TITLE: Low Profile 

AUTHOR: mountainphile

RATING: PG-13, to be safe

CATEGORY: M/S friendship, flavored with Vince Gilligan's 

tweaked sense of humor and a heavy dollop of UST

FEEDBACK: mountainphile@yahoo.com

URL: http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile



SPOILERS: "Bad Blood," primarily.  This is my take on what 

Mulder and Scully's conversation might've sounded like in the 

deserted RV camp near the episode's end.  How else to explain 

that jittery last scene in Skinner's office? ;) If this isn't 

quite your usual brand of tea, blame VG's dastardly 

influence.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: A distinctive blend of worthy opinion from 

Diana Battis, Forte, and David Stoddard-Hunt.  Thank you all!



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



Groggy with sleep, Mulder opens his eyes to dawn's early 

light in Cheney, Texas.  



Like a bum after a binge, he cranes his neck to see that his 

shoes rest in stark relief against the sky, splayed out the 

car window.  With movement, the toes of his cold feet begin 

to tingle and itch, shoelaces dangling limp as fishing line 

in the breezeless air.  



Memory stirs, rousing his senses.  Only when Scully looms 

into view, a long black duster draped over her shoulders, 

does he jerk fully awake.



His first panicked impulse is to feel his neck for teeth 

marks.  Then he checks Scully's after scrambling from the 

car, an examination to which she gamely obliges him by 

lolling her head from side-to-side.  Satisfied for the time 

being that they're both unscathed, he turns and stands 

transfixed at the sight of the abandoned RV camp.  



Everything gone, nada, vamoosed -- his jacket now a dry 

cleaner's nightmare, his car the sole vehicle remaining after 

a night of abject terror.



Scully, too, is bedraggled, but cute as all get-out in the 

big coat.  The sheriff's, he guesses from the badge, with 

sudden sober realization.  She'll explain in her own time, 

though for now he feels a dull jab of regret.  



Her hair looks rough, yesterday's makeup smudged; leaning in 

to examine her neck, he finds that her morning breath is 

surprisingly neutral, much more acceptable than his own.  Or 

even Hartwell's.  



Which reminds him: does he really want to know the aftermath 

of the rendezvous he engineered last night?  



"I came to in the cemetery," she says, a vacant expression on 

her face. "That's all I know."



"They pulled up stakes."



Predictably, she ignores his lame stab at humor.  "So I 

gather.  What happened here, Mulder?" 



With aching knees and toes screaming from renewed blood flow, 

he launches into his tale of last night's events.  How he'd 

left her in the company of the sheriff after the lightning 

bolt of inspiration struck.  Poking through the RV camp, he'd 

found pizza boy Ronnie Strickland tucked away for the night 

and rocking out to CDs in his own cushy casket.  



He relates how Ronnie refused his Miranda rights, fighting 

back with super-human, demonic strength, green eyes blazing.  

How the ghostly residents of the Rolling Acres RV Camp 

engulfed Mulder en masse in the growing darkness, like a 

perverse remake of the movie "Night Of The Living Dead."



How, in sheer desperation and thinking on his feet, he'd 

slapped together a makeshift cross of breadstick loaves.  

Garlic loaves, too, by the smell.  Curious, he sniffs his 

palms and fingers for confirmation.



"It didn't work, Scully.  None of the classic deterrents 

did."  



"Well, what did you expect?  We'd already discovered Ronnie 

Strickland's so-called fangs were detachable.  Did you really 

think they'd all hide their eyes, squeak, and flutter away 

into the night?"



"I expected a little more bang for my buck, yeah," he 

mutters, retying his shoelaces.



"Apparently you have Bram Stoker to thank for that.  

Remember?"  



They climb into the rented car, sitting motionless as they 

view the area one last time.  A bird twitters, and Mulder 

directs a potent glance toward his partner.  "See, *now* we 

hear them since the party's moved on.  Definitive proof."



Her droll expression tells him she repudiates any 

implication, supernatural or otherwise.  "Wintering birds 

aren't out of the norm in Texas, despite what Hartwell 

claimed," she says, "so don't push it."



Starting the ignition, he laps his seatbelt and rolls up the 

window on the driver's side.  Scully shivers in the oversized 

coat, reacting to more than just the cold.  Pondering her 

thumbs in an absent way, she sighs and then looks out toward 

the rutted devastation of the empty campground.



Something stops him from sliding right over to slip an 

affectionate, protective arm around her.  The same feeling 

tells him she wouldn't receive it as he intended anyway.



He admits he'd been less than exuberant over her doe-eyed 

admiration for Cheney's Finest over the last few days.  

Knowing it was juvenile to vie for her attention and anxious 

to pursue his brainstorm unencumbered, he'd gifted Scully 

some innocent time alone with the sheriff.  



Magnanimous as hell, considering the new and sensual turn his 

feelings for her have taken of late.



Active and unseen, his thoughts remind him of winter sap 

pumping through a tree's veins.  Hiding under the surface, 

secretive, waiting, phallic.  Keeping the trunk fed and 

viable until the right season for it to leaf and bloom.  

Except he's not an oak tree and springtime seems a long way 

off. 



And now he feels like the king of all saps.  



Everything considered, he was negligent not to have watched 

Scully's back better than that while he raced off to hunt 

down Ronnie Strickland without a plan or adequate 

reinforcement.

  

"Hey," he says with new gentleness, sensing something else 

amiss.  "You said you came to in the cemetery.  My guess is 

Hartwell slipped you a Mickey, too, and vanished."



Scully gives a succinct nod, shifting in the dark coat 

uncomfortably.  Her chin juts.  "You wanna hear *my* story 

now, I suppose?"



"Contingent on the rating, I'm all ears."



Her defensiveness fades and she pauses.  "Mulder, when you 

woke up this morning, was... well, was anything on your 

person disturbed other than the untied shoelaces?"



"My favorite leather jacket's shot to hell and my dignity's 

in gross disarray, but that's about it, I think.  Why?"



A shrug, a tilt of her head.  "I dunno.  Just wondered."



"Scully, tell me if something's wrong."



"Not *wrong*.  Strange, maybe."



"How strange?"



She considers, gnawing on her lower lip.  



His mind boomerangs to worst-case scenarios, but he stops 

before saying the words aloud.  The stubborn pout of her 

mouth makes him hesitate, or maybe it's the suspicious way 

she averts her gaze.  



"So, did he put the moves on you?  Make a pass?"

  

"No!"  Emphatically.  "Mulder, that much I *do* know.  I had 

a long walk over here during which I mentally backtracked as 

much as I could of the evening.  Actually, Sheriff Hartwell 

was the perfect gentleman last night after you left.  I mean, 

we shared hot coffee from a thermos he kept in the car, he 

wanted to converse, to hear my opinion on --"



"Yeah, good to the last drop.  Gotta love that chloral-

hydrated coffee."



"You gonna keep interrupting me or what?"



"Go right ahead."



She flashes him a reproving look.  "He wanted to know whether 

I believed vampires exist and what I thought they'd be like 

if they did."



"What did you say?  Not meaning to interrupt here, but I'm 

curious."



"I said..." Scully hedges, her cheeks pinking.  "I mean, 

without reiterating the laundry list you gave back at the 

funeral home, I *mentioned* in passing how vampires are 

alleged to be charming in the extreme.  Even, um... 

seductive, in some cases."



"You didn't."  Admonishing.



"I did, regrettably.  Though, I questioned whether they'd be 

like that *if* they did really exist, since according to you 

(and I actually referenced you, by the way), there are so 

many different kinds of vampires in the world."  



She pauses, gathering her thoughts.  



"And was he?"



"Was he what?"



"Seductive.  You know, sex-ay," he croons, giving his 

eyebrows a Marx-like wiggle for effect.



She parries with an arch of her own.



"The conversation turned soft and confidential after that.  

He said," and here her tone turns from defensive to 

quizzical, "he said he wanted to apologize to me for Ronnie 

Strickland's behavior.  He explained how *they* were all 

trying to be good neighbors and taxpayers now --"



"*They* being the local vampires."



"Whatever, Mulder!  He said that Ronnie's actions made them 

all look bad, because he's not who *they* are anymore.  And 

that Ronnie was a moron who didn't quite grasp the concept of 

keeping a low profile."



He guffaws.  "That's what he's calling the current M.O. among 

vampires in backwater Texas?  Low profile?"



"Well, I for one don't have a problem with that, since that's 

probably what kept us alive last night, if for the sake of 

argument we pursue this vampire theory of yours.  An 

exsanguinated tourist, or even two, is much more believable 

and low key than the offing of two Federal Agents who've come 

to investigate a murder case.  Am I right?"



"I'll buy that."



He also buys the nagging truth that for years he's expended 

his greatest energy with the lowest of profiles on the bottom 

floor of the Hoover.  Under-appreciated.  Consigned to cases 

like this one: the weird, the unwanted, the mysterious, and 

often asinine. Sometimes he feels Scully's credible 

involvement is the only thing that keeps him on solid ground 

with the Bureau.  



Never mind the fact that now he'd also feel empty going it 

alone, without her.



"Back to your story."  



"Okay.  That's also when I began feeling the effects of the 

drug, because Hartwell's eyes seemed to change color on me.  

They turned luminescent green when he leaned closer.  What 

you described happening here to you."



"But I wasn't drugged last night.  Sheer terror did me in... 

I think."



"Maybe.  Though you *were* doped to the gills when you 

scarfed my mushroom and green pepper pizza and Ronnie did his 

alleged flying squirrel imitation at the motel a few nights 

ago.  Not to mention that horrific rendition of the song from 

'Shaft' --"



"I'll deny it 'til the day I die, Scully."



"Fine, have it your way.  Anyway, I must've passed out after 

that, because I woke up this morning on the grass alone in 

the cemetery.  Wearing his coat."



"That's it?"



A silence.  



"Not... quite."  As he waits, her lips pinch into an adamant 

pink blossom and she tilts her tousled head.  "It wasn't 'til 

I went to stand up that I realized my, um... my bra was 

unhooked."



Incredulity pricks him like a saddle burr, while his brain 

gropes to absorb the information and analyze its meaning.  

"What!" 



"I was fully clothed, but every button, snap, or hook on my 

clothing was undone.  I suppose my bra could have come undone 

by itself when he lifted me out of the car and onto the 

grass.  His coat was wrapped around me to keep out the cold.  

Frankly, I'm at a loss here, Mulder!"



"That's classic obsessive-compulsive behavior, Scully!  The 

vampire bastard took a liberty he had no right to, but it 

sounds to me he was being true to his nature.  What I've been 

claiming all along -- and what worked like a charm when I 

threw the sunflower seeds at pizza boy's feet."



"Like I said, it *may* have happened by accident."



"By accident?  Like Ronnie Strickland's stake-less, throat-

chewing body moseying out of the Dallas Pathology Lab under 

its own steam, then fighting me tooth and nail not fifty feet 

from where we're sitting the next night?  With the same green 

eyes --"



"I, um, see your point."  



She sighs with discontent.  Though his territorial alpha fur 

stays ruffled, his anxiety relaxes a notch as he shifts the 

car into drive and steers toward the road, putting distance 

between them and the scene.



"Mulder, there's one more thing."



"Lay it on me."



"My, well... something else was different about my, um, 

underwear, if you must know."  She rubs her forehead, 

stalling the disclosure, and clears her throat.



In spite of renewed indignation, he finds her embarrassment 

and defensiveness endearing at this awkward and 

uncharacteristic confession.  In their half-decade together 

he can't recollect her mentioning anything to him about 

underwear, specifically her own.  Unless he considers their 

very first case in Oregon, five years before, complete with 

impromptu lingerie fashion show and three mosquito bites 

crowning her little candle-lit rear.



His curiosity leaps into overdrive.  "What was wrong with 

your, uh, undies?"



"They were... "  She huffs impatiently, "Oh, I don't know..."



"Scully?"



"All right!  They were askew."



"Askew?"  



"That's what I said."  



"I've heard of panties being in a wedge, a bind, or even in a 

twist, but never *askew*."



"Just drop it, then, Mulder.  Forget I said anything."



"No.  No, wait."  He applies the brake and pulls over, 

turning toward his partner with new concern.  An amused 

tickle in the back of his throat becomes smothered by the 

disquiet he feels as the car grinds to a halt.  "Elaborate, 

please.  These could be serious allegations."



Shrugging, she blunders ahead.  "They were pushed down from 

where I normally, um, wear them.  Bunched.  You know... "  A 

helpless gesture with her hands followed by a Scully glare of 

impatience and a change in volume.  "*Askew*, dammit."    

  

"So the son-of-a-bitch must've -- excuse the expression -- 

copped what I'd call a low profile peek."



"What are you implying, Mulder?"



Despite her discomfiture, he reaches out a gentle hand to 

tuck a lock of Scully's hair into place.  "Meaning... he went 

right to the source.  The nitty-gritty.  In other words he 

wanted to see whether or not you were latent vampiric 

material."



She angles her head, frowning in bewilderment.  Lips parted 

as she sifts the data.  



"I'll wager that's what saved you," he pursues.  "Which no 

doubt saved *me* here at the RV park as well, because 

Hartwell appears to have been their leader.  He must've sent 

a telepathic signal to the others to pack up and hit the 

trail.  And here we are."



"Mulder, he's just a small-town sheriff."



"Yet our discussions back at the funeral home encompassed all 

the various forms and manifestations vampirism can assume 

through the ages," he continues in triumph.  "Remember, there 

are as many different kinds of vampires as there are cultures 

that fear them.  We touched on a lot of lore in those few 

hormonal minutes back there." 



Now her eyes widen as she shifts from doubt to mortification.  



"Male curiosity overrode whatever propriety Sheriff Hartwell 

displayed to you earlier.  Face it, Scully, since you were 

gracious and receptive to his comments when he got you alone 

to bare his un-fanged soul, maybe he wondered if you were one 

of *them* undercover.  Quiescent, a late-bloomer."



"We mentioned *red hair* being the primary Serbian indicator 

for vampirism," she whispers.



"I'll wager a bet he has Serb roots.  Which is why he snuck a 

quick peek at the truest, albeit lowest of profile 

indicators."  



"No... "



"My gut says yessirree and yee-haw, pardner."



Averting her face as she processes this information, she 

crosses her legs and notices Mulder's pointed expression.  

"Are you sure?" 



"True, our presuppositions about what constitutes modern-day 

vampirism have been tainted by false perceptions created in 

part by Dracula films and centuries of legend.  But I now 

believe vampires have evolved, like many other species, in 

order to blend into their environment and cope within a 

modern technological society.  Add to it the fact you threw 

Hartwell plenty of encouragement."



"I did no such thing! How can you say that?"



"Come on... the flirty chat around the casket about 

hematodipsia -- how vampires gain erotic satisfaction from 

consuming human blood.  The teasing.  How creatures of the 

night are seductive, engaging, sexy, continued by your 

conversation in his car last night."  



He notes her rising color and the obstinate pout of her lips.  

Tries to keep his open appreciation for her early-morning 

mussed prettiness at bay.



"Admit it, Scully, you were dazzled from the get-go by the 

grassroots and charming Lucius Hartwell.  You seemed hot for 

him and he ate it up.  By the way," nodding toward her chest, 

"that's some lavaliere you've got there."  



She fingers the sheriff's star, then groans loudly, letting 

her head fall back against the seat.  Her eyes stay closed.  

"My God, Mulder.  Here I was waking up, hoping everything 

would be a dream."



"Nope, still in Cheney, Dorothy.  And here I thought I did 

you a big favor last night.  You okay?"



"I'm... fine.  Or will be after I take a hot shower and 

change clothes.  Just, in future, *please* remind me that 

tall, dark and handsome lawmen with sexy smiles and genteel 

manners are off-limits during a case." 



"Gee.  Does this mean we can't be partners anymore?"



"Present company excluded," she smirks softly.



"I say we get the hell outta Dodge.  Make tracks for the 

airport in Dallas.  We can square our stories at the motel 

while we pack and finish the report for Skinner on the 

plane."



"Oh, perfect.  Including the part where we're drugged and 

scared senseless by resident vampires, while the town sheriff 

and the entire population of the Rolling Acres RV campground, 

Ronnie Strickland with them, disappear into thin air at 

sundown?  I don't think it'll fly, Mulder."



"Neither can the Cheney contingent, from the looks of it.  

Okay," he concurs, "we do some creative fudging.  Won't be 

the first time." 



"Not to mention that reporting a second brush with chloral 

hydrate will guarantee we'll be up for random drug testing.  

But, Mulder, I can't deny that's exactly what transpired."



"Look on the bright side: Large Marge won't be your bunkmate 

for the next ten years.  No Gertrude Stein."



"No multi-million dollar lawsuit from the Strickland family," 

she agrees in relief.



"Hey... "  He covers her hand with his for a long moment 

before taking the wheel again.  "Listen, I'm sorry about what 

happened back there -- but thanks for sharing the details."



"Thank you for listening."



Peripherally, he notices Scully unpinning Hartwell's badge 

from the coat she wears.  She turns it over in her hands 

before flipping it out of the passenger window, rolling up 

the glass with a final, hard twist.



"Shouldn't you keep that for evidence?"



"Of what, Mulder?"



"Touche.  You know, we could still estimate the time/distance 

differential and call ahead.  Throw up a few roadblocks to 

stop the RV convoy.  Give me the chance to haul Hartwell out 

by his overbite and knock the shit out of him."



"What exactly would that accomplish?"



"It'd assuage my ego, for starters.  And be payback for the 

inappropriate handling of my partner... someone I care 

about."



He's rewarded by a smile so gratifying it makes his heart 

skip a beat.  And then, when she leans toward him to press 

her face against his shoulder, he savors the intensity of the 

moment.  A firm squeeze of her hand around his arm and a soft 

sigh as she returns -- all too quickly -- to her side of the 

front seat.  



Has he been keeping too low a profile with Scully?  Hell, if 

he had some flesh and blood involvement in his life maybe he 

wouldn't need to fork over the extra bill for the thrill of 

Triple X.  Which makes him wonder what it'd be like to really 

get it on with her.  Experience her as other men have.  



Not the first, second, or even two-hundredth occasion it's 

crossed his mind, but as always, he takes his cues from her.  

Waiting like the proverbial oak with its sap running, for the 

right season and time.  



His mind rampant with visuals, he replays their conversation 

in his head.  Her winsome disclosure this morning twists his 

mouth into a silly grin.



Askew, she'd said.  He'd called it a low profile peek.



He chuckles and hits the gas, glancing over.  "So, Scully... 

tell me something."



"What?"



"Umm.  Was his theory correct?"



"Whose?"



"Sheriff Hartwell," he drawls in a thick Texan accent, making 

her wince.  



"I'm obviously no vampire, Mulder."



"I was referring to, uh, the ethnic/lore aspect.  The theory 

about hair color.  Facts of the case -- and someone seemed 

convinced."



A delicate silence wafts between them.  He hazards another 

glance sideways, meeting her patent don't-mess-with-me glare.  

But a rare blush also tinges Scully's cheeks and the corners 

of her lips take an upward turn.  



"That information... is classified," she states less than 

emphatically. 



"Then I don't suppose a gratuitous reference should appear 

somewhere in our report to Skinner."



"Mulder -- after all this, please don't make me hurt you."



He'd love to keep the sensual electricity zinging between 

them, percolating beneath the surface.  He feels possessive, 

energized after watching her coy tease with Hartwell a few 

days ago.  Could this be a crossroads?  Spring may not be as 

far off as he thought.



His stomach rumbles aloud and he accelerates harder, cold 

dust sputtering behind them.  "In retrospect I think we 

should've stayed in Dallas.  Better choice of food."



"Less risky, true... but what about the Magic Fingers?"



Her tone is plaintive and it's his turn to grin.  "Oh, 

they're always around."



"You know," she muses out the window, "I think I actually 

prefer that Mexican goatsucker case to this one.  At least 

the exanguinations seemed a lot more plausible."



"You want coffee at the motel?"



"In *Cheney*, Mulder?  Not on your life!"



********

The End

Low Profile