Title: Patchwork
Author: Scullysfan
Classification: VR, a bit of A
Rating: PG
Distribution: Do not archive at Gossamer. I'll take care of ATXC
myself. Okay for Spookys. Anyone else, please ask first.
Thanks. : )
Disclaimer: The characters of Mulder and Scully are the property
of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. They are not mine and no
copyright infringement is intended.
Timeline: Takes place after "Tithonus" but before M&S get the
X-Files back.
Author's notes: This is a sequel to Jean Robinson's "Cold
Comfort". Readers can probably enjoy this without reading "Cold
Comfort," but I think it would make more sense if you read her
story first. And really, a story as good as hers should be read no
matter what. ; ) It can be found here:
http://chroniclex.simplenet.com/coldcom.txt . Also, there's a
reference made to an event that took place in Gwendolyn's
excellent story, "Eight and Twelve". This time, it's *not*
necessary to read the other story to understand the reference,
but again, hers is not to be missed and can be found on her site.
More notes and thanks at the end.
Summary: A family heirloom opens the lines of communication.
Feedback: Any and all comments longed for at
Scullysfan@aol.com.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Scully knew she ought to be more satisfied.
After seven days of recovery from a severe case of pneumonia --
five of them spent in the hospital enduring countless aerosol
respiratory treatments and needle punctures, and the last two
tucked in an expansive bed in one of Seattle's finest hotels -- she
was finally home.
The doctor who treated her had advised them to remain in the city
even longer. With congestion as she had, in her head as well as
her chest, it wasn't at all wise to put herself 33,000 feet in the air
for the six hour flight home. Doctor Well-Meaning told her that.
Mulder, his forehead bearing those concern creases she'd come
to expect with her every hospitalization, told her that. Loudly.
For two days, she believed them. She lay propped up on fat hotel
pillows so not every breath resulted in convulsive coughing until
tears ran down her cheeks; she had to clutch Mulder's hand to
keep him from calling 911. She sipped from an array of liquids
she could hardly taste, and no matter what he brought to tempt
her, nothing met the desire she couldn't name.
Finally she threw good sense and Mulder's protests to the wind
and declared herself fit for travel. Everyone knew patients
recuperated better in a familiar environment, she insisted. What
she wouldn't admit to him was that she was worried about the
consequences of both of them being away from the Bureau.
Kersh was looking for any reason to be rid of them, and though
she would still require several more days of medical leave, Mulder
could return to work. And while he was at it, he could keep an
eye on Spender and Fowley's mishandling of the X-Files.
So they'd flown home, the trip every bit as agonizing as she knew
it would be. No little boys traded insults across her lap, but the
pressure building in her head rendered her nearly deaf. The stale
cabin air woke a tickle deep in her lungs -- a tickle that climbed
her bronchial tubes like a jungle gym.
The plane had barely reached its cruising altitude when she felt
mucus bubbling up from pockets of lung tissue. She jerked
upright, feeling Mulder scramble for the Kleenex in her carry-on.
Well-accustomed by now to what she needed, he passed the
tissue to her. Her hand clenched into a fist around the softness.
There was time for but one shallow breath before her lungs seized
and a familiar wet cough reverberated through her body. Holding
the tissue over her mouth so she didn't contaminate the seat in
front of her, she coughed until the cacophony in her chest quieted
to a whispering rattle and her achy muscles gave out.
Exhausted, she'd slumped back into her seat and allowed Mulder
to gather her close, a gesture she welcomed once the wracking
was over, but not before. Having her next breath just out of her
reach was almost more than her control-seeking self could stand.
Even his gentle arms felt like chains until the coughing ceased.
Scully had allowed herself one more such fit before she broke
down and took the medication her doctor promised would knock
her out. She spent the rest of the flight scarcely aware of anything,
save for the weight of Mulder's head leaning on hers and the slow
drag of his hand over her hair.
The cab ride home from the airport had passed in a blur, and it
was late that evening before she awoke and realized Mulder had
managed to get her into her apartment, undress her, and pour her
into bed without her conscious mind registering any of it.
They'd arrived home on Friday, and she was glad. It gave her the
weekend with Mulder before he had to go back to sifting through
manure for Kersh, and an extra two days for her to kick this
pneumonia in the ass.
She'd slept off-and-on the next day and a half, waking to stumble
to the bathroom or to eat the soup Mulder brought to her bedside.
He'd gone to the store early Saturday morning and must have
bought out the entire inventory of Campbell's soup.
Chicken noodle, minestrone, bean and bacon, cream of broccoli.
If Campbell's made it, he tried to feed it to her.
But it wasn't what she wanted.
And neither was her down comforter. Any other weekend and it
would feel like heaven. Light enough to allow the movement of
their bodies against each other, but insulating enough to keep
them warm as their sweat-slickened skin cooled.
In between naps and the never-ending parade of soup bowls,
she'd alternated between tossing the comforter aside and
burrowing under it until only the top of her head was exposed.
Her frustration had grown throughout the day and finally spilled
over into Sunday and onto Mulder.
He'd only asked what kind of soup she wanted for lunch, standing
there in her bedroom doorway, fresh from the shower but still
wearing shadows under his eyes. His souvenirs from her illness.
It wasn't fair for her to take it out on him. To lash out at him
because she could survive branched DNA and a coma, cancer
that dried up and blew away thanks to a computer chip, and a
gunshot wound, all with some modicum of control and dignity, but
give her a perfectly normal bug and she turned into the patient
from Hell. But she'd just thrown her covers to the foot of the bed,
revealing two stark white legs covered with stubble, and suddenly
the prospect of more heat-n-serve soup was too much to bear.
"Something that doesn't taste like metal."
Mulder's face had fallen for a second at her sharp words before he
recovered, uttering a soft "I'll see what I can do" as he turned
away. She heard him dressing in the bathroom and minutes later,
when she'd begun to regret her impatience and considered going
to him, the front door opened and closed behind him.
Which left her right back where her thoughts had started.
She was home, in her own bed, and with a man who had already
proven he'd go to the ends of the earth for her waiting on her, hand
and foot. So why was her mind playing "I Can't Get No
Satisfaction" on a continuous loop?
Scully was curled into a fetal position in the middle of the bed,
shivering thanks to her final rejection of the comforter, when she
heard him return a couple hours later. He didn't come to her right
away. Muffled clatters of glass and silverware, the beeping and
whirring of the microwave reassured her that she hadn't
completely killed his nursemaid spirit.
At the tell-tale sounds of Mulder readying her tray for lunch, she
sat up Indian-style and reached for the small pharmacy on her
bedside table. Nasal spray opened clogged passageways so
maybe she could smell her food, even if she had no hope of
tasting yet. One horse-sized antibiotic cleared a path for two
smaller pills that promised drowsiness if she operated without
alcohol on a heavy machine-gun.
Or something like that.
She was returning her medicine to the table and idlely wondering
if the pills caused goofiness too, when Mulder approached her
bedroom.
He stopped before entering and scrutinized her, his eyes a little
bit wary but mostly amused. "Is it safe to come in, or should I
wait until you've medicated yourself?"
"It's safe. I'm drugged, and..." She rested her hand on his
forearm when he came to stand next to the bed. "And I'm sorry,
Mulder."
"It's okay, Scully. I figure it's only fair," he reassured her as he
lowered his face to hers, starting to drop a kiss on her reddened
nose. She quickly clamped her hand over her mouth and nose
and shook her head. Detouring to her forehead, he added, "After
all, you had to deal with mimes while I was in the hospital." He
slid the tray on her lap, and she balanced it carefully. "You got
it?"
Steam curled up from a wide mug of soup. Leaning her face over
the tray, she felt the moist heat bathe her skin and much to her
surprise, she could detect the fragrant aroma of the thick broth
and vegetables. Maybe her olfactory senses hadn't been forever
snuffed out. Buttery crackers lay next to the mug, with a cup of
tea rounding out the repast. On the surface, the meal looked
identical to those she'd grown tired of the last few days, but the
smell betrayed the difference.
"What is this?" She steadied the tray as Mulder sat beside her,
the bed dipping under his weight.
"I thought you'd recognize soup by now."
"Mulder...," she prodded. He snatched a cracker and shoved it in
his mouth.
"Taste it and see."
"If I can..." She blew gently on the steaming spoonful of liquid
before taking it into her mouth. Flavors and textures long-forgotten
flooded back as she savored the tender bites of chicken, fusilli,
and carrots, the celery and spices breaking through congestion to
soothe a need deeper than hunger. Swallowing the delicious bite,
she stared at him in surprise. "Mulder... this is my mother's
soup."
If Scully had gotten sick any other time, her mom would have
already whipped up a batch of her special chicken noodle soup
and made it a part of her daughter's daily diet. Maggie had spent
two weeks with Bill Jr. and his family, however, arriving home with
the beginnings of bronchitis two days before she and Mulder flew
back. Speaking to her mother on the phone, Scully had
persuaded her it would be better for both of them if they not visit
until each had recovered. The comfort food in front of her would
seem to indicate Maggie's improving health.
He grinned at her. "There's life in those taste buds after all. I
called her when I left earlier... thought maybe she knew some
secret for taming her cranky daughter." Gentle fingers swirled
patterns on her right kneecap, removing any sting she might feel
from his words. "I didn't plan to go over and disturb her, but she
said she'd just made herself some soup and wondered if I'd like
to bring you some." He tried to steal another cracker, but she
snatched it back, crumbling it into her soup. "Promised it was
part of a sure-fire cure."
"It always was. Mom made it whenever one of us was sick... a
huge pot of it, since if one was contagious, eventually the rest of
us followed."
She wouldn't have imagined it possible, but the next bite tasted
even better than the first, and with the third, a delicious warmth
spread from her insides out.
"Mmmmm... Mulder... thank you. I wanted something I couldn't
name." Her hand cupped the side of his face. The pliable flesh
of his lower lip moved as her thumb kissed where her mouth
could not just yet. "Trust you to figure it out."
Taking her hand in his, he pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist
before waving her back to her food. "Better not give me credit. I
just had the good sense to call your mom. And while we're on the
subject, she sent something else she thought you could use."
She raised her eyes in anticipation, but he stood and headed for
the door. "Eat your soup while I put away the leftovers, and then
I'll give it to you."
By the time she drained the mug of soup, the buzzy sleepiness
of the drugs threatened to override her curiosity. If Mulder planned
to show her what else he'd brought from her mother's, he'd better
be quick; she was fading fast.
Right on cue, he hurried in with a grocery sack in his arms just
as she set her tray on the desk and hopped back into bed. The
brown paper bag, stuffed with something Scully could see was
made of fabric, dropped to the floor at the foot of the bed with a
muffled thump and crackle. Craning her neck to see what he was
hiding, she was distracted when two fuzzy Mulders stripped off
their t-shirts and tossed them on the chair.
She shook her head. "I think my medicine's kicking in."
"Good. Lie back on your pillows, Scully."
"What's in the bag?" Three overstuffed pillows received punches
from her fist as she molded them into one snowy white mound;
lying flat still stirred the congestion until she had to cough or
suffocate. She rested against them and watched as he reached
into the bag.
Mulder gave her a quick nod. "You'll find out. Close your eyes."
More from their leadened weight than from obedience, her eyelids
slid shut. She clasped her hands over her stomach and wiggled
her toes in the cool air. Mulder's surprise slid from the rattling
bag with a whoosh, and a breeze made her shiver just before a
heavy warmth settled atop her.
Her eyes flew open, drinking in a multitude of colors dulled
slightly by the passage of time. "Ohh, Mulder...," she sighed and
ran her hands over the different fabrics forming the patchwork quilt.
There were almost as many textures as hexagon shapes
composing the covering. The quilt wasn't one of intricate design
or patterns, simply row after row of swatches, sewn together with
a grandmother's love.
Together with her mother's homemade chicken soup, the quilt
completed one of Scully's most comforting childhood memories.
It wasn't for every day use; Maggie brought it out at the first sign
of serious sniffles or a fevered brow. For Scully at least, it was
one constant in move after move to new places: a warm shield of
security and love when she was at her most vulnerable, a colorful
tent under which four pox-covered children played when confined
to bed. She wasn't sure if she'd ever been so happy to see it.
"Mulder... it's... it's my grandmother's quilt. She... Mom gave this
to you?"
He nodded quickly, looking relieved that he'd pleased her. "She
said she'd been meaning to give it to you...that you should keep
it."
Tears pricked Scully's eyes. Growing up, she'd always assumed
Missy would get the quilt -- one of the many advantages of
senority over a little sister. As glad as she was to have it, it was
an unfortunate reminder that a second chance at life wasn't the
only thing for which she had Missy to thank.
"Scully?" Mulder crouched beside her, his hand rubbing back
and forth over her leg. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she sniffed. "I'm fi --" She stopped when his hand
gripped her leg.
His eyes held disappointment -- not in her specifically, she was
sure, but in their progress. Communication between them was
an ongoing struggle, and the fact they were new lovers had
changed little. Except perhaps for their power to hurt each other
through the guise of protection. Usually it was a matter of one
protecting the other, but sometimes the instinct to turn inward
became overwhelming and hurts were hidden from the very person
who cared the most.
Mulder had made the first move to change that, even before their
partnership had evolved into something more. He'd opened up to
her late one night, the night he'd done the incomprehensible.
Denied he had a sister.
They'd stopped at a drugstore in Nowheresville, on a run-of-the-mill
case. She was sure Mulder hadn't intended to cut Samantha out
of his life when he struck up a conversation with the affable sales
clerk. It was idle small talk: "Has your family always lived in this
area?" "Do you have a big family?" "What about you, any
brothers or sisters?" "No." "You're an only child?" "Yes, I'm an
only child." Scully didn't confront him, knowing immediately the
guilt that washed over him. Later that night, he'd come to her
room and introduced her to Samantha. He painted story pictures
of their brief childhood together and promised never to deny her
again. Missy deserved as much from her sister.
Patting his hand, she smiled. "I was just thinking of Missy. I
always thought this quilt would go to her." At Mulder's slow blink
and lowered head, she leaned over to put her arm around his
neck. "But I'm glad to have it... to be reminded of her, of the
years she and I spent growing up with Bill and Charlie." When he
lifted his head at her words, she pressed her lips to his cheek and
continued. "Thank you for bringing it to me."
She was delighted to see a shy grin spread on his face. "It wasn't
really... it... was your mom's idea. I was just the messenger boy."
"I'll be sure to call her tomorrow and say thank you." She
scooted over a bit and folded back one corner of the quilt. "I'm
going to fall asleep soon. Take a nap with me?"
His answer was to strip down to his boxers in near record time
and slide in beside her. Nudging her forward, he rested on the
pillows and pulled her back to lean against his chest. Together
they pulled the quilt over them and he enfolded her in his arms.
"So how old is this thing?"
"Ummm... I was around eight when my grandmother finished it..."
She nuzzled her head against his chest. "...About twenty-seven
years old, I guess."
"Your grandmother made it?"
"Mmmhmmm..." She fought to remain awake. They hadn't
talked like this since before the incident in Seattle. "The patches
are from our clothes when we were kids. Most of the clothes
were Billy and Missy's, since they'd been around longer and had
accumulated more. Some were passed down to Charlie and me,
and then Grandma Scully cut them up for the quilt when we got
too big for them."
One of Mulder's hands drifted from where it rested on her arm and
explored the material it could reach. He stopped on a flannel
hexagon; the fabric with its white background and superhero
dressed in patriotic colors was nubby with balls of fuzz.
"Wonder Woman, Scully?"
A slow grin bloomed on her face at his tone. Part surprise, part
amusement, and dare she say... part desire. "You like my
Wonder Woman pajamas, Mulder?"
"They probably weren't as sexy as her costume..."
"I was seven years old!"
A chuckle rumbled from his chest as he stroked her hip through
the remnant of her childhood sleepwear. "I always knew you were
a wonder woman." He lowered his head to whisper in her ear.
"Anyone obsessed enough to have the pajamas must have had
the magic lasso... do you think your mother could find it for us?"
She twisted her neck to look at him. "Us?"
"You?"
Turning back around, she shook her head ruefully. "'Fraid you're
outta luck, Mulder. Mom wouldn't let me have the lasso. She
said she was worried I'd hang myself, but I suspect she was more
afraid of what I would do to Bill."
Mulder's burst of laughter was contagious, but soon the giggles
stirred up a storm in her chest. Cough after cough rolled from her
until she found some relief and rested again in the quilted cocoon.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," she sighed. "I'm going to be sore from the repeated
coughing... from the strain on the abdominals and pectorals." A
little huff escaped at the memory of a similar hurt.
"What?"
"I was just remembering... I may not have had the magic lasso,
but I had Wonder Woman's invisible plane."
"Why Scully... I had no idea you were open to such extreme
possibilities as a kid."
He ooffed as her elbow made contact with his ribs. "Do you want
to hear this or not?"
She jumped ahead before he had time to make up his mind. "It
was the last time I wore those pajamas now that I think about it."
"What was the occasion?"
"An early morning flight. Bill told me if I wore my official Wonder
Woman pajamas and took a running leap from a site high off the
ground, the invisible plane would fly as long as I believed."
"Why do I have the feeling a skeptic was born from this
experience?"
Nodding, she continued. "So I climbed to the roof of Billy's
treehouse. It was... maybe fifteen feet off the ground. Six o'clock
in the morning... I'd stayed awake all night so I could take off
before Mom came to wake me up for school."
"Devious kid, weren't you?"
"More like determined. I ran as fast as I could, which wasn't very
fast considering the runway was about four feet, and I jumped."
The sensation of being completely without restraint, without
support, came flooding back to her and she shivered.
"And?" Mulder nudged her. "How far did you get?"
"Oh, about fifteen feet," she said. "Straight down."
"Ouch!"
She wrapped her arms around her middle in remembrance of the
pain. "Yeah... two cracked ribs, a laceration on my left temple,
and one missing tooth. Bill felt badly, I think... especially after
Mom was... finished with... him." The constant talking had raised
a tickle in her throat as she choked out the last few words, so she
motioned for Mulder to hand her the glass of water on the
nightstand.
As she drank, he asked, "Where were you flying, Scully?
Paradise Island?"
He took the water from her as she wiped at the dribbles on her
shirt. Even half-sitting, she couldn't keep from missing her mouth.
"Not quite. I wanted to see my father. He was at sea, on an
aircraft carrier no less."
"So you thought naturally..."
"I don't think I thought at all. I was just a seven year old who
wanted her daddy."
They were quiet for a few moments. Scully thinking how some
desires of a child never go away... Mulder, his thoughts unspoken
to her, but known just the same.
His hand came up to caress just under her collarbone, the touch
light and soothing. It threatened to combine with the soporific
powers of her medication and lull her to sleep. But his thoughts
had moved on and he spoke, breaking the spell. "Looks like
someone played ball."
His fingers moved to the green material with half of a Viking's
head still visible in yellow.
"Bill and Charlie both did," she murmured. Scooting further back
against him, she added, "Pee-wee football. That was Bill's
jersey."
"Was he any good?"
"He was eight years old, Mulder. What do you think?"
"Have you ever noticed you have a habit of answering my
questions with one of your own?"
Sitting up, she turned to offer him a glare, but couldn't muster one
after seeing the warm twinkle in his eyes. She ignored him
instead, choosing to play right into his hands. Her head fell back
into the curve between his shoulder and neck and she sighed in
mock exasperation.
"Do you want to hear about this or not?"
She took the kiss behind her ear as a "yes" and continued. "I
think he was good for that level of play... my father certainly
seemed to think so when he was home and could see Billy play."
"Did you go to the games with your dad?"
"We all did. Missy and I didn't pay much attention, as I recall."
Memories of sunny afternoons in San Diego flooded her mind, of
the shouts of parents and coaches, the smells of buttery popcorn
and hot dogs mixing to fill the outdoors with the most
mouth-watering of scents. Of the wind stirring the tall weeds
surrounding her until they almost whistled, her hair lifting to swirl
around her head until the cessation of the breeze allowed it to fall
in messy strands. For some reason, the wind never seemed as
eager to play with Missy.
Mulder nudged her head with his chin. "You asleep?"
"No, I was just remembering." Her back arched as she stretched.
"There was this grassy area just beyond one of the end zones...
wild flowers grew there among the weeds. Missy and I played
there. She spent hours weaving flowers into chains."
"Doesn't sound like something you'd enjoy..."
"No... I scratched in the dirt for bugs and shoved them into the
pockets of my overalls for Mom," laughed Scully. "The ones I
didn't drop on Missy."
"I'm sure that endeared you to her."
"You can imagine. No... Missy was all girl." Her voice grew
quieter. "As we got older, I tried to keep up with the boys,
meeting every challenge they could think to throw at me. Missy...
Missy always found a friend, no matter where we moved.
Someone she played dress up with, told secrets to..." Scully
stopped for a moment, clearing her throat to drive away the
huskiness creeping into her voice. "...Got into trouble with.
Moving so often was hard for her. Just when she'd make a good
friend, Dad would get new orders. She never took it well."
She lifted her head to search the quilt for a particular patch.
Scully had only been six years old, and it hadn't even been her
angst making itself known but she could remember it like it was
yesterday. There. Right beside the hideous purple double-knit
material. Did she really wear that little jacket?
"See that burgundy patch down there?" She wiggled the toes of
her left foot to indicate the one she meant. "The one with the
paisley pattern..."
"I see it."
"It's from a dress Missy wore to her best friend's birthday party
one year. She didn't want to go, didn't want to wear that dress...
Mom made her."
"I thought this kid was Missy's friend."
"She was. But we were moving to the naval base in Pensacola,
Florida the next day... she hated saying good-bye. It never
stopped her though... no matter how much it hurt when it was
time to leave, she always risked it when it came to making
friends."
Scully sniffled and waved her arm toward the Kleenex, blowing
her nose when he passed her one. God, if she didn't get this stuff
out, her head was going to explode. Tossing the used tissue over
the bedside, she rolled over and draped her chest over Mulder's,
throwing one leg over his. She wrapped one arm underneath his
shoulder, and he held her other hand against his heart. His body
was so warm against hers, the quilt insulating them from the chill
in the air as well as it had years ago. Sleep was just around
the corner, she could tell; her eyelids fluttered closed. He must
have sensed it, too -- his words were whispered into her hair.
"What about you, Scully? Was leaving difficult for you?"
They were moving into tender territory here, where words masked
meanings and questions hid insecurities. Her eyes opened again
and stared while his fingers traced runes in the back of her hand.
"I got used to it. Mostly I threw myself into my classes; teachers
were the same everywhere, and I could take my books with me.
Couldn't do that with friends. I... I wasn't as brave as Missy in
that area."
"Time... and circumstances and... people can change that," he
ventured.
She smiled sleepily. "Yes, they can."
A yawn escaped as Mulder cradled her closer to him. She was
hovering just over the border between wakefulness and dreamland,
content and satisfied at last. The soup filling her belly and the
quilt swaddling her body had reminded her of simpler times,
yes... of being cared for. And Mulder... Mulder, as always,
reminded her she was loved.
Did he know that feeling, she mused?
She felt the quilt being tugged higher over her shoulder and tucked
under her chin as his low voice rumbled. "Scully, if you ever
leave..."
Her reply was automatic, even in the haze of sleep. "I'm taking
you with me."
He squeezed her more tightly, and she heard satisfaction in his
sigh.
Yes, he knew.
END
Author's thanks: To Jill and Laney, my chief editors, encouragers,
and comma helpers -- Laney especially for the in-depth reminder
of the fashions of the late '60s and early '70s. (Why, oh why, did
we ever wear double-knit poleyster anything? g)
Thanks to Jesemie's Evil Twin for the suggestions and for saying
her toes tingled. ; ) To Jean Robinson for letting me write a sequel
to a story that was good enough not to need one in the first place,
and to Gwendolyn for graciously allowing me to use an event in
one of her fics in this one.
Feedback gratefully accepted at: Scullysfan@aol.com
Missing parts of this fic and all of my other stories can be found on
my website:
http://members.aol.com/scullysfan/myfic.html
Author: Scullysfan
Classification: VR, a bit of A
Rating: PG
Distribution: Do not archive at Gossamer. I'll take care of ATXC
myself. Okay for Spookys. Anyone else, please ask first.
Thanks. : )
Disclaimer: The characters of Mulder and Scully are the property
of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. They are not mine and no
copyright infringement is intended.
Timeline: Takes place after "Tithonus" but before M&S get the
X-Files back.
Author's notes: This is a sequel to Jean Robinson's "Cold
Comfort". Readers can probably enjoy this without reading "Cold
Comfort," but I think it would make more sense if you read her
story first. And really, a story as good as hers should be read no
matter what. ; ) It can be found here:
http://chroniclex.simplenet.com/coldcom.txt . Also, there's a
reference made to an event that took place in Gwendolyn's
excellent story, "Eight and Twelve". This time, it's *not*
necessary to read the other story to understand the reference,
but again, hers is not to be missed and can be found on her site.
More notes and thanks at the end.
Summary: A family heirloom opens the lines of communication.
Feedback: Any and all comments longed for at
Scullysfan@aol.com.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Scully knew she ought to be more satisfied.
After seven days of recovery from a severe case of pneumonia --
five of them spent in the hospital enduring countless aerosol
respiratory treatments and needle punctures, and the last two
tucked in an expansive bed in one of Seattle's finest hotels -- she
was finally home.
The doctor who treated her had advised them to remain in the city
even longer. With congestion as she had, in her head as well as
her chest, it wasn't at all wise to put herself 33,000 feet in the air
for the six hour flight home. Doctor Well-Meaning told her that.
Mulder, his forehead bearing those concern creases she'd come
to expect with her every hospitalization, told her that. Loudly.
For two days, she believed them. She lay propped up on fat hotel
pillows so not every breath resulted in convulsive coughing until
tears ran down her cheeks; she had to clutch Mulder's hand to
keep him from calling 911. She sipped from an array of liquids
she could hardly taste, and no matter what he brought to tempt
her, nothing met the desire she couldn't name.
Finally she threw good sense and Mulder's protests to the wind
and declared herself fit for travel. Everyone knew patients
recuperated better in a familiar environment, she insisted. What
she wouldn't admit to him was that she was worried about the
consequences of both of them being away from the Bureau.
Kersh was looking for any reason to be rid of them, and though
she would still require several more days of medical leave, Mulder
could return to work. And while he was at it, he could keep an
eye on Spender and Fowley's mishandling of the X-Files.
So they'd flown home, the trip every bit as agonizing as she knew
it would be. No little boys traded insults across her lap, but the
pressure building in her head rendered her nearly deaf. The stale
cabin air woke a tickle deep in her lungs -- a tickle that climbed
her bronchial tubes like a jungle gym.
The plane had barely reached its cruising altitude when she felt
mucus bubbling up from pockets of lung tissue. She jerked
upright, feeling Mulder scramble for the Kleenex in her carry-on.
Well-accustomed by now to what she needed, he passed the
tissue to her. Her hand clenched into a fist around the softness.
There was time for but one shallow breath before her lungs seized
and a familiar wet cough reverberated through her body. Holding
the tissue over her mouth so she didn't contaminate the seat in
front of her, she coughed until the cacophony in her chest quieted
to a whispering rattle and her achy muscles gave out.
Exhausted, she'd slumped back into her seat and allowed Mulder
to gather her close, a gesture she welcomed once the wracking
was over, but not before. Having her next breath just out of her
reach was almost more than her control-seeking self could stand.
Even his gentle arms felt like chains until the coughing ceased.
Scully had allowed herself one more such fit before she broke
down and took the medication her doctor promised would knock
her out. She spent the rest of the flight scarcely aware of anything,
save for the weight of Mulder's head leaning on hers and the slow
drag of his hand over her hair.
The cab ride home from the airport had passed in a blur, and it
was late that evening before she awoke and realized Mulder had
managed to get her into her apartment, undress her, and pour her
into bed without her conscious mind registering any of it.
They'd arrived home on Friday, and she was glad. It gave her the
weekend with Mulder before he had to go back to sifting through
manure for Kersh, and an extra two days for her to kick this
pneumonia in the ass.
She'd slept off-and-on the next day and a half, waking to stumble
to the bathroom or to eat the soup Mulder brought to her bedside.
He'd gone to the store early Saturday morning and must have
bought out the entire inventory of Campbell's soup.
Chicken noodle, minestrone, bean and bacon, cream of broccoli.
If Campbell's made it, he tried to feed it to her.
But it wasn't what she wanted.
And neither was her down comforter. Any other weekend and it
would feel like heaven. Light enough to allow the movement of
their bodies against each other, but insulating enough to keep
them warm as their sweat-slickened skin cooled.
In between naps and the never-ending parade of soup bowls,
she'd alternated between tossing the comforter aside and
burrowing under it until only the top of her head was exposed.
Her frustration had grown throughout the day and finally spilled
over into Sunday and onto Mulder.
He'd only asked what kind of soup she wanted for lunch, standing
there in her bedroom doorway, fresh from the shower but still
wearing shadows under his eyes. His souvenirs from her illness.
It wasn't fair for her to take it out on him. To lash out at him
because she could survive branched DNA and a coma, cancer
that dried up and blew away thanks to a computer chip, and a
gunshot wound, all with some modicum of control and dignity, but
give her a perfectly normal bug and she turned into the patient
from Hell. But she'd just thrown her covers to the foot of the bed,
revealing two stark white legs covered with stubble, and suddenly
the prospect of more heat-n-serve soup was too much to bear.
"Something that doesn't taste like metal."
Mulder's face had fallen for a second at her sharp words before he
recovered, uttering a soft "I'll see what I can do" as he turned
away. She heard him dressing in the bathroom and minutes later,
when she'd begun to regret her impatience and considered going
to him, the front door opened and closed behind him.
Which left her right back where her thoughts had started.
She was home, in her own bed, and with a man who had already
proven he'd go to the ends of the earth for her waiting on her, hand
and foot. So why was her mind playing "I Can't Get No
Satisfaction" on a continuous loop?
Scully was curled into a fetal position in the middle of the bed,
shivering thanks to her final rejection of the comforter, when she
heard him return a couple hours later. He didn't come to her right
away. Muffled clatters of glass and silverware, the beeping and
whirring of the microwave reassured her that she hadn't
completely killed his nursemaid spirit.
At the tell-tale sounds of Mulder readying her tray for lunch, she
sat up Indian-style and reached for the small pharmacy on her
bedside table. Nasal spray opened clogged passageways so
maybe she could smell her food, even if she had no hope of
tasting yet. One horse-sized antibiotic cleared a path for two
smaller pills that promised drowsiness if she operated without
alcohol on a heavy machine-gun.
Or something like that.
She was returning her medicine to the table and idlely wondering
if the pills caused goofiness too, when Mulder approached her
bedroom.
He stopped before entering and scrutinized her, his eyes a little
bit wary but mostly amused. "Is it safe to come in, or should I
wait until you've medicated yourself?"
"It's safe. I'm drugged, and..." She rested her hand on his
forearm when he came to stand next to the bed. "And I'm sorry,
Mulder."
"It's okay, Scully. I figure it's only fair," he reassured her as he
lowered his face to hers, starting to drop a kiss on her reddened
nose. She quickly clamped her hand over her mouth and nose
and shook her head. Detouring to her forehead, he added, "After
all, you had to deal with mimes while I was in the hospital." He
slid the tray on her lap, and she balanced it carefully. "You got
it?"
Steam curled up from a wide mug of soup. Leaning her face over
the tray, she felt the moist heat bathe her skin and much to her
surprise, she could detect the fragrant aroma of the thick broth
and vegetables. Maybe her olfactory senses hadn't been forever
snuffed out. Buttery crackers lay next to the mug, with a cup of
tea rounding out the repast. On the surface, the meal looked
identical to those she'd grown tired of the last few days, but the
smell betrayed the difference.
"What is this?" She steadied the tray as Mulder sat beside her,
the bed dipping under his weight.
"I thought you'd recognize soup by now."
"Mulder...," she prodded. He snatched a cracker and shoved it in
his mouth.
"Taste it and see."
"If I can..." She blew gently on the steaming spoonful of liquid
before taking it into her mouth. Flavors and textures long-forgotten
flooded back as she savored the tender bites of chicken, fusilli,
and carrots, the celery and spices breaking through congestion to
soothe a need deeper than hunger. Swallowing the delicious bite,
she stared at him in surprise. "Mulder... this is my mother's
soup."
If Scully had gotten sick any other time, her mom would have
already whipped up a batch of her special chicken noodle soup
and made it a part of her daughter's daily diet. Maggie had spent
two weeks with Bill Jr. and his family, however, arriving home with
the beginnings of bronchitis two days before she and Mulder flew
back. Speaking to her mother on the phone, Scully had
persuaded her it would be better for both of them if they not visit
until each had recovered. The comfort food in front of her would
seem to indicate Maggie's improving health.
He grinned at her. "There's life in those taste buds after all. I
called her when I left earlier... thought maybe she knew some
secret for taming her cranky daughter." Gentle fingers swirled
patterns on her right kneecap, removing any sting she might feel
from his words. "I didn't plan to go over and disturb her, but she
said she'd just made herself some soup and wondered if I'd like
to bring you some." He tried to steal another cracker, but she
snatched it back, crumbling it into her soup. "Promised it was
part of a sure-fire cure."
"It always was. Mom made it whenever one of us was sick... a
huge pot of it, since if one was contagious, eventually the rest of
us followed."
She wouldn't have imagined it possible, but the next bite tasted
even better than the first, and with the third, a delicious warmth
spread from her insides out.
"Mmmmm... Mulder... thank you. I wanted something I couldn't
name." Her hand cupped the side of his face. The pliable flesh
of his lower lip moved as her thumb kissed where her mouth
could not just yet. "Trust you to figure it out."
Taking her hand in his, he pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist
before waving her back to her food. "Better not give me credit. I
just had the good sense to call your mom. And while we're on the
subject, she sent something else she thought you could use."
She raised her eyes in anticipation, but he stood and headed for
the door. "Eat your soup while I put away the leftovers, and then
I'll give it to you."
By the time she drained the mug of soup, the buzzy sleepiness
of the drugs threatened to override her curiosity. If Mulder planned
to show her what else he'd brought from her mother's, he'd better
be quick; she was fading fast.
Right on cue, he hurried in with a grocery sack in his arms just
as she set her tray on the desk and hopped back into bed. The
brown paper bag, stuffed with something Scully could see was
made of fabric, dropped to the floor at the foot of the bed with a
muffled thump and crackle. Craning her neck to see what he was
hiding, she was distracted when two fuzzy Mulders stripped off
their t-shirts and tossed them on the chair.
She shook her head. "I think my medicine's kicking in."
"Good. Lie back on your pillows, Scully."
"What's in the bag?" Three overstuffed pillows received punches
from her fist as she molded them into one snowy white mound;
lying flat still stirred the congestion until she had to cough or
suffocate. She rested against them and watched as he reached
into the bag.
Mulder gave her a quick nod. "You'll find out. Close your eyes."
More from their leadened weight than from obedience, her eyelids
slid shut. She clasped her hands over her stomach and wiggled
her toes in the cool air. Mulder's surprise slid from the rattling
bag with a whoosh, and a breeze made her shiver just before a
heavy warmth settled atop her.
Her eyes flew open, drinking in a multitude of colors dulled
slightly by the passage of time. "Ohh, Mulder...," she sighed and
ran her hands over the different fabrics forming the patchwork quilt.
There were almost as many textures as hexagon shapes
composing the covering. The quilt wasn't one of intricate design
or patterns, simply row after row of swatches, sewn together with
a grandmother's love.
Together with her mother's homemade chicken soup, the quilt
completed one of Scully's most comforting childhood memories.
It wasn't for every day use; Maggie brought it out at the first sign
of serious sniffles or a fevered brow. For Scully at least, it was
one constant in move after move to new places: a warm shield of
security and love when she was at her most vulnerable, a colorful
tent under which four pox-covered children played when confined
to bed. She wasn't sure if she'd ever been so happy to see it.
"Mulder... it's... it's my grandmother's quilt. She... Mom gave this
to you?"
He nodded quickly, looking relieved that he'd pleased her. "She
said she'd been meaning to give it to you...that you should keep
it."
Tears pricked Scully's eyes. Growing up, she'd always assumed
Missy would get the quilt -- one of the many advantages of
senority over a little sister. As glad as she was to have it, it was
an unfortunate reminder that a second chance at life wasn't the
only thing for which she had Missy to thank.
"Scully?" Mulder crouched beside her, his hand rubbing back
and forth over her leg. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she sniffed. "I'm fi --" She stopped when his hand
gripped her leg.
His eyes held disappointment -- not in her specifically, she was
sure, but in their progress. Communication between them was
an ongoing struggle, and the fact they were new lovers had
changed little. Except perhaps for their power to hurt each other
through the guise of protection. Usually it was a matter of one
protecting the other, but sometimes the instinct to turn inward
became overwhelming and hurts were hidden from the very person
who cared the most.
Mulder had made the first move to change that, even before their
partnership had evolved into something more. He'd opened up to
her late one night, the night he'd done the incomprehensible.
Denied he had a sister.
They'd stopped at a drugstore in Nowheresville, on a run-of-the-mill
case. She was sure Mulder hadn't intended to cut Samantha out
of his life when he struck up a conversation with the affable sales
clerk. It was idle small talk: "Has your family always lived in this
area?" "Do you have a big family?" "What about you, any
brothers or sisters?" "No." "You're an only child?" "Yes, I'm an
only child." Scully didn't confront him, knowing immediately the
guilt that washed over him. Later that night, he'd come to her
room and introduced her to Samantha. He painted story pictures
of their brief childhood together and promised never to deny her
again. Missy deserved as much from her sister.
Patting his hand, she smiled. "I was just thinking of Missy. I
always thought this quilt would go to her." At Mulder's slow blink
and lowered head, she leaned over to put her arm around his
neck. "But I'm glad to have it... to be reminded of her, of the
years she and I spent growing up with Bill and Charlie." When he
lifted his head at her words, she pressed her lips to his cheek and
continued. "Thank you for bringing it to me."
She was delighted to see a shy grin spread on his face. "It wasn't
really... it... was your mom's idea. I was just the messenger boy."
"I'll be sure to call her tomorrow and say thank you." She
scooted over a bit and folded back one corner of the quilt. "I'm
going to fall asleep soon. Take a nap with me?"
His answer was to strip down to his boxers in near record time
and slide in beside her. Nudging her forward, he rested on the
pillows and pulled her back to lean against his chest. Together
they pulled the quilt over them and he enfolded her in his arms.
"So how old is this thing?"
"Ummm... I was around eight when my grandmother finished it..."
She nuzzled her head against his chest. "...About twenty-seven
years old, I guess."
"Your grandmother made it?"
"Mmmhmmm..." She fought to remain awake. They hadn't
talked like this since before the incident in Seattle. "The patches
are from our clothes when we were kids. Most of the clothes
were Billy and Missy's, since they'd been around longer and had
accumulated more. Some were passed down to Charlie and me,
and then Grandma Scully cut them up for the quilt when we got
too big for them."
One of Mulder's hands drifted from where it rested on her arm and
explored the material it could reach. He stopped on a flannel
hexagon; the fabric with its white background and superhero
dressed in patriotic colors was nubby with balls of fuzz.
"Wonder Woman, Scully?"
A slow grin bloomed on her face at his tone. Part surprise, part
amusement, and dare she say... part desire. "You like my
Wonder Woman pajamas, Mulder?"
"They probably weren't as sexy as her costume..."
"I was seven years old!"
A chuckle rumbled from his chest as he stroked her hip through
the remnant of her childhood sleepwear. "I always knew you were
a wonder woman." He lowered his head to whisper in her ear.
"Anyone obsessed enough to have the pajamas must have had
the magic lasso... do you think your mother could find it for us?"
She twisted her neck to look at him. "Us?"
"You?"
Turning back around, she shook her head ruefully. "'Fraid you're
outta luck, Mulder. Mom wouldn't let me have the lasso. She
said she was worried I'd hang myself, but I suspect she was more
afraid of what I would do to Bill."
Mulder's burst of laughter was contagious, but soon the giggles
stirred up a storm in her chest. Cough after cough rolled from her
until she found some relief and rested again in the quilted cocoon.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," she sighed. "I'm going to be sore from the repeated
coughing... from the strain on the abdominals and pectorals." A
little huff escaped at the memory of a similar hurt.
"What?"
"I was just remembering... I may not have had the magic lasso,
but I had Wonder Woman's invisible plane."
"Why Scully... I had no idea you were open to such extreme
possibilities as a kid."
He ooffed as her elbow made contact with his ribs. "Do you want
to hear this or not?"
She jumped ahead before he had time to make up his mind. "It
was the last time I wore those pajamas now that I think about it."
"What was the occasion?"
"An early morning flight. Bill told me if I wore my official Wonder
Woman pajamas and took a running leap from a site high off the
ground, the invisible plane would fly as long as I believed."
"Why do I have the feeling a skeptic was born from this
experience?"
Nodding, she continued. "So I climbed to the roof of Billy's
treehouse. It was... maybe fifteen feet off the ground. Six o'clock
in the morning... I'd stayed awake all night so I could take off
before Mom came to wake me up for school."
"Devious kid, weren't you?"
"More like determined. I ran as fast as I could, which wasn't very
fast considering the runway was about four feet, and I jumped."
The sensation of being completely without restraint, without
support, came flooding back to her and she shivered.
"And?" Mulder nudged her. "How far did you get?"
"Oh, about fifteen feet," she said. "Straight down."
"Ouch!"
She wrapped her arms around her middle in remembrance of the
pain. "Yeah... two cracked ribs, a laceration on my left temple,
and one missing tooth. Bill felt badly, I think... especially after
Mom was... finished with... him." The constant talking had raised
a tickle in her throat as she choked out the last few words, so she
motioned for Mulder to hand her the glass of water on the
nightstand.
As she drank, he asked, "Where were you flying, Scully?
Paradise Island?"
He took the water from her as she wiped at the dribbles on her
shirt. Even half-sitting, she couldn't keep from missing her mouth.
"Not quite. I wanted to see my father. He was at sea, on an
aircraft carrier no less."
"So you thought naturally..."
"I don't think I thought at all. I was just a seven year old who
wanted her daddy."
They were quiet for a few moments. Scully thinking how some
desires of a child never go away... Mulder, his thoughts unspoken
to her, but known just the same.
His hand came up to caress just under her collarbone, the touch
light and soothing. It threatened to combine with the soporific
powers of her medication and lull her to sleep. But his thoughts
had moved on and he spoke, breaking the spell. "Looks like
someone played ball."
His fingers moved to the green material with half of a Viking's
head still visible in yellow.
"Bill and Charlie both did," she murmured. Scooting further back
against him, she added, "Pee-wee football. That was Bill's
jersey."
"Was he any good?"
"He was eight years old, Mulder. What do you think?"
"Have you ever noticed you have a habit of answering my
questions with one of your own?"
Sitting up, she turned to offer him a glare, but couldn't muster one
after seeing the warm twinkle in his eyes. She ignored him
instead, choosing to play right into his hands. Her head fell back
into the curve between his shoulder and neck and she sighed in
mock exasperation.
"Do you want to hear about this or not?"
She took the kiss behind her ear as a "yes" and continued. "I
think he was good for that level of play... my father certainly
seemed to think so when he was home and could see Billy play."
"Did you go to the games with your dad?"
"We all did. Missy and I didn't pay much attention, as I recall."
Memories of sunny afternoons in San Diego flooded her mind, of
the shouts of parents and coaches, the smells of buttery popcorn
and hot dogs mixing to fill the outdoors with the most
mouth-watering of scents. Of the wind stirring the tall weeds
surrounding her until they almost whistled, her hair lifting to swirl
around her head until the cessation of the breeze allowed it to fall
in messy strands. For some reason, the wind never seemed as
eager to play with Missy.
Mulder nudged her head with his chin. "You asleep?"
"No, I was just remembering." Her back arched as she stretched.
"There was this grassy area just beyond one of the end zones...
wild flowers grew there among the weeds. Missy and I played
there. She spent hours weaving flowers into chains."
"Doesn't sound like something you'd enjoy..."
"No... I scratched in the dirt for bugs and shoved them into the
pockets of my overalls for Mom," laughed Scully. "The ones I
didn't drop on Missy."
"I'm sure that endeared you to her."
"You can imagine. No... Missy was all girl." Her voice grew
quieter. "As we got older, I tried to keep up with the boys,
meeting every challenge they could think to throw at me. Missy...
Missy always found a friend, no matter where we moved.
Someone she played dress up with, told secrets to..." Scully
stopped for a moment, clearing her throat to drive away the
huskiness creeping into her voice. "...Got into trouble with.
Moving so often was hard for her. Just when she'd make a good
friend, Dad would get new orders. She never took it well."
She lifted her head to search the quilt for a particular patch.
Scully had only been six years old, and it hadn't even been her
angst making itself known but she could remember it like it was
yesterday. There. Right beside the hideous purple double-knit
material. Did she really wear that little jacket?
"See that burgundy patch down there?" She wiggled the toes of
her left foot to indicate the one she meant. "The one with the
paisley pattern..."
"I see it."
"It's from a dress Missy wore to her best friend's birthday party
one year. She didn't want to go, didn't want to wear that dress...
Mom made her."
"I thought this kid was Missy's friend."
"She was. But we were moving to the naval base in Pensacola,
Florida the next day... she hated saying good-bye. It never
stopped her though... no matter how much it hurt when it was
time to leave, she always risked it when it came to making
friends."
Scully sniffled and waved her arm toward the Kleenex, blowing
her nose when he passed her one. God, if she didn't get this stuff
out, her head was going to explode. Tossing the used tissue over
the bedside, she rolled over and draped her chest over Mulder's,
throwing one leg over his. She wrapped one arm underneath his
shoulder, and he held her other hand against his heart. His body
was so warm against hers, the quilt insulating them from the chill
in the air as well as it had years ago. Sleep was just around
the corner, she could tell; her eyelids fluttered closed. He must
have sensed it, too -- his words were whispered into her hair.
"What about you, Scully? Was leaving difficult for you?"
They were moving into tender territory here, where words masked
meanings and questions hid insecurities. Her eyes opened again
and stared while his fingers traced runes in the back of her hand.
"I got used to it. Mostly I threw myself into my classes; teachers
were the same everywhere, and I could take my books with me.
Couldn't do that with friends. I... I wasn't as brave as Missy in
that area."
"Time... and circumstances and... people can change that," he
ventured.
She smiled sleepily. "Yes, they can."
A yawn escaped as Mulder cradled her closer to him. She was
hovering just over the border between wakefulness and dreamland,
content and satisfied at last. The soup filling her belly and the
quilt swaddling her body had reminded her of simpler times,
yes... of being cared for. And Mulder... Mulder, as always,
reminded her she was loved.
Did he know that feeling, she mused?
She felt the quilt being tugged higher over her shoulder and tucked
under her chin as his low voice rumbled. "Scully, if you ever
leave..."
Her reply was automatic, even in the haze of sleep. "I'm taking
you with me."
He squeezed her more tightly, and she heard satisfaction in his
sigh.
Yes, he knew.
END
Author's thanks: To Jill and Laney, my chief editors, encouragers,
and comma helpers -- Laney especially for the in-depth reminder
of the fashions of the late '60s and early '70s. (Why, oh why, did
we ever wear double-knit poleyster anything? g)
Thanks to Jesemie's Evil Twin for the suggestions and for saying
her toes tingled. ; ) To Jean Robinson for letting me write a sequel
to a story that was good enough not to need one in the first place,
and to Gwendolyn for graciously allowing me to use an event in
one of her fics in this one.
Feedback gratefully accepted at: Scullysfan@aol.com
Missing parts of this fic and all of my other stories can be found on
my website:
http://members.aol.com/scullysfan/myfic.html