Summary: Scully and Mulder adjust to life in remission.
Timeline: Between Redux II and Detour
Spoilers: None

Author's notes: At the end

Thanks: To haphazard method for quick and careful beta reading, and
for remembering the bugs.

***
 

The heavy door clanged shut behind her, and the sound echoed through
the dusty silence. She shifted the bag to her left hand and gripped
the gritty railing, as the anticipated sensation of homecoming was
nearly swamped by a wave of exhaustion. Taking a deep breath, she
started down the stairs. Her light steps made barely a dent in the
close stillness of the basement, and failed to announce her presence
to the only other living soul in this underground refuge.

She stepped into the open doorway of the office. Mulder was behind
the desk, leaning back in his chair, legs bent, feet propped on an
open drawer. His attention was focused on the folder in his lap
through glasses that reflected the overhead light. Never breaking
contact with the file, he reached for a sunflower seed from the pile
on the desk, flicking aside empty shells to find one that hadn't been
eviscerated.

She stood still, waiting.

Within seconds, he looked up, somehow aware that the cocoon of quiet
surrounding him had been breached by her silent greeting. He snatched
off his glasses and dropped his feet to the floor.

"Hi," he said. It was a question.

"I had some errands," she said, walking into the room. "Did you eat?"

He gestured toward the sunflower seeds.

She frowned at the chair in front of the desk, then shifted it
slightly, back to its proper place. She sank down, grateful for the
sturdy support.

Conscious of Mulder's rapt observance of her every move, she reached
into the bag and pulled out a foil-wrapped package. "I went to Madame
Henrion's."

His eyes lit as he took the package from her. He pulled at the
twisted foil, releasing the pungent smell of country paté and
cornichon pickles. Gathering together the edges of the crusty bread,
he sat back in his chair, and raised an eyebrow at her. In the
familiar pattern, she shook her head. He smiled and took a huge bite.
As soon as he swallowed, he said, "Does she know you give these to
me?"

She smiled in reply. "I think she suspects. She's been complaining
about having to put extra darts in my suits, when all she used to
have to do was hem them."

She began to search through the bag, when his sudden stillness caught
her eye.

"You should eat this, Scully," he said, standing up and reaching
across the desk, sandwich first.

"No, Mulder." She pushed gently at his hand.

"Scully--"

"It's too rich right now," she said, closing her hand around his.
"Besides, I already ate."

She managed to stare him down, back into his chair.

"Eat, Mulder," she said. "I am not going to nursemaid a weak partner
through our next case. And a handful of sunflower seeds isn't exactly
the lunch of champions."

Accompanied by an acquiescent squeak from his chair, Mulder leaned
back to enjoy his sandwich.

Wincing from the stiffness that the moment of rest had etched into
her underused muscles, she got up and walked to the water cooler,
snagging a dusty Erlenmeyer off the side table. She turned with the
half-filled flask at the sound of a drawer opening, and watched
Mulder bring out her mug and a tea bag. She set the flask on the
desk, pushing aside the pile of seeds, and pulled three roses from
the bag. Into the makeshift vase she placed one bloom and bud in
milky white, and one full bloom in brilliant scarlet, showing off its
golden heart.

In response to his look of inquiry, she said, "I stopped by Mr. Wu's
this morning. Middle of fall, and he still has roses. Seeger agreed
that I can see him too, in addition to the hospital physical
therapist. "

He nodded, then leaned forward to peer at the flowers. "What's that?"

She looked down at the speck of mottled red and black on the white
rose. "Oh," she said with a smile, "it's a lady bug." She placed her
finger next to the tiny creature, then frowned as it turned abruptly
and tucked itself back between the petals of the flower.

"She's shy," she said, delight turning to disappointment.

"How do you know it's a she?" he said. "I didn't see a little purse."

"Okay, he's shy," she said, picking up the mug and tea bag.

"I hate bugs," he muttered.

Hiding a smile at his surreptitious check of what was left of his
sandwich, she walked back to the cooler, and added hot water to the
mug from the red spigot.

"Do you want anything to drink, Mulder?" she asked, watching the
essence of Darjeeling spread through the clear water, enjoying the
way its subtle perfume mixed with the faint scent of roses and the
earthy remnants of Mulder's lunch.

"Got my own," he said.

At the sound of a dull pop, she turned and watched his Adam's apple
bob as he swallowed half the contents of a bottle of iced tea, eyes
closed in enjoyment.

She walked back to her chair and sat down. "What are you working on?"

He licked his lips and eyed her, a calm challenge. "What else did Dr.
Seeger say?"

"I can work half days for two weeks, starting when we get back from
the conference. Then we'll see."

His eyes lit again. "Are you going with me?"

"It's a partnership conference, Mulder. Do you think anyone else
would go with you?"

His steady look banished her smile and invited a tinge of pink to
wash across her cheeks. She dove back down to rummage through the
bag, and brought up three apples, one of which she tossed to Mulder,
who caught it neatly, one-handed.

"The specialty greengrocer on Twelfth," she said, placing the extra
apples next to the flask.

"Someone was a busy squirrel this morning."

"What are you working on?" she asked again.

Her first answer was a crisp crunch that ricocheted around the room.
"Good," he mumbled, through a mouthful of apple. He gave her a
considered look, then slid a file across the desk, scattering
sunflower seeds. "The local cops in Savannah have arrested an artist
for a series of recent murders. He exhibited some paintings that
indicated intimate knowledge of the crime scenes."

She pulled the folder toward her. "That sounds pretty
straightforward," she said cautiously. "Where's the X-File?"

"The victims are locals, but had no connection with the artist."

"Well, that doesn't preclude him from being the murderer. Or if he's
not, the source of the paintings could be local gossip."

"That may be true, though the sheriff I've been in contact with
swears the records are sealed, and that the artist has quite a
reputation as the town recluse."

Anticipation prickled through her. "Inside information is still the
most obvious answer, Mulder. Where's the X-File?"

"The artist," he said, a smile now hovering around his lips, "is a
paraplegic. Has been since 1982. That was also the last date on any
of the murder scene paintings. Yet the latest murder took place a
month ago, on the evening of the exhibition."

"So it's an accomplice."

"He does have a companion," Mulder admitted. His smile broadened.
"She's a German shepherd."

"That's easy, Mulder, it's somebody else -- a human associate."

"Chemical analysis of the paint," he said, carefully sliding a sheaf
of papers toward her as if presenting a handful of rubies, "shows
that the paintings are all more than a decade old, and each painting
is done in the artist's style."

"They must be imitations, Mulder, what else could it be?" She pulled
the data sheets toward her. "And that particular chemical analysis is
tricky. Who did it? It should be checked."

"I've asked them to send up some samples," he said helpfully. "Maybe
you could take a look."

She gave an absent nod and started thumbing through the pages.
Hearing him shift in his chair, she lifted her head and shot him an
expectant glance. "I assume you have a theory?"

On cue, he crouched toward her over the desk, a tightly wrapped
bundle of nervous energy. "I think the artist did it, Scully. What if
he pre-ordained the murders by the act of painting them? And if he's
not the actual murderer, maybe he directed someone else, by thinking
about what he painted and somehow translating it into reality. Maybe
what he's doing are thought murders."

She felt a welcome rush of adrenaline, followed by a bubble of what
might have been joy. The dizzying combination produced a sharp,
incredulous laugh. "Thought murders? Mulder, you can't think somebody
dead, or none of us would get through rush hour."

"Just read it, Scully," he said reaching across the desk to tap the
file. "Tell me what you think. Maybe we can go down there and take a
look when you're back on full time." He punctuated his invitation by
rocking back in his chair, and taking another exuberant bite of the
apple. "Who knows, I might be able to convince you. Or maybe you'll
convince me. Either way, I think we can catch this guy."

The familiar challenge on Mulder's face slowly eased its way into a
smile. Before she could smile back, his expression twisted, and he
abruptly put up one hand to cover his eyes.

"Mulder...." She felt a lump creep up into her throat, then sipped
her tea and swallowed it back down. She folded her hands around the
mug, feeling the steam caress her face, keeping her eyes on the desk
until she heard the hollow thump of the apple hitting the bottom of
the trash can.

She looked up as he leaned forward to retrieve his glasses and pick
up another file from the stack next to his elbow. The telltale
crinkles around his eyes and across his forehead had smoothed back
into their accustomed hiding place, behind the bland mask.

"You didn't drive did you?" he asked quietly.

"Cab," she said.

He put on his glasses and propped his feet up in their accustomed
position. "Are you going back to your office?" he asked, looking down
at the open file.

Her eyes traveled across the scattered sunflower seeds, tear drop
shapes textured in an abstract pattern of black and white, across the
sturdy Pyrex flask, clear walls so thick they distorted the graceful
length of the waxy stems, across the vibrant blooms and the rosy
apples, across the expanse of file-covered pine desk.

Across to her partner.

"Maybe later," she said, settling back in the chair with the data
sheets.

"If you're still here, I'll drive you home."

"I'll still be here," she said.

***
 
 
 
 
 

Author's notes: I'm taking Maureen B. Ocks' word for it: Scully has
her own office (if you haven't read "Office Politics" yet -- well,
why haven't you?). A weird synergy produced this writer's block
unblock: Cancer-fic as a recent topic on Scullyfic, and Ariadne's
lovely story, "Déjeuner sur la Déjà Vu", which got me thinking of
other famous Impressionist paintings as inspiration, until I hit on
Cezanne's "Still Life with Apples". Extra points for whoever can
identify the most symbols
 
Feedback is welcome at mmalone73@hotmail.com.

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