Title: Maybe Today
Author: Maria Nicole
E-mail: marianicole29@yahoo.com
Distribution: Anywhere this goes automatically is okay. Anywhere else,
please tell me where it's going. Thanks!
Rating: PG
Category: S
Spoilers: Tithonus, tiny ones for Dreamland I and II and Christmas
Carol/Emily
Keywords: Mulder/Scully UST
Summary: Scully thinks about the physical effects from the episode
Tithonus.
Disclaimer: They're not mine. They belong to Fox and 1013.

Thanks to Lesley B. and Lisa O., who got me hooked on both the
show and fanfic. :)


Maybe Today
Maria Nicole

"So what do you think, Scully, eat out or order in?" you ask, looking 
back at the phone book as you do. "They say they have an Italian 
restaurant. We haven't had Italian in awhile."

And I stand here, in one more motel room, with you sitting
on one more patterned bedspread, holding one more telephone book in
your hands so that we can decide on one more meal together. I 
stand here with my mouth open, and feel like crying for laughter, 
for joy. You have no idea, do you?

Maybe today is the day I tell you.

***

I'm not stupid, Mulder. You know that. When I'd come home from the
hospital and you and my mother had left (finally, thank *God*, since
I love you both dearly but in combination you're just a bit 
smothering)--when I'd taken off the bandages and stood in
front of my bathroom mirror, I didn't think, "God, I'm so ugly, no 
man will ever love me because of these awful, terrible scars, they'll 
run away screaming because I'm so repulsive." I'm not stupid, 
Mulder.

They're scars, not especially pretty, but I've seen worse. They don't
make me prettier, but they don't make me ugly, either. And I 
know that not all men judge solely on physical appearance, or 
require physical perfection. And it's not likely that I'll be naked 
in front of one of the ones who does, is it? And, actually, Mulder, 
given what's between us, it's entirely possible that the only man 
who will ever see me naked again is you, because I can't 
imagine my life without you, and I can't imagine a relationship with 
another man while you're in it. And I know that if we ever walk
down that road, you won't be turned off by scars.

But I admit that, standing in front of that mirror and looking at the
way that my body had changed--I admit I cried a little.

***

So, Kersh has sent us out of town, finally. Back to manure checks.
It is difficult to say which is worse, interviewing farmers or
conducting background checks. Sitting in airplanes and rental cars
en route to visiting Old McDonald isn't exciting, and I'd 
rather be doing something, even if it's only calling Mr. J. Smith's
former employer. But the telephone is on the desk, which is in a room
full of other agents, and I have come to hate the bullpen with a 
passion. We've probably lived most of the past six years under
some sort of surveillance, but at least I didn't always feel that I
had to sit up straight. When we're on the road, we're away from that.
I can stretch and only you watch; I can slouch in my seat and not 
care about my posture.

And manure checks or not, I'm happy to be away from New York and
D.C. No more hospital, no more physical therapy, no more desk work
with other agents walking by and commenting awkwardly that they're
glad I'm back. Work, physical therapy, exercise to build up the
stomach muscles again, and sleep...my life these last few months
has been boring, Mulder. And watching the light, the rebelliousness,
die down in your eyes has saddened me as well. You've been so careful,
so solicitous. You do the work. You grumble about it, but you don't 
go off on insane tangents; you don't challenge me with your ideas. 
It's as if you're afraid to tire me out, and I look in a mirror and
see my thinness, the shadows under my eyes, and I can't blame you.
But part of me fears that you're losing interest, losing hope,
losing motivation. Together, we're flint and tinder, we spark and 
strike fire. Alone, we get eroded, diminished. 

But we're here now, and it's been gray and rainy in DC but it's sunny
in Oklahoma, and on the plane on the way out you fell asleep
and looked as if you were, for once, actually resting.

***

They don't hate us, you know. The other agents, I mean. Yes, there
are some that mock us and talk about us behind our back, or to our
faces. They still call you Spooky, and some of them do it cruelly, 
but for others it's only a nickname. There were some who were glad
that we'd been taken down a notch when the X-files closed down, but 
there have been others who have shown their support.

I want out of the bullpen just as badly as you do, Mulder, but when
I walked in my first day back at work and they stood up and 
applauded, I was touched. 

So they don't hate us, Mulder, which may have made what I overheard 
in the bathroom more difficult to take. Sometimes it's the casual
comments that cut the deepest. 

It was Agent Reynolds and Agent Jennings, I think. Amy Reynolds,
who came by to say that she had included me on her church's prayer 
list, and Cathy Jennings, who had the idea for the communal get
well card and flowers. Both young, in the bullpen because they're
working their way up, not as a punishment. I like them.

It was the second week I was back full-time, and I was still so 
tired. A month of recovery and then a week of part-time...I shouldn't 
have been so tired. But I was sitting in the bathroom, around three 
o'clock, thinking that I had two hours to go and wanting nothing so 
much in this world as to be lying in my bed, sleeping. Just sitting 
in the stall, toilet seat lid down, with my hands pressed against my 
eyes, trying to convince myself that I was tough enough to go back 
out there. Why I hate the bullpen. If I'd been in our office, I could
have curled up for a fifteen minute nap. Or you would have said, "Hey,
Scully, I hereby appoint myself head of the FBI and direct you
to go home early," and I might have gone, knowing that no one would
notice if I left for the day. In the bullpen, you can only watch me 
with saddened, knowing eyes and send me ridiculous jokes over e-mail 
to try to cheer me up.

The sounds of someone washing up, and of someone else coming in.

"Hey, Amy."

"Hey, Cath. How you doing?"

"Fine. Long day, though."

"Don't I know it. But I heard you're in line for that promotion.
That's a step up in the world."

"Oh, I hope so. I think I'm about due for my step up the ladder."

"Mmm hmm."

"As long as it doesn't turn out to be a bad career move...I bet Dana
Scully thought the basement was a step up when she first went there."

"Cathy, Dana Scully has just about become the queen of the bad career
move. I don't think you have to worry about that."

"Poor woman. What happened in New York certainly wasn't her fault."

"God, no. It's horrible, isn't it? If you can't trust your own...
thank God she healed quickly, though."

"Yeah...although she still looks like death warmed over, you know?
Oh, I meant to ask her if she's using Vitamin E. For the scars."

"It's a shame, really. She's so pretty. And no matter how much 
Vitamin E she uses...well, she's not going to be wearing a two-piece
bathing suit again, is she?"

"Poor woman. It is a shame."

There was a moment of silence, and then, "At least Peyton Ritter had
the grace to resign."

"Mmm hmmm. Well, anyway, I'm off to run yet another background check.
Can't wait until I get my bump up the ladder."

Peyton Ritter did have the grace to resign, and I am the queen of bad
career moves. I am using Vitamin E, but I won't ever be able to wear 
a two-piece again.

It is a shame.

But I am not a poor woman.

***

One measure of my richness is that I have you, Mulder. Another measure
is that I do not only have you. There's a lot of good in life, which
we forget sometimes, seeing death and destruction and lies. We 
investigated our farmers of the day, today, and they were a nice,
smart, funny, married couple with degrees in agribusiness and a 
few kids running around. They offered us iced tea after we'd done 
our routine check, and you listened, somewhat bemused, to the youngest
girl sing a Veggietales song to us. Cute girl, about six, dark hair 
in braids, and even if you thought of Samantha and I thought of 
Emily, we didn't feel especially sad today; we were able to 
appreciate the fact that Veronica was alive and singing "God 
is bigger than the bogeyman" in a boisterous, mostly on-key voice.

"Families like that almost make me believe, Scully," you said
in the car, on the way back.

"Believe what?"

"That God is bigger than the bogeyman?" you said, somewhat
sarcastically, and then sighed. "I don't know...that there's good
in this world, that not everything's confused. You asked me once
if I ever wanted to stop the damn car and get out and live a normal
life...people like that almost make me want to."

"They make me want to keep driving," I said, half dreamily, looking
at the setting sun and the way it played over the fields.

"Hmmm?"

"Those people, Mulder. They're worth sacrificing for. They're
worth protecting. I can keep driving if I know that there's a reason
for it."

The colors looked especially bright today. I don't know what you 
saw when you looked at me, but there was something like amazement 
in your eyes, and you smiled.

***

Did I ever tell you when I decided to become a doctor?

I've told you why, I think, or else you've guessed...it's challenging
work, and I like to study the way things fit together, and...cheesy
as this sounds...it's a way of helping people. You do what you can.

You know that. You went into psychology in order to be a family
counselor, to help people who had lost children. You told me this with
ducked head and an embarrassed look, once. You're often embarrassed by
your own good impulses, and I think that time because of the 
transparency of your motives. You moved into abnormal psychology
because it fascinated you, and because it was a way of helping people,
still. Of finding the lost ones who were still alive, and avenging
the ones who were dead. 

It's a good why, Mulder, the same why I had, but I've never told
you the when.

I was seven. Someone in my class had had a new brother or sister
born, and I pestered my mom to know what a c-section was. So she 
explained, and told me that Charlie had been born caesarean. (She
was lucky, really, that Bill wasn't. In those days, if the first child
was a c-section, so were the rest, and I can't imagine having four
children that way). And my mom showed me the scars, silvered with 
time, and the fainter tracks of stretch marks, because I was curious.
In a very matter-of-fact way that taught me something about
physical perfection. Yes, it was painful; yes, I had to
recover; yes, it left scars. And I have Charlie because of them.

I thought it was fascinating, that a person could come from that, that
the scars would remain as a mark. I didn't think they were ugly at
all. I thought it was neat. They marked not sorrow, but joy.

Yes, I have scars. Some from the original gunshot wound. The 
others, neat, from surgery. They mark pain, but also survival.

***

You wanted to go running after we got back, before dinner, and as 
usual, you asked if I wanted to come. Not as usual, I agreed. Trying
to build my strength back up is a tedious process, but I am trying.
We hadn't been on the road for a long time, so it had been a long
time since I'd run with you.

You let me set the pace, and we didn't go as far as you normally
go. Even at full strength, I'd have a hard time keeping up with you
when you're really running. I don't run enough and my legs are 
shorter. 

But the end result when we were back in the motel was that I was
sweating like a pig, and tired, and you were glowing and energized.
Sickening. You followed me into my room, saying, "How about dinner?
If we order now, it'll probably be here by the time we've showered
and dressed. Or do you want to go out?" And you flop on my bed and
start looking at the phone book. "The usual, pizza, McDonalds. They
have a family restaurant...what do you think?" You looked up at me.

"I'm thinking that I want a shower, you decide," I said, and pulled
up the bottom of my t-shirt to wipe the sweat off my face, an
action I'd probably performed a hundred times in front of you. It
wasn't like anything that needed to be covered wasn't, and the 
coolness of the air-conditioned room felt good on my exposed
stomach.

On my stomach.

I let the t-shirt drop, thinking that you had been silent for a 
beat too long, and prepared to face your eyes, which would probably
contain sadness and guilt. Because you had probably found a way
to convince yourself that this was your fault, that I would have
no scars at all if it weren't for you.

But what I saw in your eyes as they swept me up and down wasn't
guilt. 

It was the look you have given me every single Monday morning that
I remember, and other times when your guards slip, the jump of 
attraction that you can't quite hide. Mixed with a fair dose of
tenderness.

Every single Monday morning, even when I had the cancer. I don't
stay with you because I find you attractive, or because you find
me attractive, but let me tell you, the look of appreciation that
slips from behind your professional mask on Monday mornings 
makes it a lot more fun.

"You sure you gotta shower, Scully? I *like* you all rumpled and
sweaty," you said, turning it into a joke, like you always do.
Maybe a little embarrassed that you've been caught looking.

As if you don't even realize what a great gift it is to know
that you've seen me, scars and all, and you still and always find 
me beautiful.

***

"So what do you think, Scully, eat out or order in?" you ask, looking 
back at the phone book as you do. "They say they have an Italian 
restaurant. We haven't had real Italian in awhile."

And I stand here, in one more motel room, with you sitting
on one more patterned bedspread, holding one more telephone book in
your hands so that we can decide on one more meal together. I 
stand here with my mouth open, and feel like crying for laughter, 
for joy. You have no idea, do you?

Maybe today is the day I tell you.


End
Feedback greatly appreciated at marianicole29@yahoo.com

===
"The Center possessed 1,200 works of art, the world's 
largest magnetic resonance imager, and elevators
appointed in brass, teak, and marble. The English 
building's stairs were patched in three shades of gray
linoleum." --Richard Powers, _Galatea 2.2_