Title: Passion Fruit
Author: Lynn Saunders
Rating: R
Classification: MSR, RST, Post-Ep for both Amor Fati
and Millennium
Spoilers: through Millennium
Summary: There is no place she'd rather be.
Feedback: Adored, re-read, printed out, and imortalized
in a quality binder at lynnsaundersfanfic@hotmail.com.
Website: http://www.mindspring.com/~lynnsaunders
Distribution: Archive freely, but please drop me a line
to let me know.
Date Completed: 2.16.2004
Dedication: To my BTS babies for the Readers' Day
Challenge (element list at end). I love you all!
Special Thanks: To Carol and Sallie, my beloved beta
team.
Disclaimer: Oops, not mine. Sorry.
- - -
Passion Fruit
by Lynn Saunders
== Late October, 1999 ==
"I saw things, Scully." He raises her hand shakily,
placing it on the shorn hair at his temple. "In my mind."
Concerned, she eases him back against the hospital
pillow. "It's alright. Try to get some rest."
"I heard things, too." He blinks at her groggily.
"I could hear you."
A week later, standing in his doorway, she realizes
what he means and wonders what he might have
discovered in her.
- - -
He does not exaggerate his feelings for her. She is his
constant. The only memories he is certain are real and true
involve her.
Her fingers caress his face, lingering on his full bottom
lip, a heavenly sensation. He should kiss her, but he
hesitates, and the moment is gone. Even as she turns to
leave, he is at peace.
In the evening, he is surprised to find her at his door
once again, pizza box in hand. This is a rare occasion,
to be sure.
They pretend to watch the news, watching each other
instead. She laughs at three of his bad jokes, and he
steals her pepperoni. They find "When Harry Met Sally"
on AMC and settle in for the long haul. Halfway through,
Scully rests her head on his shoulder. His arms encircle
her easily, as if it is nothing new.
"I was lost without you," she says.
He takes his first deep breath in ages.
== November, 1999 ==
It's the little things that remind her she's hopelessly,
completely in love with him. The way he smiles
conspiratorially while sharing his insane theories and steals
sips of her coffee when he knows she's looking. The way
he touches her, warm fingers against the curve of her back
offering up a challenge she desperately wants to accept.
Ignoring his silent advances has proven to be the worst
form of self-neglect, so she plays with his tie and
buys suits with a slightly lower neckline, hoping to
atone for lost time.
So much time has passed since her last relationship that
she can barely remember the feel of it, of being high on
love. She knows she once enjoyed the novelty of having a
man to touch and kiss anytime, anyplace, simply because
she wanted to. The idea is wonderful, but her memories
are scattered and fuzzy, hard to piece together, as
if they are parts of a dream or a past life.
She thinks about the men she has been involved with,
wondering about the life she would have led if she had
chosen to spend it with one of them. She shivers, thinking
that she might have ended up in a stereotypical role, the
younger woman, the home-wrecker. She hopes she walked away
in time.
After Daniel, she slept on her sofa for six weeks.
After Diana, Mulder slept on his couch for six years.
Mulder is different, but she fits well with him.
They are more alike than anyone suspects. Maybe
they could work out the details as they go along.
- - -
Another car, another long drive home. They stop at a
roadside diner because he wants french fries. "Greasy,"
he says. "The real thing."
The booth is small with bright red vinyl seats and a
yellow checked table cloth. The salt and pepper shakers
are tiny Holstein cows. Their drinks are served in large
mason jars.
He makes fun of her for ordering water while he eats
his fries three at a time. "Live a little, Scully."
She selects chocolate cake from the menu and eats it
slowly in retaliation. He watches her, shaking his
head, and gets his hand slapped when he tries to steal
a forkful.
They enjoy a few minutes of companionable silence.
"What are you thinking?" she asks softly.
"I'm thinking... this is nice."
She looks around the small room. The palm tree
wallpaper is peeling, and the gum-smacking teenage
waitress is chatting with her boyfriend on the phone.
The shake machine buzzes loudly for no apparent reason.
Then, there's Mulder. He is slouched across from her,
sleeves rolled and tie loosened. A good sixteen hours
have passed since his morning shower and shave. His
hair is rumpled, and his eyes are warm.
"It is," she agrees. There is no place she'd rather be.
- - -
Waiting for information in the Gunmen's lair is not
an easy thing. Mulder has trouble sitting still, knowing
he's surrounded by so many very expensive toys just
waiting for a test drive.
The printer across the room is churning out page 327 of
1608, and it looks like he'll be here for awhile. He
gets bored reading about the latest in android technology,
so he turns to Frohike's computer for amusement.
The hard drive is full of folders with obscure names like
'lexeme' and 'toric.' Most are full of articles and
reports. A few contain rough drafts of recently published
conspiracy theories. He clicks through several, but
nothing captures his attention. Finally, he selects a
folder labeled 'recon' and almost chokes on his
coffee when he sees that all of the file names begin
with the same six letters. All are photos, some close up,
some far away. There are a few random snapshots, but
most are crime scene pictures. And each is an image of
Scully.
"Damn it, Mulder. I can't leave you alone for one
minute."
Frohike's voice startles him, but he regains his
composure admirably. "What are these all about?"
"She's hot." Noting the way his friend bristles,
Frohike is quick to amend. "Relax, big guy. We're
not stalking Scully. We just happened to intercept
a few files."
"But there are over 20 pictures here. It must've
taken awhile to find these... accidentally," Mulder
chides, adding air quotes to the last word for
emphasis.
"Not really. It's a Lone Gunmen special ops mission.
As I told the guys, we're collecting 'em for you."
Mulder looks genuinely confused. "Why?"
Frohike clicks on the first icon, and the picture
unfolds. Scully crouches beside a victim but is
looking up at something outside of the frame. "We
wanted to give you concrete evidence. This is the
way she looks at you, even when you're arguing
over a stiff." He pauses for effect. "So do
something about it, already."
== December, 1999 ==
Her heels pound on the wet pavement, a sickening slapping
sound. The Kevlar weighs her down as she sprints through
the darkness.
Two shots ring out, then a third. She imagines she hears
a body crumpling to the ground, but that is impossible.
She is too far away. She's always too far away.
She whips around the corner into a narrow alley. It smells
of piss and old newspapers. She tastes blood on her tongue,
for she has bitten into it. At the far end of the alley,
she sees him, sprawled on the pavement, lit by a single
flickering street lamp. His arm is slung across his neck
at an odd angle, broken, the white of his dress shirt
sleeve contrasting the bloom of crimson at his temple.
His eyes are open, staring up into the starless sky,
unseeing.
She tries to run to him, but she seems fixed in place.
Suddenly, a team of agents materializes and swarms
into the alley, led by a tall, thin figure. Fowley,
she realizes, emotions swirling. The other woman
touches Mulder, brushes his hair away from his forehead
and kisses him tenderly. Sudden rage gives Scully the
power to move forward, and she rushes to his side.
Fowley rises to meet her. "The situation is under
control, Agent Scully."
"I need to see him."
"But you aren't what he needs anymore."
Scully notices for the first time the simple gold
band on Mulder's ring finger. Realization dawns,
twisting her inside out. Speechless, she stares
as his wedding ring gleams rhythmically in the
flickering lamplight.
She awakens, startled, hot tears streaming down her
cheeks. She licks them from the corner of her
mouth, salty like the blood in her dream. Her racing
heart slows, yet the feeling of stomach-dropping
fear remains.
Irritated, she slides out of bed and wanders to the
kitchen. She fills the tea pot and puts it on to heat,
her mind racing. She wants to reach out to him,
call him, touch him. She wants to crawl into bed
with him and sleep a thousand years, curled around
his strong body that radiates heat and energy and
smells like home.
She is finally tired of being alone, she decides
as she sips her cup of chamomile in her too-quiet
apartment.
Missy told her once that everyone forms at least one
unbreakable attachment in their lifetime. Each person
has someone that they would do anything for. Mulder is
her unbreakable attachment. She will open her door to
him at any time, under any circumstance, after any
amount of separation, no questions asked. Always.
She feels ridiculous, being jealous of a dead woman, yet
her darkest fear is that Diana held this special place
in Mulder's heart. The hurts of the past year still sting
from time to time.
She wants answers badly, the way she wants him.
She has to get out of the house, so she pulls on a pair
of worn jeans and the black sweater she wore to work
before slinging on her trench coat, snatching up her car
keys, and locking the door behind her. She returns briefly
to retrieve her badge and gun, wondering how she became
so paranoid that she doesn't leave the house without them
anymore.
- - -
Each week, she has shown up at his door bearing some
sort of offering. First the pizza, then a CD, ice cream
and chocolate sauce, a bag of sunflower seeds, cookies
straight from her mother's oven, a stuffed goldfish that
'reminded her of him.' Yesterday, she brought an anthology
of Norse folk tales, which he read aloud to her because he
knows she likes to watch.
He isn't sure why he expects her again tonight, but he
is surprised when her knock still hasn't sounded at a
quarter to eleven. Resigned, he pads barefoot to the door,
checking the peephole and throwing the deadbolt.
- - -
Lost in her thoughts, she wanders the neat aisles of a
corner market, wondering about the other people who are
out at this hour.
When she sees the ripe, red display, gleaming under
the fluorescent grocery store lights, she knows what
she is supposed to do. She's not sure if she believes
in fate, but the fruit calls out to her. She selects
several fat apples from the bottom of the pile and
makes her way to the front of the store, where the
bored clerk regards her strangely. She suspects not many
people venture out on a gloomy winter night just to buy
an armful of fruit, but the clumsy weight of the crinkled
paper bag is comforting to her hyperactive fingers as she
walks down the street to her car.
She needn't worry that he'll be asleep, she tells
herself as she maneuvers through the darkened streets.
He is always ready for her.
At her knock, he opens the door with an amused expression,
but says nothing as she walks in under his arm and makes her
way to his kitchen.
She might be crazy enough to eat apples with him at one
o'clock in the morning, but she isn't so crazy that she
doesn't wash them first. She admires the way Mulder's
now-prominent crow's feet crinkle as he smiles, his
long fingers playing tag with hers in the warm water.
- - -
"Tell me a story, Mulder."
Four shiny red apples sit before them, lined up with
military precision on the coffee table. She selects
the largest and offers it to him.
"From our book?" He smiles, remembering her eyes on
him the night before.
"No, just... tell me. Tell me anything."
He turns the apple over in his hands thoughtfully, his
thumb caressing the planes and curves. It really is
beautiful, when he thinks about it.
"In many cultures," he begins, picking up the small
paring knife she brought from the kitchen, "the apple
is an erotic symbol."
She raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, watching him
peel the apple instead. The sharp blade slices easily
through the plump fruit, a crisp, wet sound. He carefully
avoids her gaze.
"There is evidence that the tradition of throwing rice
at weddings evolved from an ancient custom in which
apples were thrown near new brides to ignite sexual
desire and promote fertility."
He cuts a slice of the apple and offers it to her,
balanced between his thumb and the flat of the knife.
The fruit feels sticky in his fingers.
"The newlyweds might also share an apple in celebration
of their union. As a gift, an apple represented the
giver's eagerness to begin a romantic relationship."
She looks at him quizzically, accepting the fruit and
watching as he slices a section for himself. The room
is too quiet, so she turns to their old stand-by, the
innuendo-laced one-liner. She's getting better and
better at dishing them out.
"Are you propositioning me?"
He looks directly into her eyes for the first time
since he began the history lesson. 'The question is,'
his expression seems to say, 'are you?'
She doesn't have an answer to that.
== Christmas, 1999 ==
Late in the evening, her cell phone chirps from her
mother's kitchen table. Matthew, who had been happily
playing with his peanut butter and jelly snack,
squeals in delight and reaches with sticky fingers
for the prize. He captures it easily, pressing several
of the buttons and shouting "hewoo" before Scully
can wrestle the phone away.
"Scully," she answers with a laugh, distracting the pouting
toddler with her keys.
"Taking hostages, I see."
She watches her peanut butter-covered nephew shake the
keys gleefully and toss them to the floor. "Actually,
I think it might be the other way around. I'm on baby
sitting detail. We're having PB&J."
"Scully, I'm shocked that you would give a child sugar
at this hour."
She smiles to herself, bending to pick up the keys.
"Yes, well, he'll be coming down from the high on Tara
and Bill's shift. I've still got wrapping to do."
"Ah." He pauses. "So... I have a surprise for you."
"Mulder, if this is about a haunted house, I'm hanging
up now."
This earns her a chuckle. "No, not at all. It should
be arriving... now." The doorbell sounds right on cue.
"Now, Miss Scully, what do we have behind door number
one?"
"Am I sure I want to find out?" she asks, hoisting
Matthew into her arms and making her way to the door.
"I promise it's completely safe to look. I'll give you
a call in the morning. Merry Christmas, Scully."
She can hear his smile. "Merry Christmas."
She opens the door to find a small, neat basket at her
feet. Tucked inside the cloth covering are several
ripe, red apples and a small card that reads, "Just
returning the sentiment."
- - -
He watches his fish dart to and fro in their liquid
world. The large one pauses to look at him through the
sealed glass before moving on to gulp several of the
brightly colored flakes floating all around. He really
should feed them on a more regular schedule.
He wonders what the fish think of him. Do they view him
as some sort of benevolent deity that bestows gifts of
food and clean water at random?
He thinks about basketball at the rec center, the fried
chicken he ate for dinner, and cold case files. But,
mostly he thinks about Scully. Is she curled up in front
of her mother's colorful Christmas tree, slicing an apple
and thinking of him?
He longs for a holiday he can spend with her. They get
so little down time together. He'll take her out for
her birthday, he promises himself. It's a shame Mardi
Gras won't be in February this year. He imagines them
driving down to New Orleans in one of the convertibles
Scully loves to rent, joining the mass of couples
picnicking on colorful woven blankets, Scully toying
with her bright green beads and sipping a margarita.
The air would swirl around them, smelling of tequila
and expensive cigars, and they would be free.
- - -
By the time the rest of the family returns from their
last-minute shopping trip, Matthew has passed out on the
sofa. Tara carefully scoops him up and carries him
upstairs to bed. In the kitchen, Scully quickly wraps
a few stray presents and helps her mother put away
the groceries. Maggie pauses when she sees the basket
of apples.
"Mulder sent them," Scully explains. "Do you think there's
enough for a pie?"
Bill eyes the gift, then turns to his sister. "He sent
*apples*?"
Scully simply nods. She can't tell Bill it's quite
possibly the most exciting gift she has ever received.
Actually, the present seems downright naughty, when
she thinks about it.
She changes into her pajamas and brushes her teeth,
thinking about him. In her room, she removes the note
from its hiding place in the side pocket of her bag.
Just returning the sentiment. Oh, God.
Deep in the night, she dreams of making love to Mulder
in the bedroom of her tiny college apartment. It is
mid-summer and the overhead fan is on, cooling their
sweat-slick bodies. They rise and fall in her old
twin bed with no headboard and risers underneath, his
t-shirt muting the light from the bedside lamp. The
dream is all sensation, full-color, and she awakens
before dawn, breathless and trembling.
- - -
He does indeed call in the morning. "Watch the sunrise
with me," he says.
Carefully, she creeps down the stairs and out onto
her mother's porch. It's freezing, and she snuggles into
the quilt wrapped around her shoulders, careful not to drop
the phone. In the east, the sky is ablaze, the rising sun
sending explosions of red and orange out to greet her.
"It's going to be a gorgeous day."
"Mmm," he agrees. "Have you gotten any interesting
presents yet?"
She laughs. "A few. Mulder, who in the world delivered
apples for you on Christmas Eve?"
"Santa, of course."
"Mulder."
"What? It was an important gift. I had to make sure it
was delivered in style."
Together, they watch as the sun slips over the horizon
and the world around them wakes.
"What are you thinking?"
She watches her breath puff in the cold morning air,
considering her answer. "I'm wondering what happens next,
for us."
"So am I."
== January, 2000 ==
"Easy does it, Mulder," she warns, taking his bag
away from him and slinging it over her shoulder.
"I'm your personal bellhop until you're all patched
up."
He sighs and nods, but insists on pushing the elevator
button with his good hand. "What about turndown service?"
She eyes his reflection in the metal doors. "Don't push
your luck."
The elevator opens with a ding, and they trudge inside
looking every bit as tired as they are. Scully leans
against the back wall, eyes closed. She briefly
considers the possibility of making out with Mulder in
the elevator, pushing him back into a corner and taking
her time. Yet when she opens her eyes she remembers
the sling on his arm and his slight limp. Not a good
idea.
Her lips still tingle. For a first kiss, it wasn't
that bad. But, it wasn't quite what she imagined a
first kiss with Mulder would be. It was sweet and
gentle. She was hoping for something more...
substantial. Still, progress is progress.
At his door, she fishes the keys out of his back
pocket, enjoying it way too much for her own good.
She coaxes his creaky door open and drops his bag
into the closest chair. He eases onto the couch
and turns on the television. Sci-Fi is running a
'Twilight Zone' marathon.
She hesitates in the living room doorway, unsure
of what to do. "Do you need anything?"
He smiles. "Nah, I'll be okay. I promise to keep
the sling on as long as I can stand it."
"You know what I like." She drops his keys onto the
coffee table and turns to go.
"Hey," he says, holding out his hand as she turns
to face him. "Come over here."
Warily, she approaches the couch and sits beside
him. "Mulder, you need to get some rest."
"I will, I will." He pauses. "Just sit with me
for awhile."
She cannot refuse this man, with his heavy-lidded
gaze and slightly stubbled jaw. So, she stays.
- - -
He awakens in the night, sprawled on his leather couch,
Scully snuggled under his good arm, cheek against his
chest. Her features glow, flashing eerily in the light of
the television. He reaches for the remote and presses the
power button, plunging the apartment into darkness.
Gently, he kisses her forehead and pulls his Navajo
blanket down around them to block out the chill.
He refuses to send her home. He hopes, just maybe, she's
already there.
- - -
It happens, unexpectedly, on a Wednesday. She is at
his door at seven o'clock as promised, but they never
make it to dinner. He brushes flakes of snow from her
shoulders, she looks at him in just the right way, and
they are done for.
He marks her neck with his lips as she rises above him,
panting with the thrill of it. Her nipples brush against
his bare chest rhythmically. She licks her lips, her
nerves running hot and cold. What this man does to her
defies belief, but it isn't a dream. It is real and
wet and so, so perfect.
- - -
Today, they make time to eat lunch together. She
saves their window seats in a bustling deli while he
braves the line for sandwiches.
Outside, a helium balloon bounces precariously in
the grasp of its young owner. The wind is strong,
the boy isn't paying attention, and Scully knows
what is going to happen.
Oblivious to the drama unfolding across the street,
Mulder makes his way through the lunch-hour crowd
with their food.
"Heads up," he warns.
She catches the apple easily, smiling at him. Lately,
there have been apples everywhere. He leaves them for
her, inconspicuous reminders on her bedside table,
in her car, on his desk at work. Two days ago, she
found apple Jolly Ranchers in her lingerie drawer.
She can't tell him to stop or let him know that it
ruffles her feathers ever so slightly. After all
these years, she secretly enjoys being stirred up.
She has smiled more in the past week than any other
time he can remember. He catches her staring again,
but these days she doesn't have to pretend he's
imagining things.
The vendor on the street corner is pushing newspapers.
Cars stop and go with the changing street light. The
boy's balloon slips away and up into the sky, becoming
a tiny green dot before disappearing altogether. All
around, the world is rushing by, yet they take a
moment to sit too close together in the small deli,
quietly discussing case notes. More now than ever
before, there is no place she'd rather be.
== end ==
BTS Readers' Day Challenge Elements:
1. bed risers - check
2. Mardi Gras - check
3. Sallie's "That" - check
4. Frohike with a folder of Scully candids he has
to explain - check
5. A helium balloon - check
Yea, all of them! I had a great time.
Author: Lynn Saunders
Rating: R
Classification: MSR, RST, Post-Ep for both Amor Fati
and Millennium
Spoilers: through Millennium
Summary: There is no place she'd rather be.
Feedback: Adored, re-read, printed out, and imortalized
in a quality binder at lynnsaundersfanfic@hotmail.com.
Website: http://www.mindspring.com/~lynnsaunders
Distribution: Archive freely, but please drop me a line
to let me know.
Date Completed: 2.16.2004
Dedication: To my BTS babies for the Readers' Day
Challenge (element list at end). I love you all!
Special Thanks: To Carol and Sallie, my beloved beta
team.
Disclaimer: Oops, not mine. Sorry.
- - -
Passion Fruit
by Lynn Saunders
== Late October, 1999 ==
"I saw things, Scully." He raises her hand shakily,
placing it on the shorn hair at his temple. "In my mind."
Concerned, she eases him back against the hospital
pillow. "It's alright. Try to get some rest."
"I heard things, too." He blinks at her groggily.
"I could hear you."
A week later, standing in his doorway, she realizes
what he means and wonders what he might have
discovered in her.
- - -
He does not exaggerate his feelings for her. She is his
constant. The only memories he is certain are real and true
involve her.
Her fingers caress his face, lingering on his full bottom
lip, a heavenly sensation. He should kiss her, but he
hesitates, and the moment is gone. Even as she turns to
leave, he is at peace.
In the evening, he is surprised to find her at his door
once again, pizza box in hand. This is a rare occasion,
to be sure.
They pretend to watch the news, watching each other
instead. She laughs at three of his bad jokes, and he
steals her pepperoni. They find "When Harry Met Sally"
on AMC and settle in for the long haul. Halfway through,
Scully rests her head on his shoulder. His arms encircle
her easily, as if it is nothing new.
"I was lost without you," she says.
He takes his first deep breath in ages.
== November, 1999 ==
It's the little things that remind her she's hopelessly,
completely in love with him. The way he smiles
conspiratorially while sharing his insane theories and steals
sips of her coffee when he knows she's looking. The way
he touches her, warm fingers against the curve of her back
offering up a challenge she desperately wants to accept.
Ignoring his silent advances has proven to be the worst
form of self-neglect, so she plays with his tie and
buys suits with a slightly lower neckline, hoping to
atone for lost time.
So much time has passed since her last relationship that
she can barely remember the feel of it, of being high on
love. She knows she once enjoyed the novelty of having a
man to touch and kiss anytime, anyplace, simply because
she wanted to. The idea is wonderful, but her memories
are scattered and fuzzy, hard to piece together, as
if they are parts of a dream or a past life.
She thinks about the men she has been involved with,
wondering about the life she would have led if she had
chosen to spend it with one of them. She shivers, thinking
that she might have ended up in a stereotypical role, the
younger woman, the home-wrecker. She hopes she walked away
in time.
After Daniel, she slept on her sofa for six weeks.
After Diana, Mulder slept on his couch for six years.
Mulder is different, but she fits well with him.
They are more alike than anyone suspects. Maybe
they could work out the details as they go along.
- - -
Another car, another long drive home. They stop at a
roadside diner because he wants french fries. "Greasy,"
he says. "The real thing."
The booth is small with bright red vinyl seats and a
yellow checked table cloth. The salt and pepper shakers
are tiny Holstein cows. Their drinks are served in large
mason jars.
He makes fun of her for ordering water while he eats
his fries three at a time. "Live a little, Scully."
She selects chocolate cake from the menu and eats it
slowly in retaliation. He watches her, shaking his
head, and gets his hand slapped when he tries to steal
a forkful.
They enjoy a few minutes of companionable silence.
"What are you thinking?" she asks softly.
"I'm thinking... this is nice."
She looks around the small room. The palm tree
wallpaper is peeling, and the gum-smacking teenage
waitress is chatting with her boyfriend on the phone.
The shake machine buzzes loudly for no apparent reason.
Then, there's Mulder. He is slouched across from her,
sleeves rolled and tie loosened. A good sixteen hours
have passed since his morning shower and shave. His
hair is rumpled, and his eyes are warm.
"It is," she agrees. There is no place she'd rather be.
- - -
Waiting for information in the Gunmen's lair is not
an easy thing. Mulder has trouble sitting still, knowing
he's surrounded by so many very expensive toys just
waiting for a test drive.
The printer across the room is churning out page 327 of
1608, and it looks like he'll be here for awhile. He
gets bored reading about the latest in android technology,
so he turns to Frohike's computer for amusement.
The hard drive is full of folders with obscure names like
'lexeme' and 'toric.' Most are full of articles and
reports. A few contain rough drafts of recently published
conspiracy theories. He clicks through several, but
nothing captures his attention. Finally, he selects a
folder labeled 'recon' and almost chokes on his
coffee when he sees that all of the file names begin
with the same six letters. All are photos, some close up,
some far away. There are a few random snapshots, but
most are crime scene pictures. And each is an image of
Scully.
"Damn it, Mulder. I can't leave you alone for one
minute."
Frohike's voice startles him, but he regains his
composure admirably. "What are these all about?"
"She's hot." Noting the way his friend bristles,
Frohike is quick to amend. "Relax, big guy. We're
not stalking Scully. We just happened to intercept
a few files."
"But there are over 20 pictures here. It must've
taken awhile to find these... accidentally," Mulder
chides, adding air quotes to the last word for
emphasis.
"Not really. It's a Lone Gunmen special ops mission.
As I told the guys, we're collecting 'em for you."
Mulder looks genuinely confused. "Why?"
Frohike clicks on the first icon, and the picture
unfolds. Scully crouches beside a victim but is
looking up at something outside of the frame. "We
wanted to give you concrete evidence. This is the
way she looks at you, even when you're arguing
over a stiff." He pauses for effect. "So do
something about it, already."
== December, 1999 ==
Her heels pound on the wet pavement, a sickening slapping
sound. The Kevlar weighs her down as she sprints through
the darkness.
Two shots ring out, then a third. She imagines she hears
a body crumpling to the ground, but that is impossible.
She is too far away. She's always too far away.
She whips around the corner into a narrow alley. It smells
of piss and old newspapers. She tastes blood on her tongue,
for she has bitten into it. At the far end of the alley,
she sees him, sprawled on the pavement, lit by a single
flickering street lamp. His arm is slung across his neck
at an odd angle, broken, the white of his dress shirt
sleeve contrasting the bloom of crimson at his temple.
His eyes are open, staring up into the starless sky,
unseeing.
She tries to run to him, but she seems fixed in place.
Suddenly, a team of agents materializes and swarms
into the alley, led by a tall, thin figure. Fowley,
she realizes, emotions swirling. The other woman
touches Mulder, brushes his hair away from his forehead
and kisses him tenderly. Sudden rage gives Scully the
power to move forward, and she rushes to his side.
Fowley rises to meet her. "The situation is under
control, Agent Scully."
"I need to see him."
"But you aren't what he needs anymore."
Scully notices for the first time the simple gold
band on Mulder's ring finger. Realization dawns,
twisting her inside out. Speechless, she stares
as his wedding ring gleams rhythmically in the
flickering lamplight.
She awakens, startled, hot tears streaming down her
cheeks. She licks them from the corner of her
mouth, salty like the blood in her dream. Her racing
heart slows, yet the feeling of stomach-dropping
fear remains.
Irritated, she slides out of bed and wanders to the
kitchen. She fills the tea pot and puts it on to heat,
her mind racing. She wants to reach out to him,
call him, touch him. She wants to crawl into bed
with him and sleep a thousand years, curled around
his strong body that radiates heat and energy and
smells like home.
She is finally tired of being alone, she decides
as she sips her cup of chamomile in her too-quiet
apartment.
Missy told her once that everyone forms at least one
unbreakable attachment in their lifetime. Each person
has someone that they would do anything for. Mulder is
her unbreakable attachment. She will open her door to
him at any time, under any circumstance, after any
amount of separation, no questions asked. Always.
She feels ridiculous, being jealous of a dead woman, yet
her darkest fear is that Diana held this special place
in Mulder's heart. The hurts of the past year still sting
from time to time.
She wants answers badly, the way she wants him.
She has to get out of the house, so she pulls on a pair
of worn jeans and the black sweater she wore to work
before slinging on her trench coat, snatching up her car
keys, and locking the door behind her. She returns briefly
to retrieve her badge and gun, wondering how she became
so paranoid that she doesn't leave the house without them
anymore.
- - -
Each week, she has shown up at his door bearing some
sort of offering. First the pizza, then a CD, ice cream
and chocolate sauce, a bag of sunflower seeds, cookies
straight from her mother's oven, a stuffed goldfish that
'reminded her of him.' Yesterday, she brought an anthology
of Norse folk tales, which he read aloud to her because he
knows she likes to watch.
He isn't sure why he expects her again tonight, but he
is surprised when her knock still hasn't sounded at a
quarter to eleven. Resigned, he pads barefoot to the door,
checking the peephole and throwing the deadbolt.
- - -
Lost in her thoughts, she wanders the neat aisles of a
corner market, wondering about the other people who are
out at this hour.
When she sees the ripe, red display, gleaming under
the fluorescent grocery store lights, she knows what
she is supposed to do. She's not sure if she believes
in fate, but the fruit calls out to her. She selects
several fat apples from the bottom of the pile and
makes her way to the front of the store, where the
bored clerk regards her strangely. She suspects not many
people venture out on a gloomy winter night just to buy
an armful of fruit, but the clumsy weight of the crinkled
paper bag is comforting to her hyperactive fingers as she
walks down the street to her car.
She needn't worry that he'll be asleep, she tells
herself as she maneuvers through the darkened streets.
He is always ready for her.
At her knock, he opens the door with an amused expression,
but says nothing as she walks in under his arm and makes her
way to his kitchen.
She might be crazy enough to eat apples with him at one
o'clock in the morning, but she isn't so crazy that she
doesn't wash them first. She admires the way Mulder's
now-prominent crow's feet crinkle as he smiles, his
long fingers playing tag with hers in the warm water.
- - -
"Tell me a story, Mulder."
Four shiny red apples sit before them, lined up with
military precision on the coffee table. She selects
the largest and offers it to him.
"From our book?" He smiles, remembering her eyes on
him the night before.
"No, just... tell me. Tell me anything."
He turns the apple over in his hands thoughtfully, his
thumb caressing the planes and curves. It really is
beautiful, when he thinks about it.
"In many cultures," he begins, picking up the small
paring knife she brought from the kitchen, "the apple
is an erotic symbol."
She raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, watching him
peel the apple instead. The sharp blade slices easily
through the plump fruit, a crisp, wet sound. He carefully
avoids her gaze.
"There is evidence that the tradition of throwing rice
at weddings evolved from an ancient custom in which
apples were thrown near new brides to ignite sexual
desire and promote fertility."
He cuts a slice of the apple and offers it to her,
balanced between his thumb and the flat of the knife.
The fruit feels sticky in his fingers.
"The newlyweds might also share an apple in celebration
of their union. As a gift, an apple represented the
giver's eagerness to begin a romantic relationship."
She looks at him quizzically, accepting the fruit and
watching as he slices a section for himself. The room
is too quiet, so she turns to their old stand-by, the
innuendo-laced one-liner. She's getting better and
better at dishing them out.
"Are you propositioning me?"
He looks directly into her eyes for the first time
since he began the history lesson. 'The question is,'
his expression seems to say, 'are you?'
She doesn't have an answer to that.
== Christmas, 1999 ==
Late in the evening, her cell phone chirps from her
mother's kitchen table. Matthew, who had been happily
playing with his peanut butter and jelly snack,
squeals in delight and reaches with sticky fingers
for the prize. He captures it easily, pressing several
of the buttons and shouting "hewoo" before Scully
can wrestle the phone away.
"Scully," she answers with a laugh, distracting the pouting
toddler with her keys.
"Taking hostages, I see."
She watches her peanut butter-covered nephew shake the
keys gleefully and toss them to the floor. "Actually,
I think it might be the other way around. I'm on baby
sitting detail. We're having PB&J."
"Scully, I'm shocked that you would give a child sugar
at this hour."
She smiles to herself, bending to pick up the keys.
"Yes, well, he'll be coming down from the high on Tara
and Bill's shift. I've still got wrapping to do."
"Ah." He pauses. "So... I have a surprise for you."
"Mulder, if this is about a haunted house, I'm hanging
up now."
This earns her a chuckle. "No, not at all. It should
be arriving... now." The doorbell sounds right on cue.
"Now, Miss Scully, what do we have behind door number
one?"
"Am I sure I want to find out?" she asks, hoisting
Matthew into her arms and making her way to the door.
"I promise it's completely safe to look. I'll give you
a call in the morning. Merry Christmas, Scully."
She can hear his smile. "Merry Christmas."
She opens the door to find a small, neat basket at her
feet. Tucked inside the cloth covering are several
ripe, red apples and a small card that reads, "Just
returning the sentiment."
- - -
He watches his fish dart to and fro in their liquid
world. The large one pauses to look at him through the
sealed glass before moving on to gulp several of the
brightly colored flakes floating all around. He really
should feed them on a more regular schedule.
He wonders what the fish think of him. Do they view him
as some sort of benevolent deity that bestows gifts of
food and clean water at random?
He thinks about basketball at the rec center, the fried
chicken he ate for dinner, and cold case files. But,
mostly he thinks about Scully. Is she curled up in front
of her mother's colorful Christmas tree, slicing an apple
and thinking of him?
He longs for a holiday he can spend with her. They get
so little down time together. He'll take her out for
her birthday, he promises himself. It's a shame Mardi
Gras won't be in February this year. He imagines them
driving down to New Orleans in one of the convertibles
Scully loves to rent, joining the mass of couples
picnicking on colorful woven blankets, Scully toying
with her bright green beads and sipping a margarita.
The air would swirl around them, smelling of tequila
and expensive cigars, and they would be free.
- - -
By the time the rest of the family returns from their
last-minute shopping trip, Matthew has passed out on the
sofa. Tara carefully scoops him up and carries him
upstairs to bed. In the kitchen, Scully quickly wraps
a few stray presents and helps her mother put away
the groceries. Maggie pauses when she sees the basket
of apples.
"Mulder sent them," Scully explains. "Do you think there's
enough for a pie?"
Bill eyes the gift, then turns to his sister. "He sent
*apples*?"
Scully simply nods. She can't tell Bill it's quite
possibly the most exciting gift she has ever received.
Actually, the present seems downright naughty, when
she thinks about it.
She changes into her pajamas and brushes her teeth,
thinking about him. In her room, she removes the note
from its hiding place in the side pocket of her bag.
Just returning the sentiment. Oh, God.
Deep in the night, she dreams of making love to Mulder
in the bedroom of her tiny college apartment. It is
mid-summer and the overhead fan is on, cooling their
sweat-slick bodies. They rise and fall in her old
twin bed with no headboard and risers underneath, his
t-shirt muting the light from the bedside lamp. The
dream is all sensation, full-color, and she awakens
before dawn, breathless and trembling.
- - -
He does indeed call in the morning. "Watch the sunrise
with me," he says.
Carefully, she creeps down the stairs and out onto
her mother's porch. It's freezing, and she snuggles into
the quilt wrapped around her shoulders, careful not to drop
the phone. In the east, the sky is ablaze, the rising sun
sending explosions of red and orange out to greet her.
"It's going to be a gorgeous day."
"Mmm," he agrees. "Have you gotten any interesting
presents yet?"
She laughs. "A few. Mulder, who in the world delivered
apples for you on Christmas Eve?"
"Santa, of course."
"Mulder."
"What? It was an important gift. I had to make sure it
was delivered in style."
Together, they watch as the sun slips over the horizon
and the world around them wakes.
"What are you thinking?"
She watches her breath puff in the cold morning air,
considering her answer. "I'm wondering what happens next,
for us."
"So am I."
== January, 2000 ==
"Easy does it, Mulder," she warns, taking his bag
away from him and slinging it over her shoulder.
"I'm your personal bellhop until you're all patched
up."
He sighs and nods, but insists on pushing the elevator
button with his good hand. "What about turndown service?"
She eyes his reflection in the metal doors. "Don't push
your luck."
The elevator opens with a ding, and they trudge inside
looking every bit as tired as they are. Scully leans
against the back wall, eyes closed. She briefly
considers the possibility of making out with Mulder in
the elevator, pushing him back into a corner and taking
her time. Yet when she opens her eyes she remembers
the sling on his arm and his slight limp. Not a good
idea.
Her lips still tingle. For a first kiss, it wasn't
that bad. But, it wasn't quite what she imagined a
first kiss with Mulder would be. It was sweet and
gentle. She was hoping for something more...
substantial. Still, progress is progress.
At his door, she fishes the keys out of his back
pocket, enjoying it way too much for her own good.
She coaxes his creaky door open and drops his bag
into the closest chair. He eases onto the couch
and turns on the television. Sci-Fi is running a
'Twilight Zone' marathon.
She hesitates in the living room doorway, unsure
of what to do. "Do you need anything?"
He smiles. "Nah, I'll be okay. I promise to keep
the sling on as long as I can stand it."
"You know what I like." She drops his keys onto the
coffee table and turns to go.
"Hey," he says, holding out his hand as she turns
to face him. "Come over here."
Warily, she approaches the couch and sits beside
him. "Mulder, you need to get some rest."
"I will, I will." He pauses. "Just sit with me
for awhile."
She cannot refuse this man, with his heavy-lidded
gaze and slightly stubbled jaw. So, she stays.
- - -
He awakens in the night, sprawled on his leather couch,
Scully snuggled under his good arm, cheek against his
chest. Her features glow, flashing eerily in the light of
the television. He reaches for the remote and presses the
power button, plunging the apartment into darkness.
Gently, he kisses her forehead and pulls his Navajo
blanket down around them to block out the chill.
He refuses to send her home. He hopes, just maybe, she's
already there.
- - -
It happens, unexpectedly, on a Wednesday. She is at
his door at seven o'clock as promised, but they never
make it to dinner. He brushes flakes of snow from her
shoulders, she looks at him in just the right way, and
they are done for.
He marks her neck with his lips as she rises above him,
panting with the thrill of it. Her nipples brush against
his bare chest rhythmically. She licks her lips, her
nerves running hot and cold. What this man does to her
defies belief, but it isn't a dream. It is real and
wet and so, so perfect.
- - -
Today, they make time to eat lunch together. She
saves their window seats in a bustling deli while he
braves the line for sandwiches.
Outside, a helium balloon bounces precariously in
the grasp of its young owner. The wind is strong,
the boy isn't paying attention, and Scully knows
what is going to happen.
Oblivious to the drama unfolding across the street,
Mulder makes his way through the lunch-hour crowd
with their food.
"Heads up," he warns.
She catches the apple easily, smiling at him. Lately,
there have been apples everywhere. He leaves them for
her, inconspicuous reminders on her bedside table,
in her car, on his desk at work. Two days ago, she
found apple Jolly Ranchers in her lingerie drawer.
She can't tell him to stop or let him know that it
ruffles her feathers ever so slightly. After all
these years, she secretly enjoys being stirred up.
She has smiled more in the past week than any other
time he can remember. He catches her staring again,
but these days she doesn't have to pretend he's
imagining things.
The vendor on the street corner is pushing newspapers.
Cars stop and go with the changing street light. The
boy's balloon slips away and up into the sky, becoming
a tiny green dot before disappearing altogether. All
around, the world is rushing by, yet they take a
moment to sit too close together in the small deli,
quietly discussing case notes. More now than ever
before, there is no place she'd rather be.
== end ==
BTS Readers' Day Challenge Elements:
1. bed risers - check
2. Mardi Gras - check
3. Sallie's "That" - check
4. Frohike with a folder of Scully candids he has
to explain - check
5. A helium balloon - check
Yea, all of them! I had a great time.