Mulder came up behind Frohicke and clapped his hand onto his friend's shoulder. "Nice try, *Melvin.*" Langly was impatient with the social formalities. "Let's break this pizza open and get started," he intoned nasally. "We're going to miss the best part." Mulder led Scully to the small couch in the corner, leaving the Gunmen to fend for themselves among the La-Z-Boys and bean bag chairs. Frohicke looked as though he wished he had reserved the loveseat for himself but realized he would have had to concede it to his tall friend in any case. Mulder stretched his arm out along the back of the couch and nodded towards the bigscreen TV appreciatively. "Nice system." Langly craned his head around from where he sat on his beanbag chair. "We just got it. It's the latest in digital technology." "And then we tweaked it a little," Frohicke added. Scully looked above and around her at the multitude of speakers set up in the room. Watching a fight with the Lone Gunmen might be something like attending a rock concert. She was proven correct a second later when a booming voice vibrated forth from the speakers. Onscreen, a man in a sequined jacket stood in the center of the ring, introducing the contenders with a little more gusto than Scully felt the occasion deserved. But the names he announced were something like Smith and Grayson. "I thought we were watching the Tyson/Holyfield fight." "A fine detail of boxing match protocol," Byers explained. "There are always preliminary fights. Perhaps just to give the audience their money's worth in case a title fighter gets KO'd in the first round." Scully braced herself to watch more than the one fight she had expected. She was a little surprised when two women met in the middle of the ring and pounded their gloves together while the referee raised his hand. "I thought the only women in the ring would be the ones in bikinis parading around with signs." "Not a fan of female fist fights, Scully?" Frohicke asked. "Scully's more of a Sig Sauer type girl," Mulder pretended to explain. "She's not into hand-to-hand combat." "Mulder, you know me so little," she said, grabbing a piece of veggie pizza and taking a large bite. He turned his full attention to her, his interest piqued. "So you have engaged in hand-to-hand combat? FBI training, mutants, and psychopaths don't count." "Nm," she grunted, waving him off as she chewed her food and reached for a napkin. "C'mon, Scully. Tell all. You can't leave us hanging." Frohicke nodded in agreement with Mulder's demand. Byers' and Langly's attention remained rivetted to the brawling women on the TV screen. "I got in a few scrapes as a kid," she said, swallowing. "No big deal. There *was* one time though ..." Mulder leaned towards her, encouraging. "Third grade. A boy in my class. Timmy. Timmy Jorgensen was his name. His dad was an admiral, so he thought he was pretty hot stuff." She paused, took a small bite of pizza, chewed. "Anyways ... one day I heard him say something insulting about my sister, Melissa. She was in sixth grade and had ... developed a little faster than some of the girls her age." She indicated what she meant in front of her chest. "I tackled him from behind and had given him a bloody nose before he even knew what hit him." Mulder looked at her with laughter and admiration shining in his eyes and shook his head. "Our Scully ... brawling in the playground." "Oh, no. It wasn't the playground. It was in the library. During reading hour." Frohicke's mouth dropped open a little. "And ...?" he probed. "And ... nothing. The librarian ran over and tried to drag me off of him, but she was old and mousy, and I wouldn't let go. I gave Timmy a black eye and pulled out some of his hair before they were able to pry me away. Kicking and screaming, of course." Mulder was impressed. "I, of all people, know you're tough, Scully, but ... *damn*." "I grew up with brothers. What about you, Mulder? Any playground exploits?" He chuckled. "I received more thrashings than I gave. Was popular with the girls though." "Well, I think the lovely Agent Scully deserves induction into Melvin's Amateur Kick-Butt Prizefighting Society," Frohicke announced with as much flourish as he was capable of. He stood and headed purposefully toward the refrigerator. "I've never heard of that one," Scully whispered to Mulder, leaning close. He looked at her solemnly. "It's ... very exclusive." Frohicke returned, a six-pack in one hand, his left arm hidden behind his back. She looked at him as if doubting his sanity. "Miller." "Miller is boxing beer. None of those high-falutin' brews would do. And plus," he waggled his eyebrows at her and produced a bottle from behind his back, "I brought you something special." Frohicke waved it in front of her proudly. "Miller Lite." Scully smiled appreciatively. Popping the cap off and taking a swig, she shrugged. "Tastes okay ..." "Less filling." Mulder finished, patting her on the stomach. "Or maybe that was Bud. I can't remember these things." She rolled her eyes--certain he could remember every corny detail of every corny commercial he had ever seen--and turned her attention back to the TV screen. "Mulder, your jokes are almost as bad as my dad's." "Ahab a bad joke-teller?" "The worst," she said with a fond smile, TV light reflecting in her eyes. "The very worst." ********************** ********************** 10:44 p.m. Scully gave up on stifling her yawn and let it out in all its glory, balling her hands into fists and twisting her arms luxuriously in front of her. It was still beyond her comprehension how men could enjoy watching other men bloody each other's faces, but the value of this evening's entertainment was not lost on her. After all, as Mulder had pointed out, boxing was something everyone had to experience at least once. Like liver and onions, or maybe brussels sprouts. More importantly, the evening had allowed her to catch a glimpse of a happy and lighthearted Mulder. Not that such moments never occurred, but they were rare enough to be treasured. She tilted her head and watched the play of light and emotion across his face. He would inhale sharply and pucker his lips in pain whenever blood and saliva sprayed from a boxer's mouth. He was leaning forward intently, eyes glued to the screen, elbows leaving his knees only to mimic a quick uppercut in appreciation for a solid Holyfield hit. Mulder was rooting for Holyfield. "He needs revenge for the ear," he had confided earlier. Langly said something amusing about the fight, and Mulder laughed. An actual throw-your-head-back kind of laugh that afforded Scully a delicious view of teeth and tendon and Adam's apple jutting perfectly out of his throat. He felt her gaze and cast a momentary grin in her direction before turning his attention back to the TV. She sighed contentedly and kicked her shoes off, pulling her feet up under her and laying her head on the arm of the couch. Maybe they should watch boxing more often ... ********************** ********************** 12:02 a.m. Mulder stretched both arms above his head, popping his knuckles and releasing a satisfied yawn. The TV was still on--some infomercial hawking a bionic fruit slicer--but the sound was muted. The screen cast a flickering blue glow throughout the room. Langly had headed to bed; Byers was shuffling around throwing away pizza boxes and beer cans; Frohicke sat with his feet propped up in the recliner across from him. And Scully was breathing softly on the couch beside him, one stockinged foot pushed under his thigh for warmth. The scene was peaceful. Normal. So normal as to strike him as completely abnormal. He loved it. Mulder turned his complete attention back to what had occupied him and Frohicke for the previous 20 minutes: he rested his head against the couch cushion and watched his partner sleep. She was curled up in the fetal position, one hand hanging limply off the couch, the other curled in a fist near her cheek. Seeing her lips parted, face unguarded, chest rising and falling rhythmically, he could almost believe that she had at one time been a third-grader. Sometimes it seemed they had been old and wise forever. But here, she was ... a woman. Young, intelligent, caring. Dana Scully. She was perfect; living, breathing, jean-clad, encapsulated perfection. He wanted to reach out and touch her face, just in the hope that some of it might rub off on him. What was it he had quipped to her earlier? "A true awakening of your highest ideals and human desires ..." he murmured under his breath. It was true: he felt civilized, more human in her presence. Even Frohicke had softened, void of all his perverted playfulness. "Beats the hell outta watching boxing, doesn't it?" "Yeah," Mulder replied softly. "Yeah, it does." ********************** The End. ********************** A few years ago, my brother dragged me along to watch the Tyson/Holyfield fight (not the "ear" fight) on Pay-Per-View with a bunch of guys. Have to admit: I loved it. I was more brutal than all the guys there. We can't always be civilized. Of course, I'll probably never watch boxing again. Oh well.