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What happens in Vegas doesn't always stay in Vegas.



RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: V
DISCLAIMER: Not mine; they belong to CC, FOX, etc.

Notes: This story is intended as a prequel to "First Comes Love," although both stories can stand on their own. This isn't the first time this scenario has been written, although I don't recall seeing it written exactly this way.

* * * * *
* * * * *

When Melville described Hell as an idea first born on a undigested apple dumpling, he'd obviously never been to Las Vegas. Hell must have been conceived during an interminable layover in the Las Vegas airport. I'm sure I'll be hearing the dinging of slot machines in my sleep tonight--that is, if I can ever get home to sleep.

Mulder and I are trapped here in this living nightmare because of weather delays. Never mind the fact that it was perfectly clear, and perfectly hot, all day long as we drove around the Nevada wilderness, and that there's not a storm system in sight for at least 100 miles in any direction. No, the reason we're sitting here subjected to the incredibly repetitive dinging and flashing is because of a thunderstorm in Chicago. Where our plane is currently sitting, waiting to take off. While I sit here in Las Vegas listening to the cacophony of slot machines, ringing, and pinging, and dinging...

I suppose it would be frowned upon for a federal agent to whip out her gun and put a few of those poor machines out of their misery.

And just when I think the evening can't get any worse, it happens--our flight status on the board is suddenly changed from "delayed" to "canceled."

Closing my eyes, I throw my head back against the seat and groan.

"Hey, cheer up, Scully," Mulder says, annoyingly enthusiastic. "The night is still young. What's the fun of being in Vegas if you don't get to enjoy the nightlife?"

I'm not sure I want to know what kind of nightlife Mulder is interested in enjoying. Somehow I don't think that lights are the only thing he wants to see flashing.

"Let's just get a room--"

"Ooh, Scully, I like the way you think."

I open my eyes and sit up straight to glare at him. "That's not what I meant. Mulder, I'm tired, I have a headache, and I just want to find a quiet place to get some sleep."

"C'mon, Scully, it'll be fun. The lights, the magic. There's no other place like it on earth."

Oh, no. He's whining, cajoling. Somehow he's going to talk me into this. I can already feel it. I have to be sure to hold out long enough that I get a good deal out of the situation. I cross my arms and settle further into my seat.

"All-you-can-eat buffet?" he tries. "I know you're hungry, and that Taco Bell over there isn't going to do it for you."

I remain silent and, I hope, poker-faced.

"I'll spring for some chips, and we'll wow them at the craps table."

I raise an eyebrow to up the ante.

"I'll even buy you a drink. It'll ease the headache and help you relax."

It's time for me to cash in. "Make it two and you've got a deal."

"Hey, I'll make it three. I'm feeling generous tonight."

What the hell. I'm tired, I'm cranky, and we're stuck here until tomorrow morning. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, right? If we're lucky, maybe we'll see Elvis.

* * *

*Ring*

I was right--I can still hear those damn slot machines even in my sleep.

*Ring*

I slowly surface to reality, and the sound becomes more recognizable. That isn't a slot machine. But the headache from last night is back full force, and that ringing isn't helping.

"Make it stop." Or at least, that's what I think I mumbled.

There's an answering moan just inches from my ear, startling me fully awake. I open my eyes to take in my surroundings. Light seeps through behind a curtain, dimly illuminating a hotel room. The air conditioner is blowing at full blast, chilling my exposed skin--and *a lot* of it is exposed. My pants are gone, my blouse is unbuttoned and hanging open. At least I'm still wearing my bra and underwear. But I notice that one part of my body is reasonably warm: the part of my abdomen and chest where a very male arm lies draped across my body. A *bare* male arm, with a hand cupping my breast. I close my eyes again, not sure I want to know how clothed the rest of him is.

Only as the ringing starts up again do I realize it had briefly stopped. It's a cell phone, somewhere on the other side of the room. I hear the moan again, clearly a sound of frustration, and emitted by a very familiar voice. His fingers reflexively grasp at me slightly before his arm lifts from me entirely. I close my shirt to fend off the resulting chill.

"Mulder," he rasps. His voice sounds turned away from me, so I venture a glance in his direction. My partner is seated on the edge of the bed, his bare back to me, the phone to his ear. And, to my relief, he's still wearing his boxers.

I tune out his conversation and try to piece together the details of how we got here. Receiving the hotel voucher at the airport, I remember. And dinner. And a couple of drinks. But maybe it was more than just a couple, because I don't remember much after that.

Mulder ends the call and grunts in my direction, "Skinner. He wants us in California."

"A new case?" A stupid question, I realize, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"Missing persons. Lights in the sky. You know, the usual. He wants us on it as soon as possible."

As he finishes speaking, he turns and looks at me. His eyes widen as he takes in my attire. Then he looks down at himself and frowns. Don't ask me, Mulder; I don't have any more of a clue than you seem to.

Self-consciously, I button up my blouse and try to avoid the obvious conversation. "I'll go take a shower. Why don't you call the airline and change our flight?"

Without sparing him another glance, I head for my suitcase that I see just inside the doorway, and I pull out my toiletry bag and fresh change of clothes. I'm almost to the bathroom when I hear Mulder's strained voice behind me.

"Scully? I think you should take a look at this."

Mulder is standing by the table across the room, clearly distressed by the piece of paper lying in front of him. I cross to him quickly, concerned what it is that has caused this level of anxiety.

But nothing can prepare me for what I see:

Certificate of Marriage. Fox William Mulder...Dana Katherine Scully...yesterday's date...both of our signatures. And a very official looking stamp by the State of Nevada.

Out of habit, I look up at my partner, who is staring at me in shock. Apparently, I'm not the only one who had too much to drink last night. And I can see in his eyes, he wants answers that I'm not ready to uncover. So I do the most sensible thing I can, under the circumstances--I avoid him.

I grab up the clothes that have fallen from my hand and head for the bathroom.

"Scully?" His voice is full of confusion, and perhaps a hint of desperation.

"Later, Mulder," I reply over my shoulder. "We have work to do."

When the bathroom door latches behind me, I slump against it and admit to myself the very truth I'm trying to deny:

I just got drunk and married my partner.

* * *

I set down the watering can and check my watch again. Watering my houseplants only managed to kill five minutes. I have another ten at least before Mulder arrives. I scan my apartment again, looking for something to distract me. I already went through the mail. My grocery list is done. I dusted yesterday.

So I do the only other thing I can think of--I return to pacing.

This nervous energy has been plaguing me all day, although I'm not entirely sure what to make of it. Am I happy that Mulder is bringing by the annulment papers from his lawyer? Relieved that this embarrassing farce will soon be over? Or is that a twinge of disappointment or dread that I'm feeling? I'm not certain that I want to know.

It's been almost a week since we returned from California. It was easy enough to put Las Vegas behind us when he had a case to focus on. Yes, there was some tension, a few awkward silences, but we were professional, we were partners, and we didn't let a personal matter get in the way of our work. Since then, we've done our best to avoid the subject. Or, at least, I thought we had, until yesterday.

As casually as he would say, "I'm stopping by the dry cleaners," or "I have a dentist appointment," Mulder said, "I'll drop by my lawyer's tomorrow and have him draw up the annulment papers."

Just like that. What happened in Vegas will stay in Vegas. As though it never happened at all.

That's a good thing, right?

I check my watch again. Mulder called almost half an hour ago to see if I was home and said he was on the way over. Taking into account traffic this time of day, and distance...

A familiar knock saves me from doing the math again. I take a deep breath and open the door.

"Hey," Mulder says, giving me a sheepish smile.

"Hi," I return, stepping aside to let him enter. Why do I feel as nervous as he looks?

I close the door and turn to see him facing me, grasping a large manila envelope in his hand. There it is. The papers. We sign them, and our moment of impulsiveness will be erased forever.

"Scully, why don't you have a seat?"

The way he said that doesn't help put me at ease. I sit down on the couch, but he doesn't follow his own suggestion.

"I talked to my lawyer and, well...it seems that getting an annulment isn't as easy as I thought it would be." He starts to pace around my living room, shifting the envelope between his hands. "You see, there's a very specific list of conditions under which you can request an annulment--"

"Isn't inebriation one of them? We were drunk, Mulder! We didn't know what we were doing!"

He stops and looks at me. "You didn't actually look at the paperwork from the wedding chapel, did you?"

I look away guiltily. No, I hadn't. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say. Or at least, that's what I was trying for.

"No," I admit quietly.

He pulls out a photocopied page from the manila envelope and hands it to me. While I look at the paper, he explains, "Before the ceremony, we signed an affidavit that we were sober and in our right minds. This place has enough of a history that they've learned to cover their bases for potential lawsuits."

I would be more than happy to call up the owners of this fine establishment and tell them just what I think of them allowing quite obviously intoxicated people to sign such a statement, let alone make life-long vows, but first things first.

I hand back the page. "Surely there must be some other condition that we meet."

Mulder grimaces. "Unless you can prove that we're blood relatives, I'm afraid not."

"What are you saying, Mulder?" I see where he's headed, but I'm not going to believe it unless he says the words.

"We'll have to get a divorce."

The breath leaves my lungs like I've been punched in the gut. How can I be divorced when I've never really been married? I don't know which part bothers me the most about it. It's not a Catholic thing, since our marriage was never recognized by the Church. But it's a social stigma. A demerit. Like getting an F on an exam because I forgot to show up for class that day. I want to plead ignorance and beg the teacher for another chance.

Mulder sets the envelope in front of me on the coffee table. After a moment of hesitation, he finally sits next to me on the couch. I stare at the envelope, unwilling to examine its contents.

"Scully," he says at last, breaking our silence, "there's something I'd like you to consider first."

I look over at him, eager for whatever ray of hope he's about to offer.

"Divorce--it's...an admission of failure. And I hate the idea of admitting failure for something that we never even gave a chance."

I raise my eyebrows. Is he proposing what I think he is? "Mulder..."

"Scully," he interrupts, lifting my hand from my lap and holding it in both of his. To my relief, he doesn't drop down on one knee. He seems to weigh his words, then continues. "I know we didn't go about this the right way, but...we obviously care about each other, right?"

I nod dumbly.

He absently strokes my palm with his thumb. "And we're already committed to taking care of each other, at least on some level. We've been doing it for years."

"Yeah," I manage to squeak out.

"And you're already like family to me. Closer, even. We spend a number of holidays together. Evenings, weekends. It's no wonder people are always mistaking us for a couple."

"Uh huh." I'm still nodding.

"So, what do you say?"

"Yes?" I realize a moment too late--I meant that as a question, not an answer. He was leading me there, and I simply said the next logical statement in the train of thought. He must understand this, because he looks uncertain.

"Yes?" he asks.

"No!" I blurt out. "I mean, I don't know. I'm not sure yet. I need to think about this."

"Okay, take your time," he offers.

I need space. I get up and walk to the kitchen. Bracing my arms against the counter, I try to calm the thoughts racing through my head.

Married. To Mulder.

There are worse fates, I suppose. He's correct, we didn't go about this the right way. He's not asking me to marry him; he's asking me not to divorce him. I can't help but laugh. It's crazy, and unconventional--but why should I expect anything less where the two of us are concerned?

My chuckle dies down, and I turn and look back at my partner. He is smiling ruefully, sharing my mirth at our own expense, even without me saying a word of explanation. Even so, there's a spark of hope in his eyes.

If I'm going to divorce him, it might as well be for a good reason, right? I should at least give him a chance to piss me off or create irreconcilable differences. Why kick him to the curb so soon?

It's crazy.

I push away from the counter and return to the living room.

It's unconventional.

I open the manila envelope and pull out the divorce papers. Then I tear them in half.

It's us.

I drop the papers onto the coffee table and turn to my partner--my *husband*--who looks positively giddy.

"On one condition," I say.

His smile wavers slightly. "Anything."

"I want a ring."

His smile broadens, and he nods.

Well, to be honest, I want a lot of things, but a ring's a good place to start.

It'll make this easier to explain to my mother.

* * * * *
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Author's notes: The beauty of writing a prequel: those of you who would request a sequel? It's already written!

First Comes Love


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