29 to 36
by Mary Kleinsmith ([email protected])
Classification: Missing Scene, Birthday Fic
Rating: Nothing worse than a PG
Distribution: Anywhere, just keep my name attached
Disclaimer: The characters and episodes belong to Fox, 10-13, and
David and Gillian. This idea, however is all mine - but I'm not
making any money on it, so please don't sue.
Summary: Scully's Birthdays, through the X-Files years. I just knew
he didn't forget.
Author's Notes: Okay, this began as an idea for an After-the-Fact
challenge and ended up meeting several of them. For the record,
those episodes, in order, are:
Deep Throat,
Darkness Falls,
End Game,
Pusher,
Tempus Fugit (with a mention of previous-ep Kadish),
Kill Switch,
Arcadia (with a touch of the previous ep, Two Fathers, One Son), and
Signs & Wonders.
Please note that the timeline on this reflects the dates given in the
episodes, not the time frame of the seasons as we know it. I also took
a little liberty with the date of the pilot, pushing it back a month so
her birthday falls after Deep Throat. So sue me.
29 to 36
by Mary Kleinsmith ([email protected])
--
February 23, 1993
I should have known better than to expect anything to happen today.
All my old work friends are back at Quantico, and I haven't been
assigned to the X-Files long enough to have made any work friends
here. And the only person I have gotten to know to any degree is an
antisocial anachronism with nothing more on his mind than little
green men and flying saucers.
I'm 29 years old today. My mother called, of course, and we made
plans for the weekend. Socializing on a weeknight has never been
big in the Scully household, but for once, I found myself wishing that
she'd throw caution to the wind and invite me out for dinner. Or even
a drink.
Mulder and I grabbed lunch at the corner deli in between expense
reports, but he made no mention of the date. He probably didn't
realize or even have had cause to know my birthday. We haven't
been partners that long, and if anybody has a reason to be distracted,
he does. It wasn't all that long ago that he had his memory wiped - if
his theory is to believed - by the federal government of all people.
The last thing he needs to worry about is my birthday.
I bid the Bureau goodnight a little after 5:00, headed home for an
evening of Chinese takeout, Haagendaas, the movie I rented
yesterday, and maybe a candle stuck in a Hostess cupcake if I'm
feeling particularly self pitying. I know it's pathetic, but it's my life
now.
My biggest birthday gift seems to be finding a parking space right in
front of my building, and I slide into the spot before locking up the
car and heading for my apartment.
My heart jumps into my throat when I see a small, narrow box
leaning against my door. I unlock it and go in, carrying the package
with me and dumping it, my briefcase, laptop, and purse on the
dining room table. My trenchcoat gets hung on the coat rack where it
always does, my briefcase moved to the desk where it always rests.
Another boring evening in another boring week.
The number of the Chinese place a few blocks down is easily at
hand, and I order Sesame Chicken and steamed rice, as I always do.
Some day, I'm going to totally shock them and order something
different, but not tonight. Tonight, I need security.
Even while I'm on the phone, my attention keeps going back to the
mysterious box. Something I ordered on the net? No, there's no
address or postage on it. Propaganda from some flounder? Maybe.
Hanging up the phone, I approach the table, feeling the light weight
of the contents. There's no card or address to indicate its origin. But
the top slides off easily.
Inside, six beautifully pale roses, their leaves intact, lie nestled among
the tissue paper. Around them is wrapped an equally pale blue
ribbon embossed with "Happy Birthday" in gold.
They're wonderful, and I smile despite myself, wondering who I have
to thank for this precious gift. My mother? One of my two brothers?
My sister Missy? No, this is too intimate for any of them. Ethan? We
broke up nearly a year ago, but would he still remember something
like my birthday?
Searching the box, there's no sign anywhere of even the florists
name. I suppose I could contact every florist and grocery store that
carries roses in the Virginia/Maryland/DC area, but I realize that I
don't want to. I sit at my dining room table eating Chinese with
chopsticks, admiring my roses, which I put in a vase in the center of
the table, and somehow, I don't feel so alone anymore.
February 23, 1994
For awhile there, I was afraid I wouldn't get out of quarantine and be
recovered in time for today. I've seen a lot of things in the last year or
so, but those insect swarms were . . . . Well, hell, I don't know
WHAT they were. My complexion may not be what it once was, and
I may not yet have the energy I once did. I'm not sure if this last was
from being fodder for all those microbugs or just the taxing factor of
spending so many weeks alone with Mulder.
Don't get me wrong. This partnership thing has been working out
really well. He's developing into not just a great partner, but a great
friend. He's just got this energy level, even when he's sick or hurt,
that's impossible to keep up with. He exhausts me just looking at or
listening to him.
Mom's picking me up at the airport, and while I know I should offer
him a ride home as well, I'm just not ready for more time together. I
breath a sigh of relief as he tells me that he's already called a cab.
We'd actually left a bureau fleet car in long term parking when we
left on our little expedition, but somebody from the FBI came around
and collected it when they found out we'd be gone a month. I can't
argue with the logic, actually.
Mom is waiting at the baggage claim area, enveloping me in a hug
after four weeks' separation. Trust her to always remember.
"Happy birthday, sweetheart! I've missed you."
"I've missed you, too, Mom. More than you'll know. Being in
quarantine isn't all it's cracked up to be, believe me!" We laugh
together as the siren goes off, alerting those waiting of incoming
baggage.
Finally, my distinctive case comes into view. Mom insists on
carrying it, even though I'm trying to convince her that I'm fine -
fully healed.
"I got lucky and found a parking space pretty close to the terminal,"
she tells me as we head for the security checkpoint. I'm relieved, not
because I'm still sick, but just because it's been a long trip and I'm
ready to rest. The security guard asks to see my claim check and
compares it to the ticket affixed to my suitcase, nodding with
approval.
"Could I see some identification please?"
That's odd. I don't usually get asked that when I'm leaving the
airport - only entering. Still, who's to say? I pull out my Bureau ID
and give him a good look.
"Dana Scully," he says, not questioning. "Everything here seems in
order. Have a nice day." We're barely past when he speaks again.
"Oh, and Agent Scully?"
"Yes?" I ask.
"Somebody left this for you."
It's a flower box, wrapped in a ribbon that also ensnares a colorful
balloon. I wonder briefly where he had it stashed. It hadn't been
floating around in clear view, but that thought is quickly dismissed as
Mom helps me open the box to the most beautiful roses. Deep pink,
almost fuscia, blossoms are supported on six long, clean stems.
They're lovely, I think, as my mother makes the same
pronouncement out loud.
"My Lord, Dana. Who sent these?"
I search the box, over, around, and above the blooms, then the cover
and the remainder of the trappings. "No card. Just a balloon that says
happy birthday."
"You know, sweetheart, this is just the type of thing your father
always does to surprise me." Suddenly, Mom looks sad. "I mean,
did."
There is little else I can think to do except envelop her in my arms,
and I do just that. I've missed my father every day of the two months
since he's been gone, but I know it's been so much worse for her.
But Mom is nothing less than a strong woman, and she shivers just a
little before pulling away and wiping at her eyes.
"Let's get you home, and get these flowers in some water before they
shrivel up on us," she says, sliding her arm around my waist. It
occurs to me how frightened she must have been when she found out
we'd been hurt and would have quite a long recovery.
"After that," I suggest, "how about you take an old maid to dinner on
her birthday?" We both laugh - I'm hardly old, despite how I feel
from time to time. And I'd rather not discuss the "maid" part of that,
at least not with my mom. It hasn't been that long since the incident
with Jack Willis, and while it scared the crap out of me at the time,
now, it just reminds me of the other men I've had in my life. I guess
that's why I haven't fawned so much over the flowers. I have this
unnerving fear that some man from my past is going to come back
and use them to make a claim on me. I'd rather just enjoy them and
not think too much about it. After all, how many birthday presents do
I get?
**
February 23, 1995
If you had asked me three days ago if I was planning to have a
happy birthday, I'd have looked at you like you were crazy. Here I
am, in the wilds of Alaska, stuck here for two weeks now,
surrounded by people I don't know and watching over a man who
has become both my best friend and the bane of my existence. The
man has no sense of self-preservation whatsoever, and this time, it
almost cost him his life.
When I arrived at the base all those days ago, it was full of people
that, while trying to cure Mulder, were decidedly antagonistic to a
stranger butting her head into their business. I know I could and
should have been a little more . . . diplomatic . . . in those first hours,
but I have this tunnel vision when it comes to Mulder's safety. And
you didn't have to be a doctor to see that he was circling the drain.
However, I can say with exhausted relief that he is awake and on his
way to what I now can say is a full recovery. He's still weak as a
kitten, and I have to feed him meals from a spoon like a nine-month
old, which he hates. But then he'll try to lift his hand for more than a
few minutes, or heft a normally-light object, and he realizes that, for
this once, he has to allow me to help him.
At least, this year, he has every reason in the world for having
forgotten my birthday. I don't mind, though. I have him back, and the
people here have grown to be very kind after all. They always make
sure they bring me a regular meal while I'm with Mulder. We sit
together, and I take turns giving myself a bite and giving one to him.
"I hate this," Mulder says weakly as he swallows a mouthful of soft
food. The doctors don't want his energy expended on something as
trivial as chewing, but I know my partner, and he's dying for a
cheeseburger or a taco.
"I'm sorry, I know you'd rather have something more solid. Maybe
tomorrow we can talk the doctor into it."
"How much longer do I have to be here?"
"It's only been two weeks, Mulder. Need I remind you just how
close you came to dying?" I can't believe he's pushing this. He's not
ready, and I'm not sure that I'm ready either. "You really need more
time to regain your strength," I say, dropping my voice. It's my
"serious voice," and he knows it.
"Okay . . . but see what you can do about the food, will you? I assure
you, it won't impair my recovery a bit if I have to chew my food."
I have to chuckle at this. Put that way, it does sound kind of silly. "I'll
do whatever I can," I smile, just as a soft knock comes on the door a
moment before it is opened.
"Excuse me, am I interrupting?" the young nurses' aid asks. She's so
young. The kid must've signed up with the military right out of high
school.
"Believe me," Mulder mutters. "Interrupting dinner is no great loss."
"I just thought Agent Scully shouldn't have to wait for these." From
behind the door, she brings a white box encircled by a yellow
ribbon.
I can't help smiling. "Thank you, Ann!"
"You're welcome. And happy birthday from me, too, Dana." She sets
the box in my hands and beats a hasty retreat.
"I never expected . . ." Taking off the ribbon and card, I open the box
to reveal perfect yellow blossoms - roses, just like the last two years.
"They're beautiful." I can't resist sharing their beauty, and tip the box
so that Mulder can see the flowers. "Each year, I get roses on my
birthday. It's gotta be Mom or one of my brothers, I'm sure."
Mulder's smile matches my own. "I'm sure," he says simply but
weakly. Dinner and our talking have worn him out, and I know I
should let him sleep. Still, I don't want to go.
"How much do you remember from the other day, Mulder?"
"How far back are we talkin' here, Scully? More than a few days and
I'm afraid I'm not gonna be much of a conversationalist."
"I mean when you woke up. The first time. What did you mean when
you said you found the faith to keep looking? I didn't realize that
you'd lost it."
"I did," he says quietly, and I'm not sure if it's the subject or his level
of exhaustion. "I lost Sam. My parents hated me for trying to save
both Samantha and you - and then didn't believe me when I told
them that it hadn't even really been her. And I finally pushed you too
far. There was nothing left for me but to complete one last act. But I
found a hint of the truth out there on the ice, Scully. I've seen - even
spoken with - a real alien."
"You saw a Reticulin?"
"No, he was a shape shifter." I'm sure he's noticing my eyes rolling.
They do that even when I try to stop them. "I'm serious, Scully."
"I know you are. I just want you to promise me something. Call it a
birthday present if you want."
"What do you want me to promise?"
"That the next time you feel so low that you think you've lost your
faith, you'll come to me rather than go running off like this. I don't
ever want anything to happen to you, Mulder."
I've been staring at the wall - I admit, I don't want to meet his eyes,
although I can't explain exactly why. Still, I have to look at him
when I hear his voice, even softer.
"I promise." His lids are sagging heavily now, and I think it's time to
go. "Think I'm going to sleep now . . ."
As he fades off, I realize that, despite his being stuck in a hospital
bed yet again, there's nowhere I'd rather be on my birthday. Next
year, I promise myself, we'll celebrate in style - even if I have to
remind him of the day.
February 23, 1996
Okay, I admit it. I know I swore that we were going to celebrate my
birthday this year - "we" being Mulder and I. But right now, I can't
imagine celebrating anything. I'm still reeling from our most recent
case.
"Scully!" he says from his chair across the office, and I realize that
it's not the first time he's beckoned me.
"What?" I respond quickly.
His eyes grow gentle. "Where were you?"
"What do you mean?" I say, feigning ignorance. But I know exactly
what he means.
"You looked like you were a hundred thousand miles away."
"I was just marveling," I comment, and now I'm being honest. "I
can't believe that we actually found a person with the ability to force
his will on others. To make them act against their wishes."
"Yeah, it's pretty amazing. Psychologically speaking, it is the most
invasive form of rape. To take not just your body, but your very
mind." He shivers, and it doesn't go unnoticed. Before I can say
anything, though, he rises. "I'll be right back - just something I need
to take care of."
I know where he's going, and don't intrude. Most people would say
that Mulder wears his heart on his sleeve, and in many cases, that's
true, but he hides his weaknesses close to the vest. He's been hurt,
and won't let just anybody inside. I wish for a moment that he'd let
me in - share what he's feeling with me - but I know better than to
force it.
While he's gone, my mind wanders. I almost lost him this time. It
was a terrifying experience to see him put the pistol's muzzle to his
head and pull the trigger, as if it were nothing. As if he were combing
his hair or brushing his teeth or any one of the many other things he
does each and every day.
I'm drawn from my musings by a knock on the door. I don't
recognize the man who stands on our threshold, but there are so
many new faces around, I'm not taken aback. He has Bureau ID, and
that's enough for me. Maybe it shouldn't be. "May I help you?"
"Delivery for you, Agent Scully." He hands over a long rectangular
box with a ribbon wrapped around it. I take it from him warily, but
he smiles. "Happy Birthday."
It is my birthday - or will be tomorrow, anyway. I blush, thinking
about howI'll hear about it all day. I don't dislike my birthday, don't
regret the prospect of growing older, but I've never been one to like
undue attention. Still, I wouldn't mind a little attention from particular
people. Or a particular person.
The flowers are beautiful, and again, there's no card. This is the
fourth year in a row my secret admirer has anonymously
remembered my birthday. I'm betting it's Charlie, but I have yet to
get him to cop to it. This year, they're a mixture of colors - red and
white. I laugh silently, wondering why he didn't just pick pink, but
I'm not complaining.
Mulder returns, shyly and silently retrieving the vase we keep on a
high shelf. He knows it's out of my reach. "Nice flowers," he
comments as I put them in water. I don't think I should tell him the
occasion. I don't want to embarrass him that he's forgotten. But is
letting him think they're from another man so much better? Maybe I
want him to think that. Just once, I wish he'd be jealous. Angry at
another man's attention toward me. He gets sad, but never jealous.
"Isn't there supposed to be a little packet of something you put in
with them?" he asks, and I realize that he's right - I've forgotten the
food. I retrieve the packet from the bottom of the box and dump it
into the vase.
I realize I'm being presumptuous. "Do you mind if I keep these
here?"
"No, it's fine," he says, smiling. "They make the office smell better.
Covers up the scent of sunflower seeds," he chuckles, touching my
arm. He's been a lot more touchy-feely since Modell. I don't insult
both of us by denying I know what it is. Mulder's always had an
overactive guilt complex, and here is a situation where, even thought
it was out of his control, I was almost killed at his hands. He's feeling
responsible, and I know that nothing I can say will assuage his self-
recrimination. All I can do is show him that I don't hold it against
him and be here, the same as always. He's my best friend - even if he
does forget my birthday.
February 23, 1997
"Hey, Scully. Would you have dinner with me tonight?" It's the last
thing I expect to hear from Mulder, and it catches me totally off
guard.
"Umm . . ."
"Of course, if you have plans . . ." he interrupts before I can answer.
"No, not at all! You just surprised me." Suddenly, I'm suspicious. It
hasn't been that long since he was hurt by the Golem. "What's
wrong, Mulder?"
"Nothing's wrong. Is there something wrong with a guy taking out
his partner on her birthday?"
He remembered! Shouts joyously in my mind. It's wonderful! "No,
of course there's nothing wrong with it. You just took me by surprise.
Where do you want to go?"
"It's going to be a surprise - just trust me," he says with a wink.
Finally, the chance to spend my birthday the way I've always
wanted.
"Can I at least go home and change? I wear a suit all day long - I'd
rather not in the evening."
"Sure, why don't you go now? It's almost quitting time anyway - I'll
cover for you."
"Thanks," I say, having no intention of giving up the rare
opportunity. I grab my coat from the rack. "Are we meeting or are
you picking me up?"
"I'll pick you up. Six o'clock sharp, okay?"
"Sounds perfect. I'll see you then."
Before I know it, I'm at my apartment. I'm shocking myself at just
how thrilled I am at being able to spend a nice evening with my best
friend. I hope he doesn't do anything to embarrass me, though. The
possibilities are too numerous to consider, so instead, I head for the
refrigerator and a bottle of water. I barely twist the top off before I'm
met with tapping on my door.
"Who's there?" I entreat, heading for the door. I don't expect it to be
anybody dangerous. We're not even on a case right now.
"It's the super," a voice responds. I open the door and he explains
how he accepted a package for me earlier, since I wasn't home. "If
it's okay, I'll send up Scotty with it in a few minutes. I just wanted to
be sure you were home. It's unusual for you to be coming in this
time of the day, if you don't mind my saying so."
"I know. I got off a little bit early, though. I'll be here for an hour or
so if you want to send him up."
He leaves quietly with a nod, and I realize that I've been lucky in the
landlord department. He and his little family have been helpful and
understanding No matter what has happened, he helped as much as
he could and never once stood in judgment.
I shut the door, but don't bother to lock it. I'm expecting a very
young gentleman caller, I think with a grin. And then, later, an older
gentleman caller. I can't help but let my grin grow into a full-fledged
smile.
Shucking my trench coat and hanging it on its hook, I start to think
about what I'll wear tonight. I'm sure I don't want to wear one of
these suits - I'm honestly sick of them at this point. I shed the jacket
next, but don't get to hanging it up before another knock comes.
Scotty must've just about run up here.
I open the door to a true darling, and one of the few men in my life
who are worth their weight in salt. If he can only hang onto his most
endearing qualities for fifteen or twenty years, he'll make some
woman very, very happy.
"Hi, Miss Scully," he says with a grin that's missing a few front teeth.
"My Dad asked me to bring this up to you." He shoves towards me a
vase filled with lovely light pink blossoms. Roses, of course, as has
become the tradition for my birthday. "They came in a box, but my
Mom was worried they'd croak so she took 'em out and put 'em in
some water. That's okay, isn't it?"
"Of course, it's okay. Tell your Mom I appreciate her
thoughtfulness." I take the vase from him carefully, noticing that he
has something else in his hands after I do.
"This is the ribbon that was on the box - Mom thought you might
want to keep it. Is it your birthday?"
"Yes, it is."
"How old're you?" he asks with the innocent guilelessness typical of
a child.
"How old do you think I am?" I ask with a grin. Okay, I admit - I'm
curious what he'll say.
"Well . . . you're pretty old. But not ask old as my teacher, and I
think she's about twenty, so I'd guess eighteen!" He smiles proudly
at himself. "Am I right?"
I can't fight a laugh. "I'm a bit older than that, but thank you for the
compliment. Why don't you come in while I put the flowers in a vase
of my own, then you can take your Mom's back to her. I might even
have some pie if you're hungry."
"Thanks anyway, Miss Scully. Mom says you can return the vase
after the flowers are dead, and if I eat anything now, she's gonna kill
me. She says it'll spoil my supper." He heaves a huge, put-upon sigh
and I fight with every nerve in my body not to break out laughing.
He's such an endearing child. "So, anyway, I'd better get going.
Pokemon comes on in a few minutes!" He shoves the ribbon into my
hand.
"Thanks for bring up my flowers," I tell him with a pat to his
shoulder. I'd love to kiss him on the cheek, but I had brothers, and
know little boys' views on such public displays. Instead, I just say
goodnight and he leaves with a grin.
The flowers find a home in the center of my dining room table, and I
drape the ribbon over one of the chairs. I've kept every single one.
Some day, I'll show them all to Charlie and confront him on his
anonymous surprises. I don't go far before my phone rings.
It's Mom, naturally, and before I know it, we've chatted up all my
preparation time. I love my mother dearly, but damn it, now I'm
going to have to go out tonight in this stupid suit. Well, Mulder is
notoriously late - maybe if I start changing right away . . .
A knock on my door is quickly followed by an "it's me" in Mulder's
distinctive voice. Nope, not enough time. I do a quick flip of my hair,
try to make it look like I freshened up, and go to answer the door. An
evening with Mulder, with no mutants, aliens, or X-Files, should be
an interesting experience.
**
February 23, 1998
"Mulder, when was the last time you changed your bandages? Those
are looking a little . . . worn." It's only been a few days since I pulled
him out of that mobile home, where he was methodically being
shocked to death by what he claims was an artificial life form. I'm
only willing to give him that it was an artificial intelligence; whether
it was conscious or not, I'm still undecided.
"For your information, Dr. Scully, I changed them just last night,
using the burn salve the doctor gave me and sterile gauze directly
from the drug store."
"So how did they degrade so quickly? Mulder, you didn't go
running or play basketball did you? You know the doctor said you
should take it easy."
"Scully, I can't stand all this sitting around. Here at work, then at
home. I need to be DOING something!"
"It's only for a few more days," I try to mollify him. He's never been
good at letting himself heal, and this time has been worse than most.
"Your system took a tremendous amount of abuse, Mulder. You're
lucky you're not dead, for God's sake! And not only are you alive,
but you're sane - or as sane as you ever were," I grin.
"Well, thanks for that stipulation, Scully," Mulder grins back, but he
has that self-deprecating tone he gets when he is about to say
something derogatory about himself. I've learned to listen for this
tone - I don't like it. "I think the AI just gave up. It realized that it
couldn't make me any crazier than I already am."
"Yeah, but it also tried to electrocute you. Do you realize how long it
took us to stabilize you heartbeat, Mulder? Your system wasn't
designed to take that kind of abuse." His eyes drop to his desktop,
leaving mine. It's what he does when he concedes a point to me and
doesn't want to say it out loud, and I've come to accept it as such
with grace.
"At least being on desk duty gives us the opportunity to get caught
up on our paperwork." His eyes meet mine, and I see a message in
them which he does not want to speak. A message that says how
very small our backlog actually is. There was only so much he could
do to occupy his time while I was recovering from my cancer, so
when he wasn't hovering over me or catering to my or my mother's
every need, he set his mind to the work.
Okay, logically, that would mean that it's my turn. I want to take care
of him, but he just won't allow it. Never has, unless he's held in place
by restraints or an IV and a half dozen pieces of medical equipment -
and the doctor says those things aren't needed any more. Five days
in the hospital was more than sufficient.
We work for awhile in silence, and it doesn't go unnoticed that he
moves in a way to avoid any direct contact with his wrists. They're
still sore, I can tell, but he'd never say anything about it. A few times,
I glance up to check on him to find him trying to hide that he's been
looking at me. We do this a lot lately. I do it because I'm trying to
reassure myself that he's here and he's safe - this man who means so
very much to me. Even if I never tell him. Why he's watching me,
only he can say.
Looking at my watch, I figure it's late enough that I can get away
with this. "I think I'm going to cut out a little early," I say, and he
smiles at me. "I'm meeting Mom for dinner at my favorite
restaurant."
"Still Boticelli's?" he asks, even though he knows darn right well.
"Of course. Their stuffed shells alone are to die for," I laugh, and he
smiles at me. It's enough of a birthday gift.
"Go on - I'll cover for you. Tell your Mom I said hi, and enjoy your
dinner. God knows you deserve at least that."
"Thanks, Mulder. I'll see you tomorrow." I leave the office, without a
word being said about my birthday. After last year, I was sort of
hoping we were starting a new tradition, but I guess that just wasn't
to be. I know, intellectually, that men don't remember anniversaries
and birthdays the way women do. I just wish Mulder was different,
even if he is still a man. All man.
Enough of this. I'm going to spend a wonderful evening with my
mother, celebrating my birthday and listening to her tell me that I'm
not getting any younger. Like I don't know that already, today of all
days. She only wants me to be happy, I know, but I just can't talk
about it right now.
The restaurant is fairly crowded for a Monday night, but I locate her
quickly through the crowd. She's smiling at me, her joy coming off
her in waves. This is a special birthday for both of us - it's the
birthday I almost didn't live to see.
"Hi, Sweetheart," she says, greeting me with a kiss before we take
our seats. "You could have brought Fox with you, you know, Dear.
He's always welcome."
"I know, Mom. But I think he forgot, and I really didn't want to
make him feel bad by bringing it up. He's had a rough week." I go
on to tell her about our latest case. Not all the unbelievable stuff:
living artificial intelligence, strongholds in the woods, that kind of
thing. But about Mulder being held against his will. About his
injuries, his electrocution, even his VR induced hallucinations. As
usual, her heart goes out to him and she makes me promise to bring
him around to the house this weekend for dinner. She's grown very
fond of Mulder over the years. She needs to see that he's okay. And
a little maternal TLC has never done Mulder any harm, so I have no
complaints.
Leaving work and Mulder behind for awhile, we talk about other
things. Bill, Charlie, Tara and Matthew. What she's doing for her
church group. How the elderly lady next door is fairing. The waitress
comes and takes our order, retrieving our menus and leaving us to
continue our chat. Before we can reinvest ourselves in the
conversation, the maitre d' approaches our table. "Excuse me, which
one of you ladies is Dana Scully?"
"I am," I admit. His knowing our last name is not big deal - the
reservation was in the name Scully after all. But how did he know
my first name?
He motions towards a cadre of waiters, and one comes to the table
bearing an oh-so-familiar box. I should have known.
"Oh, Dana!" Mom exclaims when I've opened the box. "They're
lovely. Who are they from?"
"Charlie," I say with confidence. "I get them every year. Remember
the ones at the airport?"
"What does the card say?"
"He never sends a card. Just roses. Every year on my birthday."
My mother adopts a questioning expression. "Why are you so sure
they come from Charlie, then? Did you talk to him about it?"
"I didn't have to. This is typical Charlie, Mom. Long-stemmed roses
each year, never the same color twice." I grin. "I can't wait to see
what he does when he's used up all the colors."
"Dana, I didn't tell Charlie where we were having dinner tonight.
Did you?"
"No, but he managed to find out just the same. This IS my favorite."
She nods her acceptance of my theory, but I have the distinct feeling
she'll be on the phone with Charlie the minute she gets home
tonight.
I'm thinking that his having the flowers delivered to the restaurant is
a sweet gesture until we finish our meals . . . when I'm serenaded
with Happy Birthday by every waiter, waitress, and most patrons in
the place. This is SO embarrassing, and I'm sure my face is as red as
a beat.
"Thank you, everybody," I say as the crowd finally begins to
disburse, but not until I've blown out all the candles on my cake. It's
surprisingly large for just another restaurant patron, and Mom must
share this impression.
"We'll have to see if they can cut a big piece for you to take to Fox,"
she says. Sometimes, I swear she likes him more than I do. And
believe me, that isn't easy. I've grown very fond of that big lug.
"The last thing he needs is more junk in his diet," I tell her,
remembering how I'd seen him down two Big Macs and a large
order of fries just a week ago. We'd grabbed dinner - if you can call
it that - on the way home from work, just before he got me out of bed
in the middle of the night to look into the death of Donald Gelmann,
software pioneer. "He must have a cast-iron stomach."
"Then a piece of cake won't do him any more harm," she counters,
as if she read my mind. I find I cannot object.
**
February 23, 1999
I've had it with him! Up to my eyebrows and then some. As if it isn't
enough to deal with his throwing that brunette bitch in my face every
two minutes, he doesn't even have the decency to remember my
birthday. This is my seventh birthday as partners with him - it's not
as if he hasn't had the time to memorize the damn date.
Well, I may have to work with him, and I do believe in the work, but
I'll be damned if I'll sit around waiting for his majesty to grant me an
audience. I have friends, I tell myself, and family to spend the day
with. I don't need him.
Damn it. . . I know that's not true. I need him in my life. I want him in
it, too, but I just can't stand to have him treat me like this. I deserve
better.
It's not like I haven't been wracking my brain trying to figure out
what's happened between us. Ever since Diana Fowley returned to
town, he's turned into a complete ass. She's a bad influence on him.
Well, I don't care. I'm going to go out tonight, have a wonderful time,
and not give him another thought. Bill and Charlie are in town, and
Mom is preparing my favorite dinner, then we have tickets for a
show. I'm still imagining my evening when the phone on the desk
rings.
"Scully," I answer.
I'm at my desk, in my area, rather than sequestering myself in
Mulder's office. It's the best way to avoid a major conflict. I don't
think it would be in either of our best interests, nor that of the
Bureau, if I were to rip him a new one over what I know are purely
personal, emotional issues.
"Scully, Skinner wants to see us in his office. He says there's a new
case." Mulder's voice is all innocence and light, like he has no idea
what he's done. Maybe it's me - maybe he doesn't - but that doesn't
make me any less angry with him.
"I'll meet you up there," I say succinctly before hanging up the
phone. I can be businesslike. I can do this.
"Hi, Kim," I say upon my arrival at my boss's office.
"Hi, Agent Scully." Kim is always so nice. "Hey, happy birthday!"
Okay, that I didn't expect. My boss's secretary remembers my
birthday, but my partner doesn't? My life sucks. Still, no reason not
to be polite.
"Thanks. Getting older isn't any fun, but it's nice when people
remember." I take a seat, and within a couple of minutes, Mulder
arrives and heads for the chair beside mine. He doesn't get a chance
to sit down, though, before Skinner opens his door.
"Scully, Mulder, please come in."
We all take seats, Skinner simultaneously opening a file folder that
sits in front of him. "I have a new case for you, Agents. Arcadia Falls
in California is what they call a 'planned community,' In this
supposed "paradise," people have been coming up missing over the
last few months. A minimum of three couples have disappeared
without a trace."
"Were there any indications of alien abduction, Sir?" Mulder asks.
Of course he would.
"That'll be for you to decide, Agent Mulder. I can tell you that there
were no reported sightings in the area, no objects in the sky and that
sort of thing. But indications have been that the activities in the
neighborhood at large have been suspicious - a little too normal.
Nobody is above suspicion in these disappearances, which is why
I'm sending the two of you in under cover. You'll pose as a married
couple, taking over one of the houses from which people recently
went missing. It'll be your responsibility to not only he
disappearances, but to bring the perpetrators to justice."
"When do we leave, Sir?" I ask grimly. Great. Time alone in a house
with Mulder. Please don't let him say we have to go immediately.
"Setting up a household is going to take some time, and you'll have
to establish cover identities for yourselves. You've got ten days to do
so. Check with stores and requisition what equipment, furniture, and
the like you'll need, rent a truck, minivan, and whatever else you'll
need to establish your credability. Your backup by the local office
will be limited, but they will be at your disposal should the need
arise. Don't hesitate to call for backup. Here is the file."
He hands the paperwork to Mulder, much to my consternation for
just a moment. His actions are explained, though, when he turns and
smiles at me ever so slightly. "Agent Mulder, you may review the file
beginning immediately. Agent Scully, you are dismissed for the day.
Please plan to begin your preliminary work on this case first thing in
the morning." Then he surprises me and adds, "and have a happy
birthday."
"Thank you, Sir," I say, standing. I don't have to see Mulder to know
he's following me, yet we don't speak until we're in the hallway.
"You have big plans tonight?" he asks conversationally.
"You might say that," I answer noncommittally. In his presence, my
anger isn't quite so venomous. I have a hard time staying mad with
him, what can I say? "You headed back to your office?"
"Yeah, I'll take a look at the file, and we can talk about how we're
going to go about this in the morning."
"Sounds good. I've just got to pick up my coat and laptop and I'll be
headed home. Have a good afternoon, Mulder."
"Enjoy your evening, Scully," he says gently. "Happy birthday."
"Thanks," I answer, and we each go our own separate way.
I have to walk through the bullpen in order to get to my desk, which
is sort of a pseudo-office made up of cubicle walls. As I do so now, I
notice some snickering going on from fellow agents. What has
Mulder done this time that's getting us ridiculed?"
Moments later, I realize that its not anything that he's done at all. On
my desk is a flower box with the traditional "Happy Birthday!"
ribbon wrapped around it. Before I know it, the men and women in
the bullpen are singing Happy Birthday, even adding some more
colorful lyrics here and there. I laugh and thank them as I unwrap my
flowers - coral and orange blossoms this time. I'll have to remember
to thank Charlie for them when I see him tonight.
We have a wonderful time on our night out. I love both Bill and
Charlie's wives dearly, but there's just something . . . comfortable, I
guess . . . about it being just the four of us. I know that Melissa and
Dad are here in spirit, as well. They tease me, and I tease them right
back, especially when I mention the roses to Charlie. He vehemently
denies that they came from him. With all the kidding going on, I'm
not sure if he's being up front with me, but I'm not going to worry
about it. Whoever sent them will show his or her face eventually.
**
February 23, 2000
I'm 36 years old today. I'm an agent for the Federal Bureau of
Investigation, and a medical doctor certified and specialized in
pathology. I have an undergraduate degree in physics . . . and I am a
fool.
I've been complaining for years that Mulder never tells me what he
wants or thinks of our relationship. Not how he feels - that's been
crystal clear - but where we're going. Now, after coming so very
close to losing him, I realize he's been telling me wordlessly all
along.
My eyes were opened a short time ago. It all began when we were
investigating a case in Tennessee. Mulder suffered several very
serious rattlesnake bites during the case, resulting in his spending
four days in Intensive Care before he was stable enough to be
transferred to a hospital back home. His condition was still serious,
and he slept a lot, so I figured I'd go and pick up some things from
his apartment he'd probably want. They couldn't tell us for sure
when he'd be released - he was progressing, but slowly.
Mom wanted to come visit him, and rather than having her drive the
whole way herself, I stopped at her place out in Baltimore before
going to Arlington. On my way, I called Mulder from my cell.
"I'm sorry, did I wake you?"
"Sort of. But it was only a four on a sleep scale of one to ten, so it's
no great loss." I could practically hear his weak smile over the
phone.
"I'm headed for your place. Anything in particular you want me to
bring?"
"Umm . . . yeah, bring my overnight bag from the closet, and stick in
the book that's on the coffee table. It may be only one page at a time,
given the way I've been sleeping, but I'm going to finish it
eventually. Oh, and bring my checkbook from my upper right desk
drawer and the stack of bills that are underneath so I can pay them,
okay?"
"Sure, no problem. Your mail's been piling up, Mulder. Should I
bring that, too?"
"I don't need all that garbage here. Just bring what looks important,
and the bills that've come in. Open 'em if you're not sure." He was
sounding groggy.
"Okay, we'll be there in a bit. You just rest."
"Scully, who is 'we?'"
"I have a surprise visitor for you, and that's all I'll say," I said and
then hung up before he could pursue it further. My mother and
Mulder have had a mutual admiration society going on for a few
years now, so I knew he wouldn't be upset when he saw the visitor
was she.
As usual, Mom wanted to make herself useful and came up to his
apartment with me. "Mom, why don't you grab his overnight bag
from the closet by the bedroom and see if you can find this book he
says he's reading that's supposed to be on the coffee table. Oh, the
bedroom is that way," I said as an afterthought and pointed in the
necessary direction.
She went silently, only to return with it a second later as I was
retrieving his checkbook and papers from the desk. "Doesn't Fox
ever sleep in that room?" she asked incredulously. "It's immaculate!"
"He usually sleeps on the couch," I responded, shrugging. Luckily, a
passing glance at Mulder's room didn't reveal any of the things of
which I know she wouldn't approve.
Shaking her head, she went to work locating the book, having to
think twice when not one but two novels were on the table in
question. Only one had a bookmark in it, and since he said he was
"reading" the book, we guessed it to be that one. I then sorted
through the large pile of mail, taking out anything that looked like it
might be a bill.
Scooping up everything, we returned to the car and headed for the
hospital. I was truly oblivious to what was going to manifest itself in
just a short time.
"Hey, Mulder," I announced, entering his room. "Guess who's here
to see . . ." But he was asleep, so my surprise would have to wait. He
looked so innocent lying there. The bruises and bite marks were still
painfully visible on his face, arms, and legs, but at least they had
faded some.
Mom peeked in the door at that moment. "Dana?"
"He's sound asleep, Mom. Guess your big entrance is going to have
to wait. C'mon in, though, and we can sit together until he wakes
up."
As we chatted in whispers from the two guest chairs in the room, I
went through the bills. On occasions when he'd been hurt before, I'd
sometimes paid his bills for him, so I figured it would help him if I
did it again. Taking out his checkbook, I began writing and
recording checks, leaving the signature blank for Mulder to take care
of. Electric, gas, telephone, credit card, cable . . . One by one, the
check were completed and set aside for him to sign. I also thought to
review the check register for his rent and determined that there
wasn't one due for a few weeks. There was one last envelope that
appeared to be a bill, but I didn't know for sure because it was in the
batch of unopened mail, and I didn't recognize the name in the return
address.
Well, he'd given me permission to open anything that looked
important, so I sliced open the envelope. Inside the envelope was, in
fact, a statement of amount due. Also included was a hand-written
letter which, upon reflection, I probably shouldn't have read, but did.
Dear Mr. Mulder,
Thank you for your continued patronage. As per your request, I've
included a record of the specific past purchases you specified and
some of the literature in question to assist you in making your next
selection.
If you have already contacted me with your choice by the time you
get this, be assured that we will continue to provide the service as
you have specified in the past. We appreciate your business.
Sincerely,
Judith Parsens
The list attached was simple, but it shook me to my very core.
02/93 1/2doz Roses - pale w/leaves
02/94 1/2doz Roses - deep pink
02/95 1doz Roses - yellow
02/96 1doz Roses - white & red
02/97 1doz Roses - light pink w/leaves
02/98 1doz Roses - deep burgundy
02/99 1doz Roses - coral & orange
I just stared at the list, stunned.
I became aware that my mother was speaking to me, and had been
for some time. "Huh?" I asked numbly.
"Honey, I asked what was wrong! Where did you go?"
"It's . . . it's this . . ." I handed her the sheet and distractedly tossed
aside the other paperwork that had been included in the envelope.
Now I was beginning to feel stupid and a bit embarrassed that I
hadn't realized it sooner.
She took it from me, scanning it quickly as her smile grew. "Are
those the colors you got for your anonymous birthday gifts each of
those years? I only saw two of them."
"I . . . I think so. I didn't give the colors much thought." Suddenly, I
knew what I had to do. "Mom, could you stay with him for awhile.
Take care of him if he wakes up before I get back."
"Sure, honey. Where are you going?"
"I have a little investigative work of my own to do," I answered with
a grin. Taking the letter, the statement, and the list, I rushed out the
door.
The address was easy to find, a humble little shop that I never would
have noticed if I hadn't been looking for it. When I entered, a young
girl was watering plants, while an elderly lady, still spry despite her
years, stood behind the counter. I knew who would have my
answers.
"Excuse me," I said, and she turned a gentle smile on me. "I
wondered if you could tell me something about this?" I laid the three
items on the counter, and she had only to glance at them before she
returned her gaze to me.
"This paperwork was prepared for one of my customers. How did
you come to be in possession of it?" She looked suspicious, just the
type of person whose business Mulder would patronize.
"Fox Mulder is my partner, and he's hospitalized. I was taking care
of his bills for him and wanted clarification."
"The hospital? Oh, my. I'm sorry. He will be okay?" she asked,
concerned.
"He's going to make a full recovery, thank you for asking."
Her look suddenly eased a bit. "And your name, my dear?"
"Special Agent Dana Scully, ma'am."
Suddenly, her face was filled with glee. Oh, so you're Dana? How
wonderful to finally meet you! Fox speaks of you very fondly."
"I'll be very direct, ma'am - I want to get back to him. Do you know
my name because these flowers were delivered to me?"
"Why yes, of curse, my dear. Fox was very careful to choose just the
right flowers each year, and I helped him. Didn't you get them?"
"Oh, yes. I received them every year, and they were beautiful. I just
never knew that they were from my partner." I blushed. Okay, I
know I should have known.
"Fox never told you? Oh, how sad! Well, at least you know now."
"I'm just curious, Mrs . . ."
"Parsens. That's my name on the letter."
"Oh, yes, thank you. I'm just curious, Mrs. Parsens. Do you know
why Mulder . . . I mean Fox . . . picked a different color every year?"
She smiled warmly, and I swear she blushed. "There were other
items in the envelope than these three sheets - I presume you didn't
read them?"
"No, I was too surprised."
"Well, they would have explained. There is a language to roses,
Dana. Each color or configuration means something distinctive and
different. The color of the roses a person chooses sends a distinct
message of what's in their hearts. Fox was very careful in making his
choices."
"Can you tell me?" I asked, hoping she knew what I want to know
and I wouldn't have to explain further.
"Certainly, dear," she said, taking the list of colors to a small desk
behind the counter and going to work with a pen.
This is where I now wait, and realize that I'm truly seven kinds of a
fool. Mulder didn't forget my birthday once in all the years he'd
known me. But he wouldn't tell me that the flowers were from him. I
can't wait to ask him why. Finally, the shopkeeper stands.
"Here you are, my dear. A translation of sorts."
02/93 Roses - pale w/leaves Hope for sociability and friendship
02/94 Roses - deep pink Appreciation and gratitude
02/95 Roses - yellow Friendship & promise of a new beginning
02/96 Roses - white & red Unity
02/97 Roses - light pink w/leaves Admiration, sympathy, and hope
02/98 Roses - deep burgundy Unconscious beauty
02/99 Roses - coral & orange Enthusiasm and desire
As I look over the words, my mind drifts back to what was going on
in our lives at the time each birthday came around. Each choice was
just perfect, and last year's especially reflected the new feelings I had
been developing for him as well. Now, I really can't wait to get back
to my partner. But before I can flee the shop, the woman speaks
again.
"Oh, Dana. These were just about to go out for delivery - he chose
them after I sent out the letter - but as long as you're here. . ."
She waves to the young girl, who brings forth another box with a
birthday ribbon encircling it. Until this moment, I'd actually forgotten
that it once again was my birthday.
"Thank you," I say, taking the box.
"You may want to open them here, my dear. Just in case you need
another translation." Her eyes twinkle with glee and a bit of mischief,
but are convincing nonetheless. I open the box.
Inside are the most beautiful, perfectly red roses I've ever seen.
"They're red," I say, dumfounded yet again.
"Yes, red, Dana. He knew right away this year - I didn't assist him at
all. And red means . . ."
"I know what red means, Mrs. Parsens, thank you." I know my voice
is dazed and far away, but Mulder's message has taken me
completely unaware.
"Would you like anything else, my dear?"
Suddenly, the only thought in my mind is returning to Mulder. "No,
thank you, ma'am. I have to . . . I need to get back to my partner.
Thank you so much. For everything!"
I rush out the door and hardly remember the drive from the flower
shop to the hospital. Screeching to a halt in the parking lot, I make
sure I don't forget to grab the box before dashing into the building.
The elevator takes too long, and I feel like I'm going to crawl out of
my skin if I don't get up there soon.
I'm not sure how long it's been since I left, but when I crash into the
room, Mom is still waiting, silent and patient, and Mulder still
slumbers away. I know he needs his sleep, but I need to wake him.
Now.
"Dana?" Mom asked, and there's a bit of fright in her voice. I go to
her and hand her the newly-updated list, which she reads over
carefully. A smile grows brilliantly.
"You didn't mention that today was my birthday, too," I say. "The
florist had these for me." I open the box and show her the red
blooms.
"Oh, Dana!" she says, and is on her feet in a second, enveloping me
in her arms. I feel the comfort of them, but have other things to do.
Sensing my urgency, she releases me, taking the box as she does,
and I approach the bed. How Mulder can still be sleeping after all
that, I'll never know, but he is. I think for a second, an idea blooming.
Well, it worked for Sleeping Beauty. . .
I lean over, hitching myself up on the bed until I'm able to join my
lips to his. Once there, I can't help but linger. They're soft, plush, and
oh-so sensual, even unconscious. Finally, after I don't know how
long, those lips move. I pull back, unable to contain my joy.
"Hi, Mulder."
"Hi," he says with obvious surprise. "Ummm . . . I usually don't rate
such a nice wake-up call."
"You've never told me before what you told me today." He looks
puzzled, and I wonder if he remembers. Given everything that's
happened to him, I could certainly understand.
I decide to clarify. "I got your message, Mulder. Loud and clear."
He looks into my eyes, still slightly confused, and then they move
away. I follow their path as they come to rest on Mom, standing
behind me, holding up the roses. Suddenly, they widen in surprise.
I know I need to speak to him - we need to speak with each other -
so I lay a hand on his cheek, drawing his gaze back to my own. "I'm
sorry it took me so long to recognize your gifts. Every single year,
you remembered. And every single year, I told myself that they
weren't from you. Thank you for not giving up on me."
I barely notice as Mom leaves the room, instead listening as he says,
"I could never give up on you, Scully. You're my life."
I take a deep breath. Time to climb out onto that limb with him. "I
love you, Mulder. I'm in love with you. I have been for a long time,
but didn't have the courage. I always knew you were the brave one
in the partnership."
"I'd hardly say brave, Scully. I still couldn't manage to say it out
loud." He's smiling at me warmly. Lovingly. "So let me say it now.
I'm in love with you, Dana Scully. And nothing or no one has ever
made me feel as good."
I lean in again, recapturing his lips with my own. This time, the kiss
is long, and deep. After an eternity, we pull apart again. "You
concentrate on getting better, my love. Then I'll show you just how
good it can feel."
He pulls me down to lie beside him, and I suddenly realize that not
only am I tired, but it's the only place I want to be. My eyelids droop,
and just as I'm about to go under, I hear the door open again. I
should pull away, get off the bed, but I really have no desire to. It's
safe, though. I hear the door open and then close, and crack an eye
enough to se her set down a bouquet of every color of roses in the
rainbow. As I re-close my eyes, all I hear is Mom.
"These just arrived from Mrs. Parsens," she whispers, then adds,
"Goodnight, kids." And I'm asleep before I hear he door close once
again.
The End.