Title: Work of Art
Author:  Jemirah (posted here with the author's permission)
Archive:  You want it, you got it.  Just please let me know!
Spoilers:  Nope!
Rating:  G
Category:  V is for vignette, W is for weird.
Summary:  Mulder's hidden talent comes to light.  Note
rating here...  Sorry, this is probably as close to smut as I will
ever get.
Feedback:  jemirah@hotmail.com
Disclaimer:  Hmm, lemme see.  Nope, my name's not
Carter.
Author's Note:  Ok, this is a weird little thing that just hit me
while at work today.  It's kinda out of character, but I don't
think it's too far out of the realm of possibility.  Not for the X
Files anyway.  I hope.
Special Thanks:  To Char for the beta, the title, and the
wonderful praise, the likes of which I have never received
before.  *You* rock, Char!  Also, I'd like to thank the tourists
that stayed away from the antique store where I work while I
wrote this today.  
Dedication:  This is to Andrea, for writing her last story for
me, and for challenging me to write a story without any
angst.  I don't think this is quite angst-less, but it's the best I
can do; I can't help myself.  


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Work of Art
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It's one of those hidden talents, I guess.  You know the kind,
everybody has something they are good at, better than the
average person.  A lot of people--most, I like to think--keep
these talents hidden, choosing to let it be something for their
own personal use and enjoyment.  They choose to dedicate
themselves instead to something totally different.  Sometimes
I wonder why; I mean, you'd think expressing yourself
through something you're good at would be pretty damn
rewarding.  But then I think that if your secret were revealed,
it wouldn't hold the same lure and interest it once did as
something kind of forbidden.

But anyway, I am off on a tangent there...  My hidden
talent--don't laugh--is drawing.  There is something
terrifyingly soothing about detailing some small slice of life
onto a piece of paper.  Giving that blank, empty paper
meaning and fulfillment is a good feeling too.  And the
sensation of the pencil scritching across the texture of the
paper--wonderful!  There are times when all I want to do is
draw.  My hands and arms positively sing with the desire to
create.  Several years ago, I finally gave in and brought a
nice, new spotless sketchbook to the office, to keep locked
away in one of my desk drawers.  That one is now grimy and
smudged, full, at the bottom of that drawer under about a
dozen others just like it.

But this is my talent, *my* talent, and until today, it was
hidden.  I've never voluntarily shown anyone my drawings.  I
am the kind of person who wears their heart, mind, soul,
everything on their sleeve, so it feels good to have something
that is mine and mine alone.  But now I have been caught
red-handed.  Found out.  Discovered, trapped.  Exposed.

Exposed.  That is what I feel right now, as I stare at Scully
sitting at my desk, examining my forgotten sketchbook.  She
has discovered my guilty pleasure.  She thought it was porn,
but now she knows the truth, whether she realizes it or not.  I
am furious at myself for being so careless.

She looks at me standing frozen in the doorway and
wordlessly puts the sketchbook back on the desk before
moving to her own 'area'.  I am overcome with fear and
dread as I wonder what she will think of me now.  My legs
somehow remember how to move, and I find myself seated
at my desk before I am aware of it.  She is sitting across from
me, turned halfway away from me.  That damn familiar
burning is starting at my shoulders, working itself down to
my hands.  She shifts in her chair, crossing her legs as she
concentrates, her head bent forward slightly in deference to
the file in her hands.  The sketchbook and pencil are in my
hands before I am aware of it.  The paper is soon reaching its
potential as I record this moment in time.

She has thought that I kept those pencils in my desk for when
I was bored.  While they do make an admirable ceiling dart, I
have used many more to make physical memories.  Scully
eating lunch.  Scully typing on her laptop.  Scully reading a
medical journal, organizing files in the cabinets, looking at
me with an expression that is a cross between indulgence and
hilarity. Charcoal is a good medium too, but too messy for
here.  I am clumsy enough with the pencil, smearing it with
the heel of my hand as I move around the paper.

I limit myself to a couple of rough drawings that I will
reference later to do a better, more detailed sketch at home.
As I glance up for the last time, she captures my eyes with her
own.  I know I am blushing, I can feel the burn of it start at
my neck and work its way up, past my cheeks, all the way to
my forehead.

"Why have you never told me you could draw, Mulder?"
Needless to say, I am floored.  She saw the sketchbook.  She
could easily accuse me of stalking or some other weird thing.
It is filled with drawings of her, nothing else.  My favorite
muse.

"I dunno, you never asked."  Brilliant, just brilliant.  More
proof of your insanity, as if she didn't already have enough
to justify locking you away and throwing away the key.

"May I see them, please?"  She is getting up already, not that
I could have resisted that voice asking me for anything.  The
blush I felt earlier was nothing compared to what I feel now
as she moves around me, almost behind my chair, looking
over my shoulder at the sketch I have just drawn.

"These are very good, you know, Mulder."  I can't decide
which is rendering me incapable of speech--her compliments
regarding my drawings, or her breath on my cheek.

Her hands, which had been resting on the arm of my chair,
move now, creeping down my left forearm almost
soothingly.  Finally, at my hand, she manipulates the book
so that she can flip the previous drawings out to be viewed.
She looks at them quietly.  Page after page of different studies
of her go past while I watch their reflections in her eyes.  She
is still now, and her hand begins to move even more slowly
than before all the way back up my arm.  Wrist, elbow,
shoulder.  She doesn't stop there though.  She keeps moving
and her hand is cool against the skin of my neck, still warm
with embarrassment.  The hand doesn't stop even there
though, it goes up, into my hair, where it finds a grip and
forces me to meet her gaze.  Her eyes are shining, luminous,
the expression on her face unreadable, unrecognizable.

"Mulder, this is the single most flattering thing I have ever
seen in my life.  Thank you."  Before I have a chance to
respond, her hand in my hair has pulled my head toward
her, where our mouths meet almost painfully.  I am wishing
I were able to draw right now, as I'd be recording an
expression that has never made an appearance in my archives
before.  My eyes slip shut involuntarily though, as I am
overcome with the emotions stirred in me by the feeling of
her lips on mine.

A few minutes--an hour--days later?, I can finally see again.  I
see her, a few inches from my face, staring at me, into me.  I
realize the kiss ended a hundred years ago, and I have been
sitting like a fool with my eyes still closed.  She doesn't seem
to want to laugh at me, though she does display a cute little
smile.  The fog in my mind clears and I find that I am
capable of speech, after all.

"If you like these, you should see the ones at my apartment."


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Thank you for reading!  Did you like it?  Tell me at:
jemirah@hotmail.com
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You can find more of my stories here:
http://www.angelfire.com/ms2/XFGoddess/j.html
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