DREAM ON
Category: S, A, UST
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: The X-Files and all ancillary materials pertaining
thereto belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, 20th Century Fox, and
whoever owns them. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is
being made.
Archive: Gossamer yes. If anyone else is interested, just let me know.
Summary: Scully tries Mulder's version of a normal life.
Timeline: After Dreamland
Spoilers: Everything up to Dreamland
Author's notes: At the end.
Thanks: To Amy Seymour, haphazard method, and zoot for reminding me that
less is not always more, but is sometimes not enough
ladies, for insightful comments and suggestions for this story, and for
continued encouragement.
***
Monday; 7.45 am
"Damn Georgetown yuppie SUV drivers all to hell," Scully muttered,
stalking from one end of her bedroom to the other, eyes sweeping the
floor. "Mulder, look on the desk again," she called out. "I always leave
them there."
Still scanning the bedroom, she mentally reviewed the objects on her desk
-- the ones that Mulder had no doubt memorized instantly when the great
search began five minutes ago: her laptop, two neatly addressed and
stamped bills, a small cut glass bowl containing an assortment of loose
change and safety pins, her purse (thoroughly pawed through -- by her --
three times), and, dammit, her keys. Or that's where they usually rested
overnight, ready to be grabbed at a moment's notice.
In a sudden flash, two thoughts crystallized simultaneously. She had flung
the keys on the kitchen counter last night, after dragging through the
door and heading straight for the tea pot to brew some Scully Prozac.
And there was one more object on the desk -- one she didn't want Mulder to
see.
"Mulder!" she called, "It's okay, don't look at-- Don't look anymore. I
know where they are." She skidded to a halt in the bedroom doorway at the
sight of Mulder, hands jammed in the pockets of his trench coat, staring
at the small brass box on her desk.
"Find them, Scully?" he asked absently.
"Yeah, um yes, at least, I remembered where I left them," she said,
hurrying into the kitchen. She scrabbled through the canisters on the
counter, and found the keys tucked between the one marked flour (which
contained black beans) and the one marked sugar (which contained white
rice).
Rushing back to the living room, she found Mulder in the same place,
wearing the same preoccupied expression, gaze fixed on the same object.
"Ready, Mulder," she said, with a sinking heart and a bright smile.
Mulder finally glanced in her direction. "Are you sure you're okay,
Scully?" he said. "You could take the day off."
"Minor damage to the car, nothing happened to me," she said, gathering her
purse and the bills. "I'd rather go into work than sit around here waiting
to hear from body shops and insurance companies."
"Yeah, these days you can sit around work and do that," Mulder agreed, as
he held the door for her.
"Thanks for the ride," she said. "I'll pick up the rental at lunch time."
"You'll miss lunch," he said, as they got into the car. "Think of all that
yogurt going to waste."
"The yogurt and I will both survive, Mulder."
Mulder drove in preoccupied silence. Scully, as was her habit since
returning from Nevada, mulled over the contents of the small brass box on
her desk. Had Mulder looked inside? She shot a glance in his direction,
but couldn't detect any change in his expression. He certainly wasn't
sneaking any looks at her, which hopefully meant that his thoughts were
far away.
Her thoughts were drifting in the same direction, when the sound of
Mulder's voice made her jump.
"Do you really want another dog?" He was staring at the brake lights of
the car in front of them.
"What?"
"As part of the normal life. You might be right, Scully. I don't think you
can have a normal life without a dog." He paused, then muttered, "A normal
dog."
Scrambling to find the page Mulder was on, she said, "So what do you have
if you own fish? An abnormal life?"
"I think so."
"I like fish," she said, encouragingly.
"Yeah, with lemon and butter," he said, shaking his head. "I don't know if
you know what a Zen thing it is, to have fish. It's not normal, like
having a dog."
"A Zen thing?"
"You know, the great cycle of life repeated over and over. You're born,
you travel in a little plastic bag from the fish store to a new land-- um,
tank, you get educated, try to make friends, dodge the hermit crab
conspiracy, maybe meet somebody."
He paused. She waited.
"Eventually you die, and take the long journey through the vortex out to
sea where you become... fish food. And everything starts all over again."
"Mulder, did somebody slip a Disney video into your last shipment by
mistake?"
"You brought it up, Scully. You said you'd like to try a normal life,
remember?"
She found the page. "I think that was a reaction to a long drive through
the desert, Mulder. I'm not sure I'd be any good at a normal life, as a
matter of fact."
"So you've changed your mind? No picket fence? No minivan with an 'I brake
for nothing and nobody' bumper sticker? No normal dog? No American dream
that everyone else takes for granted?"
"Well, even if I did have that dream once, very briefly, I misplaced it
just before I walked into that office in the basement six years ago," she
said lightly.
"Yeah?"
"I must have stored it somewhere for safekeeping, but I don't remember
where."
"Like your keys?" he asked, in a flat voice. "Maybe you put it in a
special little container."
Dammit, she thought. He'd looked in the box.
She bit her lip, and tried to continue in the same light vein. "Well,
dreams like that are pretty elusive Mulder." Feeling his eyes on her, she
glanced over with a tentative smile. "So, I guess I misplaced that one,
and then things got really busy, and I forgot to get another one."
He regarded her soberly. "The first of many losses, huh?"
It was a joke, a stupid joke, she thought. Oh, Mulder, don't take it so
seriously. If we start to take this subject seriously, I may never
recover.
But she didn't say anything out loud.
They passed the finishing crawl through downtown traffic in silence.
***
Monday; 4.23 pm
Subject: A modest proposal
Date: Mon, 09 Nov 1998 16:23:48
From: FWMulder
Organization: Federal Bureau of Investigation
In order to determine the validity of the hypothesis that the
minivan/picket fence/dog model is the only acceptable paradigm
for normality, I propose dinner-a-deux, tonight.
Subject: You can't be serious
Date: Mon, 09 Nov 1998 16:25:11
From: DKScully
Organization: Federal Bureau of Investigation
The last time we did anything "a deux", extremely large bugs and
restraints were involved. May I suggest that, as per our previous
discussion, hypotheses of this sort do not merit investigation,
but should, in fact, be left unexamined, so that they may
die a quiet, peaceful death.
Subject: Incentive
Date: Mon, 09 Nov 1998 16:26:27
From: FWMulder
Organization: Federal Bureau of Investigation
Although you make extremely large bugs and restraints sound
nearly irresistible (if not quite normal) my proposal is
unfortunately
more mundane.
You have no doubt built up a hearty appetite by missing
lunch. I'll cook.
Subject: Trumped
Date: Mon, 09 Nov 1998 16:27:02
From: DKScully
Organization: Federal Bureau of Investigation
You're on.
Subject: Venue
Date: Mon, 09 Nov 1998 16:28:42
From: FWMulder
Organization: Federal Bureau of Investigation
For reasons beyond my control, my place is not exhibiting an
acceptable level of normality at this time. Therefore, for the
purposes of experimentation within the proper context, I
propose your place, as the closest thing to normal we can find
on short notice.
***
Monday; 6.10 pm
Entering her apartment, Scully drew on years of field training to make a
quick assessment, then heaved a small sigh of relief. No odd sounds to be
heard, and the living room appeared intact. Maybe he'd chickened out, she
thought, as she hung up her coat. Or maybe he was out bribing some chef to
make a house call.
Dropping her keys and purse on the desk, she walked into the kitchen, then
paused at the sight of half a dozen large sunflowers in a tall glass jar,
displayed prominently on the kitchen table. With a surprised smile, she
headed toward them and moved up on her toes. Breathing in the pleasing,
subtle green smell, her smile broadened. They smelled alive.
She glanced into the kitchen for some clue as to Mulder's plans for
dinner, then frowned at the neatly mounded pile of dry spaghetti on the
counter. She glanced back at the makeshift flower vase and sighed. Either
tonight's entree was going to include noodles, or she would have to find
another tall storage jar.
The sound of a key scraping across the front door lock sent her back out
into the hallway. She opened the door and found Mulder, juggling keys in
one hand, a large, lumpy plastic bag in the other, and a long loaf of
bread under his arm. His look of frustration was replaced by one of
disappointment as she swung the door wider.
"Oh, it's you," he said.
"You were expecting maybe Donna Reed?"
"No, I-- I thought I would get back before you got home." He walked into
the hallway, then stood, shifting nervously. "How's the rental? Did you
get a minivan?"
"To fight fire with fire? They didn't have any tanks, so I took my life in
my hands and got a compact." She leaned forward, curiosity getting the
better of her. "What's in the bag?"
He stepped back warily. "Uh, when I first came by I found a great parking
space for once, and I didn't want to lose it, so I thought I'd walk to
that place down the street--"
"The Quickie Mart?"
"Yeah, um-- I think that's what it was. And the Italian bakery further
down." He raised the bag, and let out a muffled curse as the loaf of bread
fell to the floor. Staring down at it disconsolately he said, "I got stuff
for dinner."
Shaking her head in disbelief, she smiled and scooped up the bread. "Well,
come on into the kitchen, Jacques. Let's see what you've got."
"Scully, I'm-- Maybe I should have mentioned that the best thing I make
for dinner is reservations."
"You're not getting out of it that easily, Mulder. You said you'd show me
how normal should be. So--" She gestured with the bread toward the
kitchen.
Sighing, he trudged forward. "Did you know that you can't rent a dog?" He
hefted the bag up onto the counter. "So this little experiment will
definitely be missing something."
"That's okay," she said, settling at the kitchen table. "As experiments
go, this is going to be entert-- interesting enough."
He poked at the pile of spaghetti, then turned to face her somewhat
defensively. "I was going to make barbecued ribs, but then," he gestured
toward the flower vase, "I thought maybe I should make spaghetti."
"Spaghetti's fine," she said mildly. "Thank you for the flowers, Mulder.
They're beautiful."
Still turned toward her, in that defensive pose, he said, "There are six."
"I can count."
He stared at her for a moment, then gave a short nod of acknowledgment.
"Mulder," she said, eyeing his trench-coated figure, "why don't you take
off your coat and stay a while?"
He turned back from reaching into the bag, smiling slightly this time.
"Are you suggesting that I slip into something more comfortable?"
He walked toward her, holding her gaze. As he shrugged off his coat and
suit jacket, and draped them over a kitchen chair, a gleam appeared in his
eye. He rolled up his sleeves, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned the top
two buttons of his dress shirt, then paused.
Expecting a tip, Mulder? she thought. "You should take that off too," she
murmured, reaching up to tap the tie. "You're liable to flavor the sauce
with it." To her surprise, he remained still, hands at his sides.
She crossed her arms, and looked back.
He shrugged, and unknotted the tie. Before he could pull it off, she
grabbed one loose end and did it for him, watching it snake around his
neck, and trail across his chest. "Ready to cook now?" she asked, noting
the little quirk his eyebrows made above his otherwise composed
expression.
"Sur--" he cleared his throat. "Sure. So," he continued, walking back to
the counter and pulling open the bag. "Red or white?"
She had a brief, disorienting flash of Eddie van Blundht, wearing a Mulder
leer and proffering a bottle, then swallowed and said, "Red."
He nodded, and pulled a jar of marinara sauce out of the bag.
Okay, it really is Mulder, she thought. She ran the tie through her
fingers, momentarily saddened by its subdued pattern, so unlike those he
had worn when she'd first known him. She placed it over the chair, then
took off her own jacket, and draped it over his. She watched with growing
curiosity as a small bottle of olive oil, a tub of whipped butter, a jar
of Spanish olives, and a bottle of Italian salad dressing joined the sauce
on the counter.
"Do you want something to drink, Mulder?" she asked.
Triumphantly, he pulled a four pack of bottled iced tea from the seemingly
bottomless bag.
"Oh, good," she said, wondering if she should tell him that the only
non-alcoholic drink she had in the house, besides water and orange juice,
was root beer. Would that set off another round of innuendoes? "I'll get
some glasses."
"Um," he said, peering into the bag, "do you have any lettuce, Scully?
They don't sell it at the Quickie Mart."
With her back to him, she was able to hide a smile. So, he'd bought salad
dressing, but had obviously counted on her to provide something to dress.
What would you do without me, Mulder? she thought.
"In the refrigerator," she said.
The oddity of the situation began to sink in as she pulled two tall
glasses down from the cupboard. Mulder is in my kitchen, she thought,
fixing dinner. All because of one off-hand remark and the tenacity with
which the Mulder mind pursued a challenge.
As he bent to rummage through the vegetable crisper, she gazed at the only
part of his anatomy that wasn't blocked by the refrigerator door. She'd
never considered herself a member of the Mulder Appreciation Society that
populated the Bureau, the small subgroup that seemed to view him as an
object of endless fascination. She wasn't that superficial, after all.
So why was she feeling vaguely like the dog that chased the pickup truck
-- and caught it? Now that I've got it, she mused, what the hell am I
going to do with it?
"There's a lot of stuff in here besides lettuce," he said, sounding
impressed. "Can I use some of it?"
"Sure," she said, shaking herself out of her reverie. "Want some help?"
"Okay," he said, turning and dumping an armful of green, red, and orange
vegetables on the counter. "I hate making salad."
"It's good for you Mulder," she said, taking out an ice tray and filling
the glasses.
"You can't eat that stuff fast enough to stay alive, Scully. It's the
perfect example of a poor return on energy invested."
"Sort of like the X Files," she joked.
His face turned carefully blank. "Yeah, something like that." He turned to
open the cupboard next to the stove.
"Other side," she said.
Mentally kicking herself, she filled the glasses, then reached into a
cupboard for a salad bowl. Just six months ago, that remark would have
gotten her a passionate argument. This was the perfect example of why they
needed the X Files back, she thought. They needed something, as she'd once
told him, to put their backs up against. The longer this enforced down
time went on, the more moody and unpredictable Mulder became, seesawing
between wild, independent pursuit of X File-like cases and desultory
performance of their assigned work.
To her dismay, she found herself responding to both attitudes with a
sullen sort of resentment, which she tried to disguise behind a veneer of
almost maternal indulgence. Neither facade suited her. With much less at
stake, their disagreements had taken on a personal quality, with the
potential to wound deeply.
She didn't like having that sort of power over Mulder, the power to make
him happy, or sad, or even to keep him going. She needed too much support
herself, for that. She wanted their equal partnership back.
"Do you have any garlic? asked Mulder, as he filled a large pot with
water. "And an onion?"
"Under the sink." She toyed with the idea of teasing him about whether
garlic and onions were a good idea for dinner-a-deux, but resisted the
urge. Those kinds of comments tended to boomerang on her.
She moved to the sink to wash the vegetables, wincing a little as the
sound of chopping was followed quickly by sniffling. "Okay, Mulder?"
"Yeah."
As soon as he began throwing chopped onion and garlic into hot olive oil,
she dampened a paper towel, handed it to him, and appropriated the cutting
board.
"I got some other stuff to put in the sauce," Mulder said, wiping his
eyes. He pulled a can of mushrooms, a can of corn, and a carton of frozen
pre-cooked breakfast sausage from the bag. He raised his eyebrows. "These
okay?"
"Well, that's Quickie Mart for you," she said faintly, trying to think of
a description for the proposed sauce that didn't involve the term 'a
normal dog's breakfast'. "A limited selection, but at least it's
expensive."
"Only the best for you, Scully." He gave her a watery smile.
And that's Mulder, she thought. Knock him down and he gets right back up
for more. She just never got used to being the one capable of delivering
the hardest punch.
She watched him slice the bread, not able to stop herself from commenting,
"You know, that did spend some time on the floor."
"The oven'll kill everything," he said confidently, rubbing slices with
garlic, then slathering them with butter. He placed them in the oven, and
turned back to his sauce.
"Ah," he said, suddenly. He reached for the jar of olives, opened it and
offered it to her. "Hors d'oeuvres?"
She flashed him a smile, reached in, and popped an olive into her mouth.
"Mmm, thank you."
"Jesus, Scully, you just reminded me that you eat live crickets. And you
were worried about the bread?"
"I didn't eat that cricket, Mulder, I palmed it," she said, reaching for
another olive.
"So you say. I think that cricket spent a few seconds contemplating its
doom while you turned away from me and Dr. Blockhead."
"Well, he'll never tell."
"Dr. Blockhead?"
"The cricket. I got him into the Federal cricket protection program. I'm
thinking of having him transferred to Kersh's office."
"Ooh, psychological warfare. Sign me up." He popped a few more olives,
then went back to his preparations.
During the next few minutes of companionable silence, while he stirred,
and she chopped, she came to the conclusion that this was one of the more
intimate moments she and Mulder had ever shared. Somehow, it seemed even
more intimate than the one night he had occupied her bed, suffering from
the after effects of poisoning and grief.
She looked up at him speculatively as he tasted the sauce, then reached
across her to the spice rack. Instead of leaning away, she allowed herself
a moment's indulgence, as the warmth and scent of his skin blocked out the
heat from the stove and the aroma of the Mulder version of fine Italian
cuisine. Pulling jars of basil and oregano from the rack, he flashed her a
quick, contented smile.
Maybe, she thought, this seemed more intimate because she had imagined him
in her bed, under better circumstances, on more than one occasion. But
she'd never imagined him in here.
As she finished mixing the salad, some special Mulder-sense made her turn
just as he was about to toss a parboiled noodle toward the ceiling.
"Mulder!"
He looked at her innocently, holding tightly to the strand of pasta. She
broke off the dangling end, examined the cross-section, then threw the
test subject into the trash. "Five more minutes."
"Did you make a wish?" he asked.
"As usual, I got the short end of the noodle," she retorted.
"Nope," he said, showing her the piece in his hand.
"I'm afraid I don't believe in the wish-fulfilling properties of half
cooked spaghetti, Mulder," she said.
"You're no fun," he muttered, turning back to stir the bubbling sauce.
No, I'm not, she thought. I'm a drip, and a bore, and a killjoy. A
pedantic, literal-minded rationalist. It's my special gift. So why do you
hang around? She thought back to the scene this morning, and wondered
again what sort of conclusion Mulder had drawn from the contents of the
little brass box. Was that why he was here in her kitchen, doing a Martha
Stewart imitation?
Turning to the counter behind them, she looked up and decided that they
might as well make this festive, and use the china that her grandmother
had donated to her hope chest (or hopeless chest, as Melissa liked to call
it). Opening the cupboard door, she kicked off her shoes and scrambled up
onto the counter.
"Scully!" she heard Mulder say, then felt his hand settle on her back.
Enjoying the change in perspective, she looked down at him. "What?"
She watched with envy as he reached up and collected plates, bowls, cups,
and saucers. He didn't even have to stand on his toes.
"Why didn't you just ask me?" he said.
The obvious answer hung between them. They had this all worked out, she
thought, when they were in the basement. Were they going to have to
redefine their roles for every new room they... worked in? With a fleeting
glance at her bedroom door, visible just past the living room, she said
reasonably, "I don't always have a tall person around."
Normally, she would have jumped down, but he was standing too close, so
she lowered herself to sit on the counter. As if she was made of the same
fragile stuff as the dishes, he kept his hand at her waist the whole time.
They stared at each other for a moment, at an impasse, until Scully said,
"I think the bread is burning."
"Shit!" he said, turning away from her.
He pulled the bread from the oven, and stared down at the sliced loaf,
burned at both ends. "Guess those germs from the floor are dead now," he
said. Two relatively uncharred pieces remained in the middle. "So, how
many pieces of bread did you want?"
Having hopped down from the counter, she leaned around his shoulder and
surveyed the mess. "I think... one."
"Well, whoopee, that leaves one for me," he said, prying them loose and
throwing the rest in the trash.
To take his mind off his mourning, she asked, "How about some wine with
dinner, Mulder?"
"If you're buying."
She surveyed her small collection in the rack next to the refrigerator.
What would go best with breakfast sausage-corn-mushroom flavored sauce?
Beaujolais, Cabernet, or Merlot? Beaujolais, she decided. Go with the
dominant flavor.
"Almost ready, Scully," Mulder said. "Living room?"
She said, "No, let's eat in here," congratulating herself on forgoing the
comforting distraction of the television. They'd have only each other to
deal with in here. She wondered if they were up to the task.
Leaving him to dish up the meal, she set the table and poured the wine.
Throwing caution to the wind, she brought two candles in from the living
room, and placed them on either side of the sunflowers. She lit them, then
turned off the overhead light. Very romantic, she thought.
And then wondered, are we going for romantic? She looked over at Mulder,
who, at the sudden dimming of the room, had stopped piling the plates with
spaghetti and was staring at her. Well, she thought, if the mood came up,
at least the setting would be right. And besides, she was sure that sauce
was going to taste better if she couldn't see it very well.
"This is nice, Mulder," she said, sitting down.
"You haven't tasted it yet," he said, placing the plates of spaghetti on
the table.
"I wasn't talking about the food," she said.
He paused on his way back to the counter to pick up the salad bowls.
"Thanks," he mumbled. Coming back to the table, he sat down and asked,
"How does it rate as far as normal goes?"
She looked down at the spaghetti, smothered in corn kernel-flecked sauce.
"Pretty well," she said.
For us. Off the scale for anyone else.
"Your health," he said quietly, holding up his glass.
"Success," she said.
He stared at her for a moment, carefully touched his glass to hers, then
took a long swallow.
Well, this is a night for sacrifices, she thought, watching Mulder take a
tentative bite of salad, while she spooled noodles around her fork,
delaying the inevitable moment when she would have to take a taste.
Determined not to disappoint him, she braced herself and swallowed. "Huh,"
she said in surprise.
"Good?" he asked, abandoning the salad.
"Not bad," she said.
"Not bad? Well I guess can retire from the FBI and open that Italian
restaurant after all. I'll have them lined up around the block."
"Well, the fennel in the sausage is good. And the corn makes it kind of...
crunchy."
"I like crunchy things," he said with enthusiasm, taking a huge bite of
spaghetti.
"Then you should really enjoy that salad I made," she said, looking at him
pointedly.
He grinned at her and followed the spaghetti with a small forkful of
salad.
"Good?" she asked
"Fair."
"Thank you Mulder. You just lost yourself a partner in the restaurant
business."
"I guess I'll have to stay in the FBI, then," he said.
She dug back into the spaghetti, savoring it more than she was willing to
show. Hungry, and comfortable with Mulder in a way she never was with
anyone else, she ate heartily, enjoying chasing after the slippery noodles
as they fell from her fork. She looked up at a sudden sound from Mulder.
"Warm in here," he muttered.
"Hard work, slaving over a hot stove," she smiled. "Who knew you were so
domestic?"
"Who do you think put the domestic in domestic terrorism?" he said
absently, back to poking at the salad.
Not surprisingly, a domestic Mulder was one version she had never expected
to see. Which was just as well, since she wasn't very domestic herself.
She wondered idly what sort of turn their lives would have taken if they
had met under different circumstances, then shuddered at a sudden picture
of Mulder putting his heart and soul into a "normal" life, as he did
everything else, and ending up devastated after she walked out, not able
to take it.
She had no trouble picturing herself with Mulder for the rest of her life
-- truthfully, she couldn't picture the rest of her life without him. But
living a "normal" life? What she had told Mulder this morning was the
truth -- she had never regretted her choices. In fact, she hadn't really
given much thought to that sort of life, until confronted with the need to
create an instant family for a sad and sweet little stranger -- a little
girl with Melissa's pretty face and her own reserved nature.
They continued eating in silence, until she finished stuffing the ache of
loss back into the corner of her soul where she kept it under the
strongest of locks. Shaking herself mentally, she picked up the
conversation.
"Where did you learn to cook?" she asked, genuinely curious. "Did your
mother...?" She trailed off as the question earned her a twisted smile.
"Made it up as I went along, mostly," he said. "And I picked things up.
There are cooking shows on late at night, sometimes. But it's not worth it
to cook for yourself."
"Did you ever make this sauce for anyone else?" she asked, lightly.
"No." He paused. "Well, yeah, but not this recipe, exactly."
"Roommate?" she asked, knowing it was a stupid question for a man of
Mulder's age, but not quite able to articulate the word "lover" over the
strong wave of jealousy that washed through her.
He bit his lip and answered slowly, with multiple pauses. "I guess you
could say... someone who was supposed to be a mate. Of a sort. Living in
the same room. Sometimes." He was twisting his wineglass by the stem,
watching the dregs swirl and catch the candlelight.
"I've never really lived with anyone," she chipped in. "I always needed a
lot of space." That's enough, shut up now, she admonished herself. Then
continued anyway. "Keeping clothes and a toothbrush at someone else's
place, yes. Actually moving in and putting my name on the mailbox, no. I
don't know if I'd be good at it."
He was studying his plate morosely. "Unlike you, I know I'm bad at it," he
said, finally, reluctantly. "I've had proof."
Well, damn whoever it was, she thought. "You never know, Mulder," she
said. "A man who can keep fish alive for extended periods should be able
to sustain a relationship of some sort."
"Oh, I can do that," he said, lifting his eyes to her. "I've had proof of
that, too."
She felt pinned by the intensity of his gaze, the focus of all his energy
and desire at that moment, and realized again how serious this was. She
had felt it for the first time during the grim period when she was so
close to death, but it had been omnipresent since Antarctica, and the loss
of the X-Files. Somehow she had become the ballast keeping Mulder's heart
and soul on an even keel, an awesome responsibility, for which she often
felt neither qualified nor fit. She got up abruptly from the table,
gathering plates and silverware.
She walked into the kitchen, feeling his eyes on her all the way. Dumping
the plates into the sink and starting the coffee maker, she began a
familiar, self-directed pep-talk. Get over yourself. This is your life --
your not-quite-normal life. You don't have a dog or a minivan. You do have
a partner. And it's past time to find the courage to take what he needs to
give. Taking a deep breath, she turned her focus back to Mulder. To her
surprise, he was pacing restlessly from the table to the door that opened
onto the living room and back.
"Got any dessert in that magic bag, Mulder?"
"Yeah," he said. "From the bakery."
"Let me guess... sweet potato pie?" she said.
"It's an Italian bakery, Scully," he said disapprovingly.
She peered at the remaining objects in the bag, and shuddered at the jar
of Alfredo sauce, thankful she hadn't chosen white. The box of emergency
candles made her pause -- perhaps one of them had planned on going for
romantic, after all. She pulled a small white box from the bag and opened
it.
"Amaretti," she said, spontaneous smile faltering at Mulder's solemn gaze.
He was standing next to the table, back in the defensive pose he had
displayed earlier."I thought you might like to make another wish."
"Why would I need to do that, Mulder?" she said softly. "This one turned
out just fine."
He settled back in his chair. "This was normal enough for you?" he asked,
doubtfully.
No, this was nuts, she thought. But I do like nuts, Mulder. You've
certainly convinced me of that over the last six years.
"I told you when all this started that I'm not sure I'd be very good at
normal," she said, pouring the coffee, and returning to the table. "This
was... fine."
She opened the box of amaretti, handed one paper-wrapped confection to
him, and took one for herself.
"Yeah, that's what I was aiming for," he mumbled, with his mouth full.
"Fine."
"You just can't stand the idea of succeeding, can you Mulder?" she said,
gently.
"If I knew I had, maybe I...." He trailed off, watching intently as she
held the wrapper to the candle flame.
The corner ignited, and she held it for a moment, then let it go. It
fluttered downward, then reversed direction and began to float toward the
ceiling.
Just as she was about to make a wish, Mulder reached across the table.
"Mulder, don't," she said in alarm, as his hand passed through the
sparking remains of the paper.
He opened his palm and gazed at the streaks of ash for a moment, then
looked up at her with a rueful smile. "I was never any good at tea leaves,
either."
"We're okay, Mulder," she said feeling like a superannuated cheerleader --
superficial and inarticulate. "I'm okay."
Still smiling slightly, he said "Well, as long as you're sure you're
okay."
On that brilliant conversational note, they lapsed back into companionable
silence, sipping their coffee and watching the flickering shadows thrown
by the candles' flames. A sudden flash caught her eye, and she turned to
see that Mulder's earlier pacing had a purpose.
"Have you ever been to Italy, Scully -- to Tuscany?" he said, idly turning
the small brass box over in his hands.
"No, we were never stationed in Europe," she said warily.
"Around this time of year, there are fields--" he glanced up, then
continued, "fields of sunflowers that stretch away from the roads in every
direction."
"I've always wanted to see Tuscany," she said, not at all sure where he
was going with this, and hoping he wouldn't open the box and force them to
explain themselves to each other. One step at a time, Mulder.
"It's pretty amazing. I've never seen so many sunflowers in one place.
Each one from a single seed." He placed the box carefully on the table.
"I'd like to sh-- Maybe we could go sometime," he said. "You know -- take
a normal vacation. It's not as if we're that busy these days."
"It sounds beautiful," she said, carefully.
"Definitely worth the trip. And their spaghetti sauce is pretty good."
"But not as good as yours?" she smiled.
"So you liked mine?" he said, wistfully, drawing an abstract pattern on
the table with one long finger.
"Just the way I wanted it," she said.
He muttered, still looking down, "You know, Scully, if I knew what you
really wanted, I'd--"
"Mulder, this is--"
He lifted his eyes to her. "I'd give you anything."
She met his gaze, braver now. "Mulder, this is what I want. The life I've
made for myself, here... with you..." She hesitated, then let herself
smile. "It's not normal. And thank God for that."
He sighed, and folded his arms. "It looks like if you stick with me, all
you're going to get from here on out are fertilizer inventories and
background checks -- those are pretty damned close to normal, Scully. If
you want something different, you might have to look somewhere else."
"That's okay, Mulder. If I've learned anything over the years, it's that
all you have to do is walk into a room, and normal goes screaming in the
other direction."
"As long as you don't," he said.
"Never."
He looked up at her, and nodded solemnly, acknowledging her vow.
She got up and began to gather glasses and cups.
"I'll do that," he said.
"No, you cooked, I'll wash."
"Okay... I guess I'll get out of here then," he said, reluctantly pulling
on his suit jacket and tucking his tie in his pocket.
"No-- um, why don't you keep me company? This won't take long," she said,
as she began to rinse the dishes. "Too bad it's a work day tomorrow."
"What did you have in mind?" he asked in a low voice, leaning back on the
counter next to the sink, and reaching into his pocket to pull out a small
handful of sunflower seeds.
"Nothing, I--" She watched him start on the seeds, an unconscious,
familiar motion. "I just enjoyed this, that's all. It doesn't happen very
often that I get waited on."
"It should."
She concentrated on her work, listening for the intermittent crack of the
seeds over the sounds of clattering silverware and running water. She
jumped as he suddenly reached around her, his hands joining hers under the
soapy water.
"Mulder, what are you doing?" she said, dipping her head as she felt his
cheek rest momentarily on her hair.
"Gonna clean up a little," he said next to her ear. He found the dishcloth
and wrung it out. She was surprised at the sudden chill on her back as he
moved away.
The same companionable silence that had accompanied the preparation of the
meal reined over its deconstruction. As he wiped down the counters, she
put the food away, resisting the urge to wrap up the leftover salad for
him to take home. He'd probably feed it to the fish.
She turned just as he was about to blow out the candles. "No, don't," she
said, dreading the appearance of the harsh overhead light. "I'll do that
later."
"So," he said, "I guess this proves that we can do something 'a deux'
without any large bugs making an appearance."
"Or restraints," she said brightly.
He smiled at her. "Maybe we should reserve judgment on those."
One day, she thought. One day I will call your bluff on remarks like that,
Mulder. "Well," she said, "I guess we've got to work tomorrow."
His smile faded. "Why?"
"I'll get your coat," she said.
After picking it up from the chair she impulsively held it for him to put
on. He looked at her in surprise, then turned to slip his arms into the
sleeves. She smoothed the coat over his shoulders, fighting the urge to
pull them out of the slump they seemed to have acquired in the last few
months.
"Good night, Mulder," she said, softly. "Thank you for dinner, and the
flowers, and thank you for--" she stopped in confusion, then continued,
"Thank you for everything else."
Still facing away from her, he reached up and took one of her hands,
caressing it before placing a kiss on the palm. Letting go, he walked to
the door.
The crisp fall day had turned into a damp, cold evening. She stood in the
open door way, watching his slow progress down the walk, through drifts of
ground hugging mist.
Just as she was about to go back inside, she heard him say, "'Night,
Scully."
"Sweet dreams, Mulder," she said quietly, knowing he couldn't hear her.
She closed the door, and walked back to the kitchen. Pausing at the table,
she picked up the small brass box. A keepsake like this was a rarity for
her. Moving continuously through her early years had taught her to travel
lightly through life, and that the best mementos were the ones you held in
your heart. But the little brass box was pretty, and it had belonged to
Melissa, so she had kept it in contradiction to her own philosophy.
She no longer wondered if Mulder had looked inside this morning, but what
he'd thought when he had done so. She opened the box and gazed at the
small heap of sunflower seeds, sitting innocently, accusingly, inside.
Pouring them into her palm, she trailed one finger through the seeds,
watching patterns emerge and then disappear. Upon returning from Nevada,
she had found them in the pocket of her coat, and placed them here for
safekeeping. Was this evidence of abnormal sentimentality on her part the
thing that had precipitated this evening's experiment in normal-couple
dynamics?
She replaced the seeds, and wearily rubbed the back of her neck, wondering
if there was a sinister reason why she couldn't remember when Mulder had
slipped her this little token, and whether he had meant it as a joke or a
symbol of something mortally serious. Either reason worried her enough
that she felt shy and reluctant for him to see the earnestness with which
she had received his offering, enshrining it as she had. That being so,
she wondered, for the umpteenth time: What exactly had he meant by it?
"Here's proof that no one else can get this close to you."
She knew Mulder had a possessive streak where she was concerned. But she
also knew that he normally displayed it only to others, while keeping it
carefully hidden from her, so she was pretty sure that wasn't it.
"Here's a snack in case you get hungry later."
Probably not.
"Never forget that I'm here, beside you, and will be always."
She cast back in her memory to the one time that Mulder had spoken about
his habit: that the crack of the seeds reminded him of his father -- a
comfort sound for a little boy waking up from nightmares. Over the years,
she had developed a kindred feeling, and the sound of Mulder, across a
desk, next to her in a car, or in an adjoining hotel room, munching his
way through a pile of seeds had become a comfort sound for her, as well.
If he had wanted to give her a memento of himself, he couldn't have made a
better choice.
She reached down, took a single seed, and placed it in her mouth, rolling
it around experimentally. In the beginning of their partnership, she had
wondered why Mulder was addicted to something that tasted so much like
tears.
She never wondered that anymore.
Absently, she reached into the pastry box and unwrapped another amaretto,
replacing the salt of the seed with the sweeter taste of almonds and hope.
She contemplated the wrapper, then picked up the one Mulder had left.
Holding the two papers together, she touched them to a now guttering
candle, and held on until the flame began to consume them both. As she let
go, the two papers twisted gently around one another, then began to rise
in concert. She watched the ascent for a moment, then closed her eyes and
made a wish, opening them in time to see a soft powder of ash fall onto
the sunflowers.
She blew out the candles, and went to bed.
***
Author's notes: I've got no idea if D.C. (and especially Georgetown) has
Quickie Marts -- but the name always makes me laugh, so I wanted to use
it. Also, I wasn't creative enough to write a story about the conjoined
coin, which I know survived the warp in Nevada only because it was far
away in D.C. But I thought the sunflower seeds deserved to survive just as
much, if not more. So I let them.
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