Virtual Image
By Shoshana

He got into the office early that morning, turned on the lights, hung up his coat, and sat down in his chair. The first thing he noticed was the 8 and 1/2 by 10 envelope propped up against his monitor.

It was addressed to 'Mulder,' and he recognized Scully's handwriting immediately. She had an easy-to-read, clean style, unlike many of her fellow physicians.

The brown package was stiff in his hands, as though it contained posterboard. He carefully used his letter opener to slice an opening on one side.

Two corrugated cardboard pieces slid out of the container. He pried them apart cautiously, in the belief that there was indeed a photo between the packaging.

So many emotions washed over him when he discovered whose representation it was; he felt a bittersweet acceptance tinged with the minutest of regrets.

The tightness in his chest gave him pause, and he propped the professionally matted item against the computer. He pushed his chair against the cold basement wall and sank into it, his elbows balanced on each armrest.

He was sitting there when she came in the door, his hands steepled under his chin, his eyes closed in contemplation.

A small smile crossed his face as he listened to the clicking of her heels against the ugly vinyl floor.

She didn't say a word. She made herself comfortable in the seat beside his desk, not bothering to peek at the item in front of him.

"It's exactly what she looked like," he mused.

"I'm so glad. I was afraid it wouldn't turn out well," she said, noticing telltale wetness beneath his eyes.

She walked around the desk and leaned next to the wall beside him. Only then did he open his eyes, smiling up at her warmly.

"Who did it for you?" he asked, sitting forward in his chair, his hands on his knees, his eyes riveted to the image before him.

"Chuck. I thought of the guys, but Chuck's an expert at this. Our friends are hobbyists compared to him," she explained.

"She's beautiful. She'll always be fourteen now." He took her hand in his, weaving their fingers together. "Thank you, Scully. I'll treasure this."

He looked up at her, and her grin matched his own. He pulled her close to his side, so that he could angle one arm around her waist.

She made a fussy, sputtering sound, pretending to be annoyed by such fond regard so early in the day. She planted a quick kiss to his forehead and tenderly brushed moisture away from his eyes.

"We have a meeting in ten minutes, Mulder."

She tilted her head close to his ear and whispered, "Go wash your face," as if lowering her voice could alleviate any embarrassment he might hold.

Catching her off balance, he used his free arm to cup her cheek, pulling her lips to his, stealing a kiss.

She pulled away in amazement, and his arms dropped to his lap. He wore an expression of woe, especially designed to garner her sympathy.

She pursed her lips, resisted a smile, then swatted his shoulder playfully.

"Eight minutes, Mulder. Meet you in the elevator," she ordered. She grabbed her briefcase and strode out of the office to use the restroom.

"Can we stop between floors?" he shouted after her, cringing when he heard her frustrated groan from the hallway.

"Mulder, what am I going to do with you?"

He couldn't hear every word she said, but the phrase was so familar to him by now, that he understood the sentiment loud and clear.

He grinned from ear to ear, rose from his chair, then placed his hands on the desk, leaning closer to the photograph.

"I love you too, Samantha," he said softly.

He grabbed his laptop and rushed out of the room, locking the door behind him.

fin

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