"The View From Down Here" - V, H, MSR (NC-17)TITLE:    The View From Down Here
AUTHOR:   David Stoddard-Hunt
CATEGORY: V, H
KEYWORDS: M/S, PWP, 3d party p.o.v.
RATING:   NC-17
EP REFS:  eh. "Fire" and "Ice," but not in that order.
SUMMARY:  We are witnesses... with a unique perspective 
          on history. We're bunny slippers.
ARCHIVE:  Read, take, let me know.
LEGALESE: CC created them, I gave life to these, fbofw. 
FEEDBACK: dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com
WEBSITE:  http://www.geocities.com/mattersofbelief
NOTES:    More than 100 lines, some of which are smut. A 
          punishment. Hopefully, this will kill the clamor
          for such things. Mountainphile gets both the
          blame (for suggesting the "protagonists") and
          the gratitude for some truly wonderful beta. 
          A preemptory protest: this may be "bunny, bunny," 
          but it's not "fluff, fluff." It's not. ::sighs::
          

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

We're witnesses, not always unwilling, to events, with a
unique perspective on history. We're bunny slippers. And
the benefit of the view from down here is that there is
nothing too small, too low, too insignificant to escape
our notice.

We watched her get ready for the first day on her new
job. She'd gone so far as to buy new toothpaste and fresh
deodorant in preparation, even though she was only half- 
way through each of her old ones. She'd had that plaid 
wool jacket dry cleaned. We watched her sniff it 
disagreeably upon pulling it out of the plastic bag. She 
hung it in the bathroom, hoping, we supposed, to steam 
the smell out while she showered. She tried on four 
different bras twice each before selecting the second one. 
She was confident, not cocky, about this new job. Of 
course, we knew nothing about *him* yet.

She is nothing if not a creature of habit. Her work is 
so unpredictable, so irregular in its demands that, within
these walls, she seems to insist on routine, seems almost 
to crave it. But what do we know? We're slippers, not 
psychologists. We do know that there is a proscribed order 
to things around here. 

Once in the door, coat hung carefully, she turns on NPR, 
barely abiding the tiny chaos of Linda Wertheimer's voice 
when Noah Adams is away. Invariably, she turns on the oven, 
inserts a precooked supper, and heads for the bath. A good 
soak, a shower if she's really tired or really filthy, then 
pajamas, robe, us. Dinner is eaten in front of the show she 
thinks she ought to watch, Masterpiece Theater, or the one 
she actually prefers, a romantic comedy, "Anything But Love." 
Witty banter, unrequited physical attraction, the vicarious 
thrill of letting someone else stress over whether they're 
meant to live happily ever after. When that comes on, her 
eyes glaze over to the accompaniment of a contented and 
continuous sigh. Then, notes of the day on her computer, 
with a cup of chamomile. And finally to bed, with a book 
to be savored slowly, a chapter per night, even though 
she's capable of finishing it in a sitting.

She'd been away from home for a week the first time we
sensed the change, the disruption in her routine. A
hooded parka, not hers, unceremoniously dumped on the
floor of the apartment as she schlumped past us,
exhausted, miserable, cold air trailing in her wake. No
oven that night, no 'defrost-a-fazule'. Steam began to 
waft in soft billows from the bath, and our whiskers 
perked in anticipation. We'd be needed soon, or relatively 
so. She refilled the tub at least three times over the 
next hour. 

When she emerged, dabbing at her hair with a soft towel 
and slipping us on, her skin had lost its pallor and, 
mirabile dictu, she began to hum. Tea in hand, she sat 
down at her computer, not stretching her legs out beneath 
the desk but tucking her feet up, cross-legged, on the 
chair. Not a big deal? Hmmph. It was for us. If we craned 
our googly eyes just so, we could read what she was writing. 
One word, throughout, seemed the focus of her report. Not 
where she'd gone, nor what had happened, but with whom. 
There, in white letters on a blue background, a new name: 
Mulder. Two nights later, in an entirely different context, 
we heard that name again.

That evening, she cooked. From scratch. Seemed to enjoy
doing it, too. Hummed an actual tune. Popped in a CD, 
instead of tuning in WETA. Bath with a glass of white 
wine, supper with a glass of red. Afterward, she topped 
off her glass, no chamo necessary, and sat at the computer. 
Not typing, just re-reading old case notes and smiling. If 
we'd had eyebrows, they'd have been rising. Oh, she went to 
bed as always, snuggled up against a downy froth of pillows, 
book in hand, cozy as you please. The book fell open well 
past her bookmark, settling on a well-thumbed section toward 
the end. She scanned the facing pages, then looked around as 
if someone might catch her skipping to the good parts. 
Shortly, satisfied that she was alone and safe, she began to 
read.

We don't always watch her every expression or chart her every 
move. But this - this was different, she was different. So we 
waited, watched. Her teeth tugged on her lower lip, and she 
took a deep, shuddering breath. With the soft fur on our 
sides, she caressed the delicate, exposed skin of her calves, 
made us part of the play. Pulling one knee up, propping the 
book against her thigh, she let a newly freed hand wander 
slowly over her belly, skirting her furry spot, meandering to 
the hem of her nightgown, bunching it, releasing, bunching, 
hesitating, tugging, deciding.

Finally, almost bashful at doing so, she pulled the fabric up 
over the escarpment of her hip, baring the gentler curves of 
her stomach, the delicate crest below. Her gaze never left 
the pages before her, though, from time to time, it seemed 
to dissolve into the middle distance, perhaps into the recent 
past. Her fingertips wandered this way and that, whispering 
over one sharp promontory under the blue silk folds, then 
over its twin, the first causing her to gasp, the second 
bringing color to her cheeks.

This was definitely unusual behavior for her. It had never 
happened previously, at least not when we were around, she on 
top of the covers, with the lights on. Never before. But now, 
we sensed, it would likely continue.

A slim hand stole over the shimmering midnight waves, 
uncertainty past, pulling it up, baring her breasts to the 
soft light of the room. With a feather-light glissando over 
newly bared skin, her back arched and the book fell away, all 
pretense lost. We watched her trace gentle trails along the 
lush curves, leaving gooseflesh in her wake, her fingers 
gliding over the pale pink tips that rose to meet them.


All of a sudden, she grasped and pulled one nipple with 
alarming ferocity, eliciting a long, desperate whimper. Her 
legs stretched outward, burying us deeply into the coverlet. 
Bereft of sight, our ears perked up immediately to compensate. 
We are bunnies, after all. In this instance, however, our 
excellent hearing wasn't especially required.

Our delicate and normally restrained mistress seemed to lose 
all inhibition, her breath coming in gasps, squeaks, sighs, 
and moans. We seemed to be in constant, if languid motion, 
although we never left the shroud of the comforter.

Abruptly, she pulled her knees up, bringing us into the light. 
We only glimpsed her face for an instant, her expression 
hovering between agony and beatitude, before she rolled over 
onto her side, shoving a pillow between her thighs and holding 
it tight, straining, shuddering, sighing, sighing, sighing - 
one word, one name: Mulder.

It's possible that the strength, the vehemence of the emotions 
that gripped her that night scared even her. They damned well 
startled us! At any rate, it was months before we witnessed 
anything similar even approaching that magnitude, let alone 
surpassing it. But, as the memory of the winter chill finally 
leaves one's bones by late spring, so fled her emotional 
distress. Okay, so it was really, really late in the Spring.

In fact, it was that part of Autumn when Summer, after 
fading gracefully for weeks, stages an anxious, overbright 
comeback to mixed reviews. 

She'd just gotten back from somewhere. Where was it? Cape
Cod, yes, we're sure that was it. As she was getting out
of the tub, the phone rang. She began to towel dry,
unhurried, content to let the machine pick up. That is,
until she recognized the voice on the line. His message 
concerned someone named "Phoebe," relegating that person 
to his past, and asking, no, pleading with her to let him
come over to discuss their future.

Still wet, clutching the towel to her chest, she jumped
into us and dashed out to the living room. There was a
soft slapping sound from above us as we went, but we
couldn't pinpoint the source - running sends our googly
eyes, well... all googly. It's not a pleasant experience, 
rest assured.

"Hello?"

Calm as a spring breeze.

She had some nerve. Three deep breaths later, in an 
affected blase tone, it was as if she'd barely cared 
enough to have bothered answering the phone. Our eyes 
would have rolled if they weren't already dizzily in 
motion from the sprint.

"No, there's nothing to explain. Your private life is
just that. Private. So long as it doesn't affect our
work, it really shouldn't be any of my business."

By the way she'd unconsciously twisted the lower half of
the towel into a sodden little ball, it was quite clear
even to us that this was not the whole truth.

"No. Honestly, I'm fine. I am. I'm just going to, um,
to finish unpacking and head to bed."

She'd been completely unpacked about twenty minutes 
after walking through the front door.

"Thanks anyway, but I'm really tired. I'll be asleep 
in no time. What? Where are you calling from?"

Wherever it was, fire rose suddenly in her eyes, the
flame burning a swath across her neck, cheeks, and ears.

She strode to the window and, prising the blinds apart 
with two fingers, peered out in horrified disbelief for
a full minute before remembering her state of undress. 
The towel unfurled instantly, like a terrycloth theater
curtain closing a show. She backed away slowly from the 
window and into the bedroom, once out of line-of-sight 
bursting into a flurry of activity. Flinging various 
items of clothing from the top dresser drawer over her 
shoulder and onto the bed, she hurled a stream of 
half-baked excuses into the phone.

"That's rather premature, don't you think? No! I can't. 
I just got out of the bath. I, what? I was too unpacking.
Just before I got into the tub. I left some for after 
I got out."

She looked behind her, at the truth of the matter. It
looked less like she'd unpacked than that her trousseau
had exploded.

"What do you care why? I was, I was taking a break."

For a forty-five minute bubble bath? Good one.

"Look, there's really nothing to talk about. It's none 
of my business. No. It's none of our business, either. 
What? What did you just say? Relationship?"

She'd barked that word out, incredulous. However, in 
reaction a moment later, she'd scrambled out of the 
old Hopkins Athletics sweats she'd just put on, in 
favor of something less scruffy, something not quite 
so... staid.

"Friendship. Yes, whatever. I assure you, it's fine! No,
I wasn't angry. I am getting irritated with you now, if
you must know. I mean, the sheer presumption! Did you 
drive over unannounced thinking that I'd be waiting by 
the door? Jesus, Mulder. Just how pathetic do you think 
I am ?"

She studied her new, spicier self in the mirror. 
Anything but pathetic, if you'd asked us.

She must have had second thoughts, however. She took 
a robe from the closet, not her favorite - comfy and
threadbare in places - but one she'd bought for an
occasion that, in our experience, had yet to arrive.

She gave it the once over, twice over, and slipped 
it on, knotting the sash double.

"No! You are not coming up. You are not. Not!"

Seemed to us as if she'd prepared fully for just 
that eventuality.

"No, it isn't, Mulder. It will keep just fine until 
after the weekend. I'll talk to you at the office 
on Monday morning."

Primping her hair with the phone cradled between chin 
and shoulder belied her protests. Clearly, she was 
really only trying to buy time.

"I... I don't know that we, that I am ready to have 
that conversation."

She was in a desperate race between a dwindling reserve
of excuses and mounting anxiety that he might not make
the first move.

There was a knock at the door. His gambit, her move.

"Damn it!"

Not the move we'd have made. At the very least, we'd have
hung up the phone first, before swearing into it. We
couldn't quite figure whether she was angry at his arrival 
or just at his timing. Not that it mattered in the end.

Once in the door, he wheeled on her, his trench coat
flaring. She fixed a defensive bulwark, two feet
opposite, arms tightly crossed. This was confusing to us,
unexpected. We'd hoped for a passionate embrace, soaring 
violins; at the very least, meaningful looks. We'd seen how 
it's supposed to happen, on television! Didn't these two do 
anything by the book?

He begged her to hear him out.

"Then, if you still want me to leave, I...I will, and I
won't mention it..."

If we'd had voice, we'd have yelled, "Cut to the chase,
loverboy! You're no Cyrano!"

Come to think of it, though? On second glance, with that
nose? Hey. Could be, could be.

His expression was one of panic barely contained, duct-taped
with determination and the promise of something extraordinary. 
Like seeing a head of lettuce in a cloud formation and then 
being able to nibble on it. That sort of extra-ordinary.

Finally, finally, he got to the heart of the matter. Was
that a pun? Huh. How should we know? We're not grammarians, 
we're...

"Scully, I swear to you..."

Her name is Scully? We'd have sworn that, when her mother 
placed us under that big, flashing tree, the gift tag read
"Dana."

"You're not under oath, here, Mulder. And I understand 
perfectly. She means nothing to you." 

A beat, just one, enough for him to relax. Then...

"And that would be why you were dancing lip to lip."

She had timing, we'll give her that. But seriously, 
folks! We'd never before seen her so passive-aggressive. 
That brother of hers, on the other hand, he was a different 
story.

"...not saying there wasn't something still there, just
that I've realized how unimportant it is to me now."

"That..." She really wanted to argue the point. Oh, yes. We 
could tell. "...is beside the point. Your whole premise seems 
to be based on the assumption that there's a personal 
relationship between us, that such a thing is even possible, 
when you and I know damned well..."

Rough language aside, the ferocity of her resistance was
beginning to wear thin, evident even to us. Now, we're
not sure what gender we are, much less which we prefer as
a mate, but we do have eyes, googly or not. And hey,
we're bunnies, y'know? It's our nature. We'd hop in the 
sack with him in a cotton-tailed minute. So. What was she 
waiting for? An engraved invitation?

"I'll admit it: I'm attracted to you as well."

Whoa. Had we missed something big?

"But there are consequences. Partners, Mulder, can not 
afford to give in to every passing fancy, every base 
urge, simply for reasons of expedience or... or 
proximity."

Nope. False alarm. We hadn't missed a thing. Same old, 
same old.

Then he did something rash, totally unwarranted under the 
circumstances. He kissed her. At least we think he did. 

In a single stride, he had his hands on her hips. After 
that? Well, between his trench coat and her robe, we 
couldn't see anything good. But, the sudden absence of 
emotionally stilted dialogue and the substitution of 
moist, slurpy sounds from above seemed conclusive to us.

When they parted, we could see his eyes. Pure,
unadulterated panic. He'd jumped first, remembered to
check for a parachute second. His only hope was that she'd
throw common sense to the wind and join him in freefall. As 
we said, panic, rampaging panic.

She looked stricken, as if he'd wounded her mortally, and
she was searching his face for the reasons why. We noted, 
however, that her hands never let go of him. Then she 
stunned us and, we supposed, elated him.

She kissed him back.

The second time, they pulled back only far enough to
touch foreheads. An odd gesture, but touching; one we
were to come to know as their own.

"You've really dropped us into it now, Mulder."

"I do have a talent." He shook his head, his expression 
lopsided and self-mocking, but gentle.

"You go with your strengths." Her smile was dazzling. 
Goodness, she could light up a room.

"You, Scully. You are my strength."

Do googly eyes cry googly tears? We were on the verge of
finding out.

He took a step forward. In hindsight, we think he meant 
to kiss her again. Instead, he stepped right on us, and
her toes.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, Scully. I didn't mean to hurt you. 
I'm such a damned klutz sometimes. It's these big feet,
I never know..."

He was babbling, obviously mortified. After a moment or
two, we found it annoying. She thought it adorable.

"Mulder," she caressed him with her voice and a hand on
his cheek, "it's okay." She gave a little burp of a laugh,
then teased,"maybe it's for the best that you danced with
Phoebe and not with me."

His embarrassment lingered and he remained steadfast in his
refusal to look up at her. Instead, he found something else 
to stare at.

"Oooo. Nice slippers, Scully!"

Nice sarcastic tone, pal. You'd better watch your step.
In more ways than one.

"Hey! Watch what you say about these slippers, Mulder. My 
mother gave these to me for Christmas. I like them. 
They're warm and comfortable. And they're cute." 

She giggled. We'd have giggled, too, if we'd had it in us. 
She thought we were cute! Damn but we had to get this gender 
and preference thing straightened out.

His eyes danced with the lilt of her laugh. 

"Well! If Ma Scully gave these to you... It's just that...
Now, Scully, I know this is going to sound strange."

Her giggle had become a bubbling froth.

"Really. Strange? From you, Mulder? Incredible!"

He pulled an obligatory face at her jibe, but continued.

"No, seriously. I have the strangest feeling that I'm 
being watched."

"By my bunny slippers?" Her laughter was a song in his 
heart, and in ours. "Oh, Mulder!" 

She stepped forward, deliberately standing atop each of 
his feet, sweet revenge for us, and kissed him.

In his relief and joy, he swung her around gracefully, once, 
and again.

Our googly eyes spun madly. We thought we might just puke.

-end-