Restoration
By Shoshana

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July 6th, 1999, 7:45 a.m.
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Mulder got off the elevator and saw that Scully had already opened
the office door, propping it open with that wastebasket he kicked the
shit out of the other day. Time to requisition another circular
file, he thought. Can't play wadded-up reprimand basketball without
one. He strode through the door and carefully opened the Starbucks
bag on his desk, wondering where Scully was at this very moment.

It was evident that she'd been here earlier, her laptop already
splayed out on the functional pseudo-desk he'd managed to steal from
the storage room. A mysterious white bag sat next to her desk. He
didn't dare peek, and he was sorely tempted to do so. He sat down at
his desk, prying open his extra-large Colombian Special Roast, extra
sugar, extra cream please, and sipped at the piping hot liquid
cautiously, a fraction of a teaspoon at a time.

Scully swept through the door, buoyant and refreshed, pleased to be
back at work after the holiday weekend, pleased to see that Mulder
had finally showed up for work. "Hey," she said, with a smile that
reached her vivid blue eyes.

"Hey yourself."

"I thought it was my week for coffee, Mulder," she said, as she
reached down and retrieved the unidentified bag from the floor. She
set it down on the only flat surface available, a typing table,
currently sans typewriter.

"I thought so too. Well, let's just call it my week, then. Guess
the long weekend jumbled my memories. Did you do anything special,
Scully?"

"Mom and I went to see fireworks, that's about it. I wanted you to
come with us. I tried to get a hold of you Saturday afternoon and
your cell phone was already out of the service area. Where'd you go?"

"Uh, the guys and I went to Richmond to see Frohicke's mom. She
broke her ankle last week and we cleaned her house, shopped for her,
that kind of stuff. Then we went to see fireworks at a local park.
She must be at least seventy-five years old now. She embarrassed the
hell out of her son with childhood stories that were anything but
typical. Kinda told me a lot more about Frohicke than I needed to
know..."

Mulder had been relieved to receive the invitation last Friday
morning. He knew that Scully would try to get a hold of him on
Saturday afternoon and invite him to see fireworks the next day. So,
he was out of cellular phone range by that afternoon, helping out in
Richmond. He didn't want to see her Mom.

Four years had passed and he still felt awkward about Melissa's
death. Awkward, what an indequate word. Every time he'd seen Mrs.
Scully since then had been during a time of emotional or physical
crisis. He'd seen her during Scully's bout with cancer, Emily, just
about whenever she was in a local hospital, for whatever job- related
injury or ailment.

He'd managed to avoid holiday invitations, through guile and thinly-
veiled deceit. He suspected that Scully must see right through him;
it frustrated her to no end that he had an endless repository of
valid excuses why he couldn't show up at her family's home. She'd
never pressed him on the issue. She knew why he was unavailable; she
was perplexed by it, stymied by it, sick to death of it.

Certain topics were always forbidden, always excluded from
conversation. He knew it, she knew it. It hurt both of them, but
there was nary a solution in sight. They were lucky if they didn't
let the exasperations of everyday life disturb the atmosphere between
them, much less the death of a sister or albeit briefly recognized
daughter.

All this baggage swirled through Mulder's mind as he listened, as
attentively as his otherwise preoccupied mind would allow him, to
Scully's rather long-winded and descriptive account of her weekend
with Mom. He tried to pay attention, he really did. She wanted to
include him, to make him feel welcome to that part of her life. She
wanted him to feel comfortable when she related to him the hijinks
she and Melissa got involved in as kids. She probably knew better
than anyone why he still felt such overwhelming guilt, so many years
after her death. And she persisted in her campaign to soothe his
open wounds, just as diligently as she would have cleaned and
sterilized physical injuries he sustained.

He wanted to show her more gratitude, more appreciation for her
efforts, but he never knew what to say. He just couldn't say. What
could he say? Thank you for recognizing the deficiency in my
personality that makes me a thankless bastard; a spineless smuck
unable to express how much he loves you, unable to thank you for your
sincere crusade to rid me of my demons?

"Mulder! Have you heard a word I've said in the last ten minutes?"

"Uh, yeah. You went to see fireworks. You went shopping. Your
mother is well..."

"Yeah, right. Have some more coffee, Mulder. I think your mind is
wandering farther than usual today." She gave him a smile, telling
him that it was no big deal, that he was absolved for now. She sat
down at her laptop and pulled up her E-Mail account.

She wondered to herself what the hell was engrossing his mind so,
then caught herself, telling herself that whatever it was, he
wouldn't be revealing it to her anytime soon. Sometimes she felt,
she knew, that they were the most dysfunctional best friends in the
universe; always there for one another, never completely open with
one another. It hurt her, but there was nothing she could do, short
of exposing her own deep-seated fears, hopes, and anxieties for and
about the future.

If she divulged her heart, her soul to him now, would they survive
that, would they be able to weather revelations that would change
everything about their relationship, their interaction with the rest
of their swiftly changing universe?
She had never been much of a gambler, she wasn't willing to bet away
their future together, whatever that may be. She'd recognize the
time to tell him, let him know.

He had to know already, for pity's sake. He had to realize how much
she tried to include him in her life. How it hurt her when he evaded
invitations, closed her out on the holidays. His efforts to unburden
her of him incensed her at times, drove her up a wall, drove her to
drink occasionally. If he knew, if he even realized what three days
without him had been like for her...

It had distressed her, embarrassed her, that she had thought of
nothing all weekend but what he was up to, if he were safe, staying
out of mischief. If she had only known where he was, it would have
been easy to cope. But when he purposely escaped, evaded her cell
phone's reach, it drove her crazy to no end. Why did he run away?
Just so he wouldn't have to see my Mom? Or is it me that he needs a
break from? Am I wrong? Am I wrong about him?

"Ahem, Scully? Earth to Scully!"

She turned around to see him grinning broadly, amused that she was
just as far away from reality this morning as he had been. She
smiled back and said, "Whoops, those long weekends sure make it hard
to get back in the swing of things."

"Hey, Scully, since neither of us can concentrate at all, why don't
we take a break, take a walk..."

Her eyes closed, and her lips formed an enigmatic smile before
responding, "Sure, just give me a minute to close out my account."

When she reopened her eyes, and sneaked a look his way, he was
shuffling papers on his desk, pretending that he also had something
important to do. She knew better. She knew what it cost him to just
ask her for a walk. She knew it was his way of mending fences, a
tacit apology for his absence from her life all weekend. Maybe, just
maybe, he had been just as anxious to get back, to see her again, as
she had been to see him.

She powered down the computer, grabbed her purse, and stood up from
her chair. Five seconds later, he was by her side, smiling down at
her, his hand gravitating toward the small of her back. She returned
his smile, and walked slowly toward the door, no longer concerned
whether she was wrong about Mulder at all.

fin

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