Once In A Lifetime

"And you may ask yourself, well... how did I get here?"
'Once In A Lifetime', Talking Heads

How did this happen?

I would give anything to know how this happened.

Because it shouldn't have happened, not this way, not at all...

It was supposed to be a simple favor. A fancy dress party, a reunion of some sort, a man's need for a date -- "Call it your good deed for the year," he suggested, at my dubious expression. "You can rack up karmic points, for the next time you need a favor from the gods," and laughed a little, as if it were a joke.

But his eyes... his eyes were pained and sad, as if it hurt him to have to plead for what amounted to my pity; and lurking in their depths, a hidden fear, as if bracing himself for the whiplash of my rejection.

So I agreed. I don't know who was more surprised, him or me -- but I agreed: to be picked up at eight o'clock, to be Frohike's date for the party.

And that is the last part that makes sense to me.

I didn't tell Mulder. I'm not sure why. No, I do know -- because I knew how he'd react: with disbelief and amusement, and some sarcastic comment about my generosity and Frohike's unattractiveness. And when I envisioned Mulder's inevitable reaction in my mind, I found that image overlaid with the memory of Frohike's expression as he'd asked me, that pained sadness... No doubt, Mulder would have some caustic comment to tease Frohike with, the next time they spoke; and why should I cause that to happen? For what earthly reason should I cause Frohike that sort of humiliation?

He might be a lecherous little toad of a man, but he didn't deserve that sort of cruelty.

The point of the exercise, I inferred, was to impress his fellow party-goers; so I dressed carefully, enhancing my appearance in every possible way. The push-up bra from Frederick's that Missy bought me as a gag birthday gift, the one I never wear -- the emerald-green dress that clings like a second skin, just this side of X-rated. It had cost Frohike dearly to ask me to go with him, and it seemed only fair to me that I do my best to make the evening memorable for him... no, not that way, but in every other. And okay, maybe there was some degree of pity involved, though I'd prefer to think of it as compassion... he'd been a friend to me, and this was a way in which I could be a friend to him in return.

When he showed up at my door, I was pleasantly surprised. Clean-shaven, neatly groomed. Expensive suit, well- tailored. He looked -- 'handsome' would have been a stretch, I'll admit; but certainly far less disreputable than I was accustomed to. And the expression on his face... I'd expected a leering grin, but his gaze was almost reverential.

"You are stunning," he said, in a voice barely above a whisper, and handed me a bouquet of roses that must have cost him a mint; and I was amazed to feel myself blush.

Maybe that was when it began. At least, that was when it began to feel less like a favor than an actual date...

I'd thought he would be full of chatter, flirting and trying to impress me; but instead he was silent throughout the drive. Too silent -- and after awhile I realized that he was nervous, deeply and desperately nervous of whatever he was facing. "You never did tell me exactly where we're going," I said finally, giving him an opening to talk about it.

He sighed. "Every ten years, I do this," he muttered, "and I swear, I don't know why. I never liked these people when I went to school with 'em -- maybe I keep thinking they'll have changed. Or that I'll have changed. Or maybe I just figure they need someone to look down on." The bitterness in his voice was a terrible thing to hear.

High-school reunions... I went to three different schools, thanks to my father's reassignments, each one worse than the last. Once, just once, I went to a reunion -- and the only people who remembered me were the ones who'd once teased me for being a bookworm and a nerd; a few cutting remarks in the ladies' room, and I'd decided to leave early. Who had Frohike been in high school? Somehow, I couldn't see him as the captain of the football team, or leader of the in-crowd -- his comments seemed to indicate that I was right.

"Maybe it'll be different this time," I said, making what I suspected was a futile attempt to lighten his mood.

But he looked at me and smiled. "With a woman like you by my side, I can almost believe that," he said, very softly. "Thank you, Dana."

I wish I could believe that it was pity I felt for him, then. It would have been so much easier if it had been pity. But instead... instead, I was struck by the courage in him: the strength it must have taken, to face what had to be an ordeal and struggle to maintain that optimism...

I found myself reaching out to take his hand. "It's my pleasure," I told him, and was amazed all over again to realize that I meant it. That I was deeply and genuinely pleased to be Melvin Frohike's date for the evening.

And if that was where it began, well, the reunion itself was where it culminated.

Part of his dread became self-explanatory as we walked into the ballroom. Rarely have I seen so many Beautiful People crammed into one room... People age, they grow old, but they also get facelifts and Ferraris, and this was without a doubt a facelift-and-Ferrari crowd. The name of the school was familiar to me: an old and prestigious private school -- no wonder Frohike dreaded these occasions. In his place, I would never have attended, and I don't become intimidated easily...

In the moment we stepped over the threshold, as I felt him take a deep breath and steel himself to face the evening, I realized all over again what this night was costing him emotionally; and I decided that I was damned well going to play the role he wanted me to play.

That resolve strengthened as I found myself being introduced to the others at our table -- doctors, lawyers, professionals all, and each one with the same disdain in their eyes when they looked at Frohike. Conversation bore out my suspicions: shallow, superficial creatures, more concerned with their games of one-upmanship than honest discourse as they bragged about salaries, status, cars and yachts... "And have you known Melvin long, my dear?" inquired one woman with polite disinterest, her face stretched so tight that it was a wonder the sutures didn't pop.

"Long enough," I said sweetly. "We're engaged to be married," and thought for a moment that Frohike was going to choke on the sip of wine he'd unfortunately just taken.

But he recovered so smoothly that no one noticed, and helped me weave a lie of our life together that was so plausible and so detailed, I got the distinct feeling that he'd been building the fantasy for a long, long time. Only a short time before, such a concept would have disturbed me. Now, though -- the idea that he cared so much for me... and the touch of his hand, his fingers wrapped around mine, seemed suddenly so much warmer and more intimate... and it didn't feel like a lie, the elaborate tale of our fictitious relationship: only a truth we hadn't yet made real.

I waited for a break in the conversation, to excuse myself and make my way to the ladies room -- so that I could touch up my makeup, and catch my breath, and dear lord, get my pantyhose unstuck from my crotch, and wonder in the privacy of the toilet stall what the hell was happening to me.

This was Frohike. Frohike. The lecherous little toad. The man who'd begged to be included in Mulder's will as recipient of his collection of video porn. And I was reacting like a schoolgirl with her first crush... why? Was it sympathy? Pity? A natural reaction to his courtesy and evident appreciation?

It had to be that. Had to be. Impossible that I might actually be falling for Frohike...

Jack Willis.

Older than I was, scruffy and rough-edged, nowhere near handsome, and the first thing he ever said to me was a sexist remark so crude that I banished its exact wording from my memory. When we first met, I thought he was the biggest creep in all creation. Three and a half weeks later, I was so sexually obsessed with him that the mere sound of his voice made me stick to my underwear. Two weeks after that, I knew I was in love -- and years later, long after our affair had ended, I still cared for him so much that his death caused me to cry myself to sleep for ages...

Jack Willis. No one could believe it when we started seeing each other, least of all me -- and while it lasted, we were so damned good together...

Melvin Frohike. Older than Jack, scruffier and rougher- edged and even farther away from handsome. 'Lecherous little toad', that was his reputation, and doubtless one he'd gone to great lengths to perfect -- but with me, away from 'the boys', he'd never been anything but a friend.

Was it really so impossible that I might be falling for him? Was it?

I smoothed my expression until my confusion didn't show, sailed back to our table; he sprang to his feet as I approached, a courtesy so perfectly executed that it had to be instinctive. "Care to dance, my love?" he asked me, in a tone that suggested he'd been waiting to say those words -- the last two, at least -- for a very long time; and I took his hand and let him lead me to the dance floor.

Another surprise: He could dance. I mean, really dance. Exact rhythm, light on his feet, graceful... and his eyes never flickered down the front of my low-cut dress, his hand never strayed from the small of my back; a perfect gentleman. And there was something very nice about dancing with someone my own height; about not having to look up. We fit into each other's arms comfortably. We fit together.

We fit together perfectly, and it was like dancing in a dream, where dancing feels like flying; and he smelled so damned good...

Gazing into his eyes, I damn near fell in and drowned.

He murmured something, so softly I almost couldn't hear him. "You don't have to do this."

"What?" I couldn't imagine what he was talking about.

"Look, Dana... you're here with me. You're here. That's all I ever asked you for, and... and it's far better than I ever dreamed. You don't have to play 'let's-pretend' games for the benefit of these assholes, you don't have to lie for me. I never expected that from you. I don't... I don't ever want you to be anything but who you are, Dana." His eyes, his eyes, my God, his eyes. Windows to the soul...

...and this time, I did fall in.

"This is who I am," I heard myself whisper, and I leaned forward...

And someone stumbled into us, nearly knocking me over.

"Hey!" Righteous indignation in Frohike's voice, as he slipped one arm around me to steady me. "Watch it, Woodman!"

The man's face was too smooth and unlined to not have been under the plastic surgeon's knife, his suit was far too ostentatiously expensive -- and he reeked of liquor. "Watch it yourself, Frohike," he retorted, slurring his words, "or I'll find a locker to stuff you into, just like the old days." And then he noticed me. "He-e-ey, not bad," he opined, staring at me in a way that made me want to go and scour my skin with sandpaper. "So, how much didja have to pay her?"

I happened to be watching Frohike's face at that moment, and the sudden onslaught of cold fury... "You will not talk about Dana that way."

"Oh, really? Whatcha gonna do about it, little man?" sneered Woodman.

Frohike stood his ground. "Whatever it takes."

And this drunken asshole was about Mulder's height, maybe twice his weight, muscular, and from all appearances had made a high-school career of stuffing Frohike into lockers; and though no one else could see it, I was close enough to feel Frohike trembling -- and yeah, yeah, it's a feminist-oppression cliche, romance-novel bullshit to be scorned by any independent modern woman, yadda yadda yadda...

...but there was Frohike, ready to beat the crap out of this jerk or die trying, to defend my honor, and at that moment he was ten feet tall and wearing shining armor as far as I was concerned.

And I couldn't let him do it. I couldn't let him get hurt, on my behalf.

"Mel?" I said tentatively. I'd never used his first name before. "It's not worth it, honey. He's not worth it. Let's just leave, okay?"

His arm snugged a little tighter around my waist. "You want to leave, Dana?"

"Yes, I do," I said, confident now that we could get out of the situation without bloodshed.

"Yeah, go home, Melvin," sneered the asshole drunk. "Go take your slut back to her whorehouse..."

The fight was quick, and brutal; and oh, how I longed to step into the middle of it. Even without my weapon, I know a few good moves, ways to subdue a much larger assailant. But it would have been the worst, the most horribly emasculating thing I could have done to Frohike... so there was nothing I could do but watch. Watch, and decide with every punch that I was going to find some way to nail that son of a bitch, if I had to scour every database in the district for unpaid parking tickets...

When it was over, I wiped the blood from his face as best I could with one of the cloth napkins snatched from a table, and helped him out to the car.

"Oh, God," he moaned, as his head settled back against the headrest. "I shouldn't have come here. I should never have come here. I shouldn't have brought you... Dana, I am so sorry. I'm so sorry I put you through this."

Sitting there in my car, bleeding and aching, apologizing to me for having caused me distress...

I think that was the moment when I knew for certain.

"You did nothing wrong," I told him. "Nothing."

"I should have let it go. I should have walked away. Ah, but I couldn't... I could have walked away from anything else, except..." and he turned his head away from me.

It wasn't easy, but I found a spot on his face that wasn't bleeding or swelling, stroked it with gentle fingertips. "You have nothing to apologize for."

I could have taken him to the emergency room, or back to his place. I could have taken him anywhere. But instead, I took him home with me. I took him home, cleaned and bandaged his wounds, loosened his tie and got him settled down on my couch with a cup of tea; and he let me do it, never protesting, allowing me to treat him and care for him as if it were a dream come true for him -- and maybe it was.

"I'm thinking there has to be some way we can nail that bastard," I mused aloud, sipping my own tea.

Frohike managed a grin, though it had to have hurt. "Guys like Woodman always think that physical strength is the ultimate power in the universe. I'm thinking that it's probably never even occurred to him to wonder why the IRS has audited him every single year since eighty-two..."

I had to laugh, I couldn't help but laugh; and Frohike's answering smile seemed a lot more genuine.

"Listen, Dana," he continued, "I want to thank you. Tonight was... probably one of the most special nights of my life. If it meant getting my ass kicked, well, it was worth the price."

And I knew that this was it, this was the moment, this was the time; things had happened, everything had changed, and it was irrevocable, and it was right.

Mulder would think I was crazy; but to hell with what Mulder thought.

"I could have lived without watching you get your ass kicked," I told him, seating myself on the edge of the couch, close enough to touch. "But as for the rest of it... tonight was very special for me, too."

Then I leaned forward, and kissed him.

It was... tentative, at first; as if he was waiting to see if I really meant it, or maybe just paralyzed with shock. Then the kiss deepened -- and I lost myself in it: in him. His arms rose and wrapped around me, drew me closer, pulled me down, and oh God, I was kissing Frohike, and it was wonderful.

Wonderful enough that we kept kissing, for a very long time.

That was last night. It's morning now.

And here I am, sitting cross-legged on my bed, thinking about Frohike -- Mel -- presumably still asleep on my couch, wondering how the hell this happened, and what it means. Wondering how I'm going to walk out there and face him... fighting the urge to put on makeup before I do.

Thinking about kissing him again, and maybe more.

Finally, I summon up my courage and walk out there, into the living room. He's awake, and dressed -- five o'clock shadow, suit rumpled from having been slept in, now this is the Frohike I know best -- but he looks so different to me now.

He looks so damn good that it hurts. Except for his face, all bandages and bruises, which just hurts to look at.

"Hi, Dana," he says sheepishly. "I, um, I borrowed some of the codeine pills in your medicine cabinet. I made coffee, too; hope that's okay."

"Of course it is. How do you feel?" I ask him, reaching out to touch his face -- wondering at the way he steps back before I can.

"Oh, I'm fine. No, that's a lie; I feel like crap. Another cup of coffee would help... if you don't mind..."

"Of course I don't mind." Again, I move closer, and again he backs away... "I think we need to talk," I tell him.

He sighs. "Dana..." and stops himself abruptly. "Agent Scully, I, um... I don't have any illusions, or really, any expectations. Last night was, it was amazing, but... that was last night. And this is today, and the dream is over, and you don't have to let me down easy, okay? I already know." He smiles a little -- more accurately, tries to smile. "Just let me grab another cup of coffee, and you can go on with your life."

How did this happen?

I would give anything to know how this happened.

Because it shouldn't have happened, not this way, not at all.

But I look at him now, and all I feel is tenderness, and desire...

"Mel," I say, "we are going to work on these self-image issues of yours."

I take another step toward him, and this time he doesn't back away.

His poor face. All those bruises. "Hold still," I tell him, "or this is going to hurt..."

And I kiss him. And he kisses me back. And damn, is he good.

"That didn't hurt a bit," he says breathlessly, when we separate.

"Oh, that's good," I reply, and kiss him again.

Better and better.

"Did you say you made coffee?" I ask him afterwards.

"I did," he acknowledges.

"I could use a cup of coffee," I say thoughtfully.

"Okay," he says -- and he kisses me first, this time.

Ohhh, yes.

"Mel..."

"Dana."

"Coffee?"

"Of course."

One more kiss, just for luck.

"You know, you're better than codeine..."

How did this happen?

Ask me if I care. Go ahead, ask me.

I'm being kissed -- deeply and thoroughly, with great intensity -- by Melvin Frohike.

And life is good.

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