Missing Red by Mish mish_rose@yahoo.com Classification: V, tiny bit of angst Rating: PG Spoilers: Terma, Folie a Deux Summary: You don't know what you have until it's gone. Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and Walter Skinner are the property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. I'm just messing with their heads for a little while. Dedicated to my best friend, my Mom - any fashion sense I have she taught me. By dragging me to Maison Blanche, Dillard's, Weiss & Goldring, etc. every other Saturday. Love you, Mom! Author's notes at end. ********** February 28, 1999 Today it was green. Wintergreen velour, to be exact. It was chilly this morning, but not bone-chilling cold. Not cold enough to warrant wearing a heavy coat. The sun has warmed the air considerably; of course, it is fast approaching 11:00 a.m. Music drifts from the massive open door across the street from me. The faithful follow the elderly priest out, shaking his hand as they leave. Some stop to say a few words; I can almost read their lips from where I sit in the cafe. "Nice sermon, Father." "Have a nice day, Father." "Chilly this morning, wasn't it Father?" Yes, it was, which is why I suppose she has on the velour. It is a beautiful shade of green, very flattering on her. I think it is almost the exact color of the suit she was wearing when she testified that last day before the Senate Subcommittee, a lifetime ago. No - maybe that was a gray suit; hell, I don't know. I'm not the world's best judge of color, that's for sure. Eschewing a dress (I imagine because of the cold), the pantsuit she wears is simple. No jacket, just a cowl-necked tunic cinched at the hips with a dainty silver filigree belt. The pants are slim and narrow at the ankles. A pair of muted silver flats make thoughts of Cinderella float through my mind. She stops to converse with the priest. I don't recognize him; he started saying mass a few weeks ago. Maybe Father McCue is ill. Or maybe he was transferred. She seems very pleased with this man, smiling up at him and shaking his hand with enthusiasm. It doesn't take long to exchange greetings; it never does. Before I know it, she's bouncing down the steps, wrapping the white shawl she brought with her across her shoulders. She flips one of the ends of the wrap over the opposite shoulder, draping it attractively in a frame around her neck. As she begins the six block journey to her apartment, it occurs to me yet again how different she looks. How amazing she looks. God, I miss green. ********** March 28, 1999 The magnetic directory board reads, "Palm Sunday". The day Christ rode into Jerusalem and was greeted like a king only to be crucified five days later. This is the beginning of the holiest of weeks in the Liturgical Calendar, so I'm sitting here hoping to see something special when that church door opens. And I'm not disappointed. Lavender is not her best color, but somehow it fits perfectly amidst the sea of gray-suited ushers that surround her on the portico of St John's Catholic Church. It's darker than the suit she wore when she reported a "folie a deux" as the explanation of what she witnessed a year ago. Maybe plum would be a better word. Because it's nigh on 11:30, the air has become humid with steam from an early morning shower. She asks one of the ushers to hold her umbrella, then casually slips the buttonless full length jacket off to reveal a fitted dress in matching color. It comes to mid-thigh, shorter than I'm used to seeing on her. Her arms are bare. You know, I don't think I've ever seen her bare arms. They are pale but strong and round where they meet her shoulders. Good arms, feminine arms. Capable arms, as anyone that knows her can tell you. Instead of bouncing down the steps this time, she carefully and slowly puts one foot down at a time. I guess it's because of the height of those heels. How she chases down suspects in heels like that - well, let's just say it's unbelievable but true. Perhaps one day I'll ask her just how she does it. Pretty in plum. I savor the color with my tongue. "Plum." She disappears from my sight. My coffee has long since gotten cold. ********** April 4, 1999 Easter Sunday. With every day that passes, life renews itself in a burst of springtime color. Today, I showed up early and decided to go in before the 10:00 a.m. service began. Before even the early parishioners arrived, I was awed by the grandeur of the stained glass windows and canary yellow banners hanging in every corner proclaiming, "The Lord is Risen!" As soon as people started filtering in, I retreated to my sanctuary - the booth in the cafe where I'm now considered a "regular". The pony-tailed waitress (Janine, I think, is her name) brings me the usual black coffee. I wave her off, telling her that today I want cafe au lait. I want to splurge. Today I have a feeling I'll be seeing something singularly extraordinary. The choir is in fine voice; strains of the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel's Messiah are reaching my ears, even in here, so far away. I don't think she would be joining in, it's just not like her. But I can picture her standing there with the sunlight haloing her figure. An avenging angel, protector of all whom she loves. The service is over fairly quickly, and I stand, wanting to see everything I possibly can from the best viewpoint. I think if I miss her, it's best if I'm standing. Then I can be outside in a flash if the need arises. Jesus, but she's lovely. Even lovelier than the Madonna I admired in the church a couple of hours ago. This time her mother is with her, although Mrs. Scully breaks away from her momentarily to say hello to obvious friends. That leaves her standing off to one side, beneath the shade of a massive oak tree that looks at least a century old. The dimness, however, cannot obscure the vision of her in the palest yellow dress I've ever seen. The gold cross hangs from her neck, positioned perfectly in the low scooped neckline. Tiny white buttons make a row down the front to the hemline. This time she carries no jacket, just a small white purse hangs from her left shoulder. What appears to be a small missal is clutched in her right hand, its worn cover stating that it is probably a childhood keepsake. There are two wrought-iron benches lined up against the similarly made fence, and she paces slowly between the two, waiting for her mother to finish so they can have lunch together, I assume. That's when I notice the delicate sandals she is wearing. Flimsy straps criss-cross her feet, leading up to the ankle. All in all, there is not really much of a shoe there. Even her toes made an appearance today. I'd like to think that her nails are painted a pearly white on her feet as well as her hands. I wish I could get close enough to see. For now, though, I'm content to just imagine what they must look like. The shoes match her purse; funny how women must have the "ensemble" together. Altogether, it makes for a vision that is probably the envy of every other female in that congregation. However, all I can do is picture her as a seven year old, showing off for her family in the new Easter finery. The only thing missing is the bonnet. Her mother says her goodbyes and quietly walks up to my Easter girl, smoothing her shining hair with a gentle touch, breaking her reverie. They exchange twin smiles and, after waving one last time at the priest, emerge from the shade of the tree into the sunshine. Realizing that they are leaving, I drop a few bills on the table, preparing to make my exit as soon as they are out of sight. As I straighten up to don my cap and jacket, I notice a lone figure rising from the corner booth. I've never paid too much attention to the other patrons of the caf‚; it is fairly large and the high backs of the booths ensure discreet privacy. But I recognize him immediately; he pauses, eyes wide with surprise. Then the mask falls into place and he approaches me. We meet at the door with simultaneous nods. "Sir," he says softly, defensively posturing with hands on hips. "Mulder," I rejoin. For a few moments we stare each other down, then both turn to follow the departure of the two figures arm in arm across the street. I feel the tension in him ebbing away. "Come here often?", he asks, not taking his eyes off of her. "Occasionally for Sunday morning coffee," I reply, noting the fleeting wistfulness on his face. "It's a welcome change.....of scenery." Then I add, "Coffee's good, too." "Yeah," he concurs with a small smile. "Found this place about six months ago. Excellent view." Nodding in agreement, we make our way out of the cafe in silence. He turns abruptly, asking, "Sir?" "Yes?" "Do you miss red?" I could pretend not to understand the question, and leave it at that. But I don't. Instead, I skip around it. "I thought you were color-blind, Mulder." "I am. But I know what the shade of gray looks like." He hesitates, unsure he should be telling me this. "I never knew how much I missed red until it wasn't there anymore." He squints in the sunlight and worries his bottom lip with his teeth, certain he is being foolish. "Anyway, I'd like to see red again one day, you know?" With that he turns to walk past me. "Mulder?" "Yeah?" "I miss green," I say, not even turning to face him. I walk away without looking back. ********** May 23, 1999 Today the board says "Pentecost Sunday". I believe, if memory serves, that this is the day the Apostles were filled with the Holy Spirit. I think I know how they felt. Elation surges through me, though not from any divine intervention. Scully is in red today. Deep, dark, luscious - like a ripe bing cherry. She exits the church, the jersey skirt billowing around her calves. Her snowy white blouse falls in soft folds, disappearing into the waistband of the skirt. A wide black patent leather belt accentuates her tiny waist; it matches the shiny black pumps clicking on the sidewalk. Today I walk out the door of the cafe, unwilling to let her out of my sight. I freeze with apprehension when the door swings shut behind me. Should I really be doing this? She's halfway down the block when the paralysis in my legs gives way and I step into the street. Just as I put one foot off of the curb, a door opens in the car she just walked by. He pauses, halfway in and halfway out of the car. He must have spoken her name because she stops, slowly pivots to face him and her lips breathe, "Mulder?" Galvanized into action, we both move. I backtrack into the shadows of the cafe awning and he rounds the corner of the car to join her. They converse for a brief period of time; I have no real perspective on the content of the exchange, although judging by her captivated expression, he's saying all the right things. Embarrassment washes over me when she grasps his hand and squeezes it, making the connection complete. Suddenly feeling like an intruder, I pull the cap over my eyes and walk quickly away in the opposite direction. Guess he won't be missing red anymore. END Author's Notes: This is a result of my intense dislike of the black suits that seem to be all Scully wears anymore. Could they possibly make her any more funereal? Just a quick side note - My parish priest has told me that, in years past, it was a tradition for the women of a parish to wear red on Pentecost Sunday. It's not followed as a practice anymore, but I thought maybe Scully would know this and follow suit.