From: AHaynes33 Date: 24 Dec 1998 05:00:03 GMT Subject: "Have and Have Not" - 1/1 - by Anne Haynes DISCLAIMER - Mulder and Scully, plus any characters mentioned herein, belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and the Fox Network. I mean no infringement. CATEGORY - VRA RATING - PG-13 KEYWORDS: MSR SPOILERS - Everything up to and including US SEASON 6 SUMMARY - A trip back to Mulder's isn't quite what Scully expected Note: This story follows directly after "White Christmas" which followed two earlier stories, all set after the episode "How the Ghosts Stole Christmas." I think it would behoove you to read the other stories. See the end notes for details. "Have and Have Not" by Anne Haynes AHaynes33@aol.com I am curled up on Mulder's sofa, eating microwave popcorn and watching the Blue-Gray game. The Gray team is ahead, thanks to some fancy running by a tailback from Auburn. Too bad the guy couldn't lead his team to a better regular season record, but the pro scouts will probably sit up and take notice anyway. Mulder's nuzzling my shoulder with his chin, but it's only half-hearted. He's into the game, too, sneaking popcorn out of my bag with his long fingers. We came here for sex. We got sidetracked by football. "No basketball tonight," he mourns into my ear. I tip my head, rub my forehead against his cheek. He nuzzles again, this time with his lips to my brow. It's a nice feeling. Sweet. Safe. Maybe it wasn't football that distracted us. Maybe it was a need to regroup after last night. Reconnect with our clothes on. Or maybe it's fear that the second time will be a let down. Mulder makes a grumbling noise deep in his throat. I turn my head and look up at him. "See that kid from Dartmouth playing for the Blue team?" he murmurs. I glance at the television set. There's a lanky blond kid with great teeth and perfect skin grinning at the camera. No "Hi mom" for this kid. He knows how to work a photo op with that bored savoir faire of an Ivy Leaguer. "I went to school with his dad." I cut my eyes at Mulder. "No way." "Timothy Calvert. He was a senior my freshman year of high school. Knocked up a Vassar girl his sophomore year at Harvard and had to get married. Little Timmy there was born seven months after the I do's. My mother reminded me of that juicy little scandal for years--closest thing she had to a cautionary tale, I guess." There's something he's not saying. I'm curious, but I don't push. He's working up to something here. All I need is a little patience. "Makes me feel old. A kid in college." "It's not your kid," I say. He shifts away from me suddenly and unfolds his lanky body. For a second I think he's going to start pacing right there in front of the television, but he just keeps going, into the kitchen. I hear the refrigerator door open and I wonder what the hell is going on. He comes back with two cans of cola, even though I'm not halfway through the one I had already. He sets mine on the coffee table in front of me and pops his open, chugging half of it down in a series of big gulps. His eyes water from the carbonation, and he winces. He sinks onto the sofa next to me. Close but not touching. He takes a second swig, a smaller one, then sets his cola can on the table next to mine. His mouth works silently for a moment, as if he's trying to say something that just won't come out. I search back in my mind for what we just said, what might have triggered this reaction. Somehow I don't think it's the realization that he's 37 years old. But all that's left is the kid. "They're still together--Tim's parents. Everybody said it wouldn't last, the way it got started, but they proved them wrong. I ran into the guy about five months ago--remember the security clearance thing we handled up in Dover about a month ago? He was one of the bank officers I talked to. He showed me pictures--he has a couple of daughters, too. Gorgeous kids--great gene pool, I guess." Okay, this is just getting weird. Mulder talking about old high school acquaintances, marriage, kids.... Oh, God. My stomach starts to hurt. He doesn't seem to notice my sudden distress, thank God. It would shut him up, and at this point, I think I need to know what else he has to say on the subject. "Your niece and nephew are cute kids." He slouches into the soft leather belly of the sofa, his gaze distant. "Patrick looks like Charles." I nod. He does. "Kelly looks like Melissa did at her age." Just like Emily. Go ahead and say it, Mulder. Get this thing rolling. If I'm going to have to cry myself to sleep tonight, let's settle it now instead of hitting me with it later, when my guard is down. Because I don't want to cry in front of you. "I never thought about having kids," he says a few moments later. "It wasn't an option." My stomach coils and knots. I can't look at him. "We never talk about her, Scully." Oh, God. "I understand if you don't want to. I'm not asking you to talk now." He looks at me. I can feel his gaze burning my cheek. But I can't look at him. He doesn't touch me, doesn't try to push. He just looks at me. Consumes me with his gaze. "But I don't want you to think I don't think about her. About both of you. Especially now. This time of year." I should say something. Confess that I've been thinking about her too. But the truth is, I've been trying not to think of her. Trying not to count down the days left before the first anniversary of her death. Trying not to remember every word she said, every little detail of how she looked those few, short days I had her with me. Last night, before I came over to Mulder's apartment, I kept a little tradition I started for myself a few Christmases ago, the year after my father died. It was the first Christmas after my missing time. I was still weak from whatever it was that happened to me, but I couldn't sleep that Christmas Eve. So I'd lit a votive candle and prayed for my father. For myself. For my sister, who had found her way back to us after being gone for a long time. For Mulder, who had never given up on me, even when it seemed like hope was gone. The year after that, I prayed for Melissa, gone so soon, so cruelly. For Mulder's father. For my own, now gone almost two years. For all that Mulder and I had lost. Last night, I prayed for Emily. And I didn't have room for anyone else. Not myself, not my family, not Mulder. Missing her---not the child I knew but the child I would never know. The children she would never have. The man she would never love. The life she would never live. I cried out to a God I don't always understand but who never seems to leave me, no matter how far I run. I asked him for answers. For a reason. He hasn't spoken yet. So I wait. And I don't know how to tell Mulder this. Not yet. "I shouldn't have said anything," he says softly. He drags his gaze away from my face, stares at the television screen, where the Blue team has just scored a touchdown to bring the game to within seven points. I take a deep breath and move my hand until it rests atop his. I squeeze gently. I can't talk about it yet--maybe never--but it means everything to me that Mulder still thinks about her, too. That I am not alone in my vigil. He doesn't say anything more, but I think I know what he was trying to say anyway. With the talk about children and mortgages and settling down. There are things that Mulder and I will never have in this life. It's not in our destiny to have the things that both of us, in so many ways, were raised to believe was the natural outcome of a life lived well. No split-level house in the suburbs, no friendly golden retriever in the fenced-in back yard, no 2.5 genetically-blessed children attending private schools and Ivy League colleges, no Volvo station wagon parked next to his BMW convertible. Our life is FBI fleet cars, greasy take-out, shitty motels in Podunk, USA, and the looming knowledge that the world we all take for granted may not be ours for much longer. But in the midst of the madness, we also have each other. I'm crying now. Softly. Tears spilling down my cheeks, leaving salty tracks. Mulder's arm slides around me, pulls me close. I push away the tears with my fingertips, not wanting him to worry, not wanting him to misunderstand. I look into his eyes. They are shiny with unshed tears. "Thank you," I say. I'm not sure what I'm thanking him for, exactly. I'm not sure it's important. He touches my cheek, one long finger tracing a tear track, then sliding over to brush against my lower lip. I savor the salt-sweet taste of sorrow and joy. I see the reflection of my heart in his eyes, and I see that he knows what I know. We are the only light in our world at the moment. But it's okay. We're still shining strong and bright. = end END NOTES: This looks like it's becoming a series, folks. The other stories can be found on my website: http://members.aol.com/ahaynes33/index.htm Choose "General Stories" and look for the following titles: "Eternity Waits" (1) "What They Don't Know" - (2) "White Christmas" - (3) Thanks for reading. Anne Haynes "