Title - True Colors (1/1)
Author - Invisivellum
E-Mail - Invisivellum@hotmail.com
Rating - PG
Category - V
Spoilers - None
Keywords - Third Person POV; Mulder/Scully friendship
Summary - Mulder and Scully, as perceived by someone with
peculiar powers of observation.
Distribution - Gossamer - yes; All others - yes, but I'd love to know
where you put them!
Disclaimer - Chris Carter created these characters. I did not. Give him
your money. Give me your feedback.

***********
True Colors
1/1

The wild, fire-colors of anger catch my attention as soon as I step out
of the elevator. I pause to watch.

He is standing in the hall outside Assistant Director Kersh's office and
even passersby who don't possess my "gift" should be able to read the
body language: hands clamped to hips, torso forward, face like a
tornado. I move out of the way of the hallway traffic and pretend to
rummage in my purse, buying a few moments' time in order to
unobtrusively observe the spectacle.

The anger and frustration radiate from him in jagged, jittery orange
waves.

The woman facing off with him is glowing a deadly shade of blood-soaked
hot coal. Fury edges her outline with an interesting shade of burgundy
that pulses steadily, like a plum afire from within.

Where their colors meet, sparks fly.

Incredible.

The displays between two emotionally-entangled people are always the
most fascinating. These two could be intimates or enemies.

I've only been working in this building for a few days, but I've been
with the Bureau long enough to recognize the man; that's Spooky Mulder,
a man who would probably give his eyeteeth to interview me.

I smile a little at the thought. I would probably give up a tooth or
two, myself, for an interview with him, if I didn't think it would mean
an end to my-life-as-I-know-it. What *is* his first name, anyway? I
ponder this for a moment before my attention is called back to the
fireworks.

I've ruminated too long and the show is over.

As I watch, the confrontation seems to have come to a premature end.
Although neither Spooky nor his antagonist has cooled to a paler shade,
the woman has turned on her heel and is headed in my direction. Before I
can stop myself, I take a nervous step away from the elevator doors.
She's a vision of hell-on-wheels, rolling towards me down the hall.

As she passes me, she glances my way, but the look is unfocused,
distracted, still furious. She stabs the call-button and waits
impatiently until the *ping* sounds and she stalks inside. I feel a wave
of cool relief when the doors slide shut, boxing her in with her own
furious heat.

Anger takes too much energy for the angry one to be the only one who
suffers. Everyone within earshot feels the powerful pull of that
emotional whirling dervish, like a spiritual black hole that sucks at
the souls of the unfortunates who happen to be nearby.

I take a deep breath and let it out, trying to stabilize.

For relief, I focus my attention momentarily on the oblivious pair now
approaching the elevator doors. The taller of the two -- a
rock-shouldered, grim-faced man -- is recognizable as Assistant Director
Skinner. I have been intrigued by AD Skinner's aura, or lack thereof,
since I first met him a week ago. It's difficult to find a human being
who consistently caps his emotions so tightly. But under that shiny,
metallic casing, I sense a maelstrom of colors; a veritable kaleidoscope
of emotion swirling dark and bright.

The younger man who accompanies him is far less interesting. He's a
flimsy half-yellow, plain and still. Nothing there, I think. I glance at
his name badge as he follows AD Skinner onto the elevator.

Jeffrey?

Figures.

I turn my eyes back down the hallway, aware that I've lingered too long
and might be in danger of drawing unwanted attention. Spooky is still
there, but he has propped his back on the wall and has his head down,
chin-to-chest. The jerky orange waves have faltered and faded, overtaken
by a miasma of pea-green and yellowish-grey.

Poor guy. I know first-hand what it's like to stick your foot so far in
it, you choke. He looks positively ill; guilt, shame, regret (and
lingering anger) make for an awful palette.

He pushes away from the wall and walks slowly toward the elevators, eyes
to the ground. He depresses the call-button and sighs, glancing in my
direction.

"Going down?" he asks, politely.

Caught off-guard, snapped back into black and white by the direct
address, I stammer inanely.

"Uh, no. I mean, yes. Down," I say, thumbing my purse strap over my
shoulder and shoving my hands into my coat-pockets.

Despite the slight danger of bringing the attention of Spooky Mulder to
bear on myself, I don't fight the urge to spend a few more moments in
his presence. He's too preoccupied with his little spat to take any
notice of me, anyway. I cast a quick glance at the identification
clipped to his lapel and mentally slap myself. How could anyone forget a
first name like that?

The *ping* sounds again, announcing the return of the car to our floor.

Before the doors even open, I know she's inside.

Spooky stands there like a deer caught in headlights, his colors
heightening to a brighter, though still sickly, pea-green and
greyish-yellow. He places his hand against the jamb, holding the doors
open. I sense no movement from within.

"I was on my way to find you," he says into the open elevator. He seems
oblivious to my presence, even as I take a step closer to his side. I
want a glimpse of the woman who left here in such a rage a few moments
ago.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mulder," she says firmly, moving as if to step
past him into the hallway. Spooky doesn't move a muscle but his colors
coalesce and harden.

"Scully, you were right," he says quickly, "and I was wrong."

Scully?

*This* is Special Agent Dana Scully?

Suddenly even more interested in this interaction than I was before, I
peer at her from around Spooky's shoulder.

Mrs. Spooky. The other half of the Bureau's notorious daring-duo. Aside
from being surprised at her short stature and trim build, I am shocked
by the shades of her emanations. I expected a big woman with a static,
icy-blue haze. Instead, I'm treated to that glowing blood-tinged deep
purple, filled with shifting textures and marked by sparks.

A passionate woman, if I don't miss my guess, and a true match for old
Sparky I mean Spooky over here.

"It's not that simple, Mulder," she tells him, glancing at his hand
where it holds the elevator door open. "Are you going to let me off?"

Spooky steps back and allows her to pass, but there's a jump in the
field around him as if he has decided to do something he's afraid to do.

"I will embarrass us both if you try to walk out of here, Scully," he
says, moving out of the way of another man who's trying to get into the
elevator. I sidle away from the sparring partners, resorting to
rummaging in my purse again, so that I won't appear to be too interested
in their conversation.

Agent Scully sighs mightily and turns to face him.

"I'm embarrassed enough for both of us, already, Mulder."

To my continuing surprise, I catch a glimpse of something other than
simmering rage from her; it looks like...amusement? Affection? Edging
the fiery burgundy is a deep, bright blue.

She has a fast turnaround, I think. Faster than most. Not one to hold a
grudge for long, I decide. I watch with interest as she takes a step
closer to her partner.

He must see something in her expression that eases his guilt and
assuages his fear, for he takes on a steadier shade of darkening green
that damps down swiftly to a warm hazel.

"I *am* sorry, Scully," he says softly. "I was out of line."

"Yes, you were," she agrees.

She waits him out, oblivious to me and everyone else who passes. The
deep, bright blue is gaining ground, spreading over the fires of her
anger, smothering it.

"Next time, I'll keep my mouth shut."

Agent Scully lets out a short laugh, without even smiling, and shakes
her head.

"No you won't."

Spooky has the grace to look chagrined but I can tell that he does mean
what he's saying. At least, he believes he does.

"Stay," he insists. "Don't make me go back in there by myself."

"That's the least you deserve, Mulder. I'm going home."

"I'll buy you dinner?" he tries again. "Not pizza?"

"You'll buy me dinner, anyway," she tells him. "Greek. Six o'clock."

I am so intent upon the conversation, I've let my concentration slip.
When I refocus, both agents are nearly the same shade of deep rose. Did
I miss something?

"Greek?"

"You know what I like." She ignores the grin he flashes at her. "And
bring a movie. Something *decent,*" she says, with a warning note in her
voice. The color I see in her face has nothing to do with my talent. I
wonder what that comment means?

"Six o'clock, then."

Agent Scully is already walking away, moving past AD Kersh's office
without a glance. She tosses a wave over her shoulder at Spooky, whose
eyes are smiling.

"Greek," he mutters, turning back to the elevator and punching the
call-button again. He notices me standing there, one hand still rooting
around lamely in the bottom of my purse.

"You still here?" he asks in surprise. His face looks completely
different when he's not bathing in emotions the color of vomit. His eyes
are sharper, too.

"Uh, yeah," I say, unsure if I should attempt to give a reason as to why
I haven't moved on already. From the look of intense scrutiny he's
giving me, I feel certain that he is going to ask me to explain my
rudeness.

He shrugs it off after a moment and steps into the elevator as the doors
slide open.

"Sorry about that," he says off-handedly as the doors close between us.

"No problem," I say to my silvery reflection, then murmur as I turn to
leave, "Thanks for the show."

*****************
End
True Colors (1/1)

Author's Note: I had a two-or-three-day-long experience, years ago, with
"reading" people. The Scully in me rationalized that I was probably
picking up on subtle facial expressions and other body language. The
Mulder in me says, "I know what I saw!" and I saw a thin ring of spiky
orange around a person who later turned out to be fuming over a fight
with her husband. (Actually, it was just a sort of "cap" around her
head, but I reserve the right to take liberties with my own delusions!)

Special thanks to Barbara D. for her thorough, thoughtful editing. I
used all your suggestions, Barbara, every one! Thank you!

E-mail me!

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