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Author's
notes: Hey, if I'm doing it then everybody must be writing
post-eps! Many thanks to Lynne for getting me thinking on this one and
providing the speediest beta in the land.
"Thanks for the ride, Mulder. I hate leaving my car out in the long-term lot," Scully says as she gets out of the car.
"No problem. Are you sure you don't need me to pick you up?" I ask as I get out of the driver's seat to pull her luggage from the trunk.
"I'll call, but I'm planning on coming back with my mom, so don't worry about it," she responds as I set the bag up on its end. She leans over to pull the handle out so she can easily roll it into the terminal. The parking area is full with holiday travelers. The traffic out to Dulles was even heavier than usual. Again I have the sense that I am the only person without a place to be on that important holiday.
I push the trunk lid down and move over to where she stands.
"Well, Merry Christmas, Scully," I say, my hands jammed into my jeans pockets.
"You too, Mulder. You have somewhere to go tomorrow, don't you?" she asks, her face creased with concern.
"Yeah, I'm going to have dinner with Frohike. Byers is in Wisconsin with his parents and Langly is going to some Phish concert down in Florida."
"Good. It's not a good time of year to be alone, Mulder," she replies. We pause, awkwardly, and then I move in to hug her.
"Be safe and say hi to the Scully clan," I say as I pull away.
"You too, Mulder. I'll see you on Wednesday," she responds, then turns and heads for the terminal doors.
I can't help but watch her as she goes, ignoring the guy in the Explorer, with the pained expression, who would really appreciate me moving myself away from the American Airlines curbside check-in. It was her first Christmas back in San Diego since Emily and I am worried. She hasn't said much, but I know it has to be difficult for her.
*~*~*~*
Golf. Football. Infomercial. Behind the Music: Donny and Marie. Danielle Steel
movie. Booktalk. The Christmas Story. Football again. Miracle on 34th Street.
That conjoined twins special. The Real World. The Grinch.
I drop the remote control on the coffee table and lean back, considering the crack in the ceiling. I hadn't lied to Scully the day before. I had gone to Frohike's for lunch. We had eaten a Christmas feast of the Colonel's best, carefully purchased right before they closed for the holidays. Chinese had always been a good bet with Melvin and I until his latest paranoia about MSG. I had suggested the kosher deli out in Potomac, but he just muttered something about headcheese and I decided to stick with the cold chicken.
Of course now it was 4 p.m. on Christmas Eve and I have a big zone of nothing lying out ahead of me. The TV is depressing to even look at and my spirits are too low to dip into the video collection. I probably should have taken my mom up on her offer, but I have to admit that I'm not terribly interested in spending any quality time with dear old mom right now.
At the thought of Teena, my hand snakes up to touch the scar. That's how I'm dealing with it now, calling her Teena. It removes me a little bit. Who knows what she was thinking when she had Old Smokey take me out of the hospital, but the fact is it scared the shit out of Scully and nearly killed me.
Part of me wants to think that she was trying to help me, in the only way she knew how, by turning to him. She has always turned to him in these times of need. I know that now.
Denial has been working pretty effectively since Scully's heroic retrieval of my carcass from the DOD facility. I don't remember much, but I woke up in a comfortable hospital bed with a scar worthy of a few war stories when I'm in the old Agents home some day. Who knows what Smoky and his band of merry elves did to me, but according to the AMA's finest, it doesn't appear that it will impair me in the long-term.
Short-term it's had an interesting effect. First of all, the tears are coming much more easily these days. I nearly lost it over Rudolph last week. Scully had to bring me a latte instead of mocha last week and I had to run for the john. Logically I know it's shock and trauma, but I'm acting like a menopausal woman. Of course, the highs are coming a little more easily as well. I find myself laughing at the simplest things, like the kid who was sitting across from me on the Metro last week. He seemed to be getting a real kick out of me, but I was practically on the floor.
One more thing. I've been thinking about Scully. A lot. I mean, I always think about Scully, but I think I might be fixated on her. I want...I want her. Okay, now I've admitted it, to myself albeit, but I've admitted it.
She saved me. Again. Maybe it's some kind of emotion left over from that, but honestly, I've felt this way for some time. Let's examine the evidence, folks:
In the hallway, before the bee stung her, we were going for it. It was going to happen other except for that unfortunate alien virus/abduction scenario that always seems to get in the way.
On the boat I did kiss her. Of course it wasn't her, but it was and I did it. Why do I always seem to be the bravest with clones and mirror images? Makes me wish I was a Freudian. And after I got off the boat, I did tell her how I felt. Of course I was drugged, but often times those are the most honest reactions.
I know that I would have died if she had not gone into remission. That body Skinner would have been called to identify would have definitely been mine.
I also know that she saved my ass, again. And I want her to save it forever. I can't imagine my life without her.
So, where does that leave me? Well, I'm sitting on this couch watching the damned Grinch for the twentieth time this week. What is it about Ted Turner that makes him think if we want to watch something once, we're gonna want to watch it 50 times.
*~*~*
Okay, I'm going to do it. I've tried and failed before, but this time I'm
definitely doing it. No more sidelong glances, no more subtle touches at her
back, no more joking to get out of the moment. I'm going to ask Special Agent
Dana Scully out on a real date, flowers, champagne; maybe some strolling violin
players. The real deal and it's going to be special.
A little finagling and favor claiming have netted us reservations at Sequoia. It will be the perfect evening. We had planned to get together at her place to watch the ball drop. This way I can surprise her. I'm sure one of those little black numbers in her closet will be suitable. We can easily walk from her apartment, enjoy our dinner. Who knows where the evening could end?
Okay, that's taken care of. Now, how to ask. On Wednesday when she gets back over coffee from Au Bon Pain? Later, on the phone? Email? On a walk at lunch? Carrier pigeon?
It's only Monday, I still have two days to work out a plan. I'm asking Scully out on a date. Scully...for a date.
*~*~*~*
"Agent Mulder, we need you to get down to Tallahassee as soon as possible.
Kim has your ticket up here. Someone from support services will drop you at
the airport," Skinner said on the phone.
"You don't want me to wait for Scully? She's expected back today," I say, tapping my hands on the desk.
"She's being rerouted from San Diego. She'll meet you there. I have the 302 in my office. You can pick it up on your way out," Skinner says before disconnecting.
He certainly hasn't gotten any less curt with time. I think he is still trying to recover that professional distance we used to pretend we had before my illness.
I pull my jacket off the hanger by my door and head upstairs. All I know is this little jaunt to Florida had better not ruin my plans for Friday night. Millennium or not, I'm going to spend the evening with Scully if it kills us both.
*~*~*~*
She looks incredible. Even from the bottom of a desecrated grave, she looks
like a million. Okay, this is getting out of hand. I need to try and get a
grip on these pubescent hormonal urges. It turns my mind back to the casket,
to the investigation. That holds me for the next few minutes.
"You know Mulder, the millennium isn't until next year," she says as we walk back to the car.
"Nobody likes a math geek, Scully." Oh god, where did that come from? I am mentally kicking myself. I will let her drive. I know how it makes her feel. Why did I say that?!?!?
I can't stop looking at her. I missed her last week. I miss her whenever she's gone. I'm pathetic.
Okay, Mulder, focus on the case. Dead guy, missing from coffin. Let's turn the brain on and get some answers. We do not want to be trapped in Florida on Friday when we should be celebrating.
Oh god, celebrating. How am I going to ask her? I have to stop thinking about this. Focus. Skinner wants us back in DC. Get the forensic evidence shipped, check out of the latest in a long, long string of crappy, cheap motels, and get on the plane. Stop thinking about Scully and her black bra and
"Mulder?"
I snap back to attention. "Yes?"
"Back from the dead?" she asks.
"I know, Scully, but I think if you examine the evidence, it will be the only reasonable explanation," I respond, trying to sound as rational as possible.
"Yeah, reasonable. Pretty much synonymous with your name, Mulder," she replies.
She's teasing me. Is that good or should I worry? At least we're getting out of here. Whether or not we put the case down, we can still make our reservations. At 8:30 p.m. Friday night, I am going to be walking through the door with Ms. Dana Scully on my arm. Nothing is going to stop that.
*~*~*
Nothing but three of the undead and a guy sitting at the top of the steps
with little or no pity for the situation. Damn, my arm hurts. Before I finally
figured out that the head was the kill shot they got me pretty good. I could
definitely use Scully now...for so many reasons! Shit, I am losing a lot of
blood.
I have got to get this bleeding to stop. Pressure should do it, but short of pulling my pants off I don't think I have enough material here to stop it. Just my luck that not only would I find the necromancer, but that he would not have a sympathetic bone in his body to let me out of this hellhole...literally. Maybe if I tried a tourniquet with my tie. I pull it off. It's the tie Scully gave me last Christmas. The first gift she's given me and now it's going down as a testimony to my stupidity.
What the hell am I doing here? I pull my arm up and check the time. It's almost three in the afternoon. I'm never getting out of here in time, let alone the fact that while I haven't technically ditched her this time; I did forge ahead without back up. I think they might have removed something important in my little brain excision. Scully will never forgive me for this one.
I don't care if you ever do forgive me, Scully...just get me the hell out of here!
*~*~*~*
Scully is a saint. She even rode in the ambulance with me. I think she's out
in the waiting room with Frank Black. I just have to wait for the doctor to
come and then we're busting on out of Cumberland Memorial Hospital. I have
been informed that I'm very lucky. There was some minor tearing of the ligaments
around my elbow and shoulder, but nothing that a week or so in the sling won't
cure.
Armed with a new tetanus shot and a bottleful of antibiotics (you never know what kinds of bacteria the undead might be carrying) I head out for the waiting room and Scully. It's nearly midnight and there is no hope of getting to the restaurant. It did take care of one of my problems. I didn't have to figure out how to ask her out.
Even tired, sweaty and dirty, she still looks great. We say our good-byes to Frank and his daughter and then, again we're alone.
It's time. I have to do it now. The ball is dropping. I look over. She's watching intently. She's so beautiful. Now. Do it now.
I lean in. Her lips are as soft as I knew they would be. She moves toward me. Should I go deeper? No. Not this time. She's so incredible.
Finally, we pull away. She's smiling. Smiling. Not laughing, not screaming.
"Well, the world didn't end." Again, very witty Mulder. You have got to get over that.
"No. No, it didn't," she replies. We turn to leave. I slip my good arm around her. She moves into me. She feels so good there, like she should have always been there.
*~*~*~*
"So, we missed hanging out at my place," she says as we pull on
to interstate 68. I look over at her.
"Are you sure you want to drive back to DC tonight?" I ask. If she's half as tired as I am, we have no business on the road.
"Well, your cell phone rang while you were in with the doctor and when I explained to the maitre d' why you couldn't come to the phone he offered to give us reservations tomorrow night at 8:30. I figured that sleeping in your own bed would be better than rushing home for that tomorrow afternoon."
"You knew?" I ask, turning to look at her. She is smiling again.
"Well, not specifically, but I figured you were up to something," she replies.
Up to something. But still nothing about the kiss. Perhaps she was buying into the denial concept as well. What if she never mentioned it again? How would I ever...
"Besides, if you hadn't done it, I would have," she adds.
"Dinner?"
"The kiss, Mulder. It was...it was nice."
Oh man; talk about damning with faint praise.
"Just nice?" I ask, emboldened by the painkillers coursing through my blood.
"Mulder, this...this is complicated," she replies.
"I know."
"But, to be honest, it was nice...very nice," she says. "And...and...I hope we do it again."
"When?" I ask, my trepidation still held at bay.
"Just pick me up tomorrow night at 8:15 p.m. We'll discuss it then."
FIN
Feedback gratefully received here.
