From: Anne Haynes <ahaynes33@aol.com>
Date: 31 Dec 1998 01:28:54 GMT
Subject: 12 TALES:  "Leftovers" 

DISCLAIMER: Everybody in here belongs to Chris Carter,
Ten-Thirteen Productions and the Fox Network, either in actuality
or by extension. I mean no infringement.

As I mentioned, when you have more than three stories about
the same episode, all connected in an ongoing narrative, you
might as well call it a series.  It's how Between Two Truths
started, after all.

Let's call this one 12 Tales of Christmas.  It's a nice, round
number.

CATEGORY:  VRA
RATING: PG-13
KEYWORDS:  MSR, Christmas
SPOILERS: Everything up to and including "How the Ghosts Stole
Christmas."
SUMMARY:  Home for the holidays, Mulder and Scully style.


12 TALES OF CHRISTMAS:  "Leftovers"
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com


I know that getting out of the car is probably a mistake, but
she's looking at me with that mischievous look that I'm beginning
to get used to.  Though I know that nothing good will come of it,
I can't resist the devil in Dana Scully.

I'm almost to the door when I realize she's lagging behind me a
bit.  I turn and look at her.

"I've got your back," she murmurs.

I shoot her a black look.  Her eyes sparkle.

She gives in and joins me on the stoop at her mother's front
door.  "You know, you can go back to the car if you want.  I'm
being selfish."

Cutting my eyes at her, I bend closer.  "Selfish?"

She lifts her chin and meets my sidelong gaze.  "I haven't seen a
good fireworks display in years."

I bend a little closer, until my nose is nearly brushing hers.
"Damn--and here I thought I was spectacular last night."

Ooo, there's that look.  That red-cheeked, naughty Catholic
schoolgirl caught smoking in the bathroom look.  I like that
look. I can probably build a whole fantasy life on that look. In
fact, I'm halfway there.

Which is, of course, the exact moment that the front door opens,
and we both turn our heads, in unison, to gaze upon the
less-than-happy countenance of William Scully, Jr. 

I glance at Scully.  She looks guilty as hell. 

Great, Scully.  Just paint a bulls eye on my ass and hand your
brother the gun.

"I came to pick up my car," she says.  She nudges past him,
taking advantage of her small stature to slide between him and
the door frame. 

I am not that small.  

He waits until she is out of earshot.  "Should've known you'd
drag her out on one of your little UFO hunts on Christmas."  His
voice is low. Quiet.  Scared to bitch out the nice FBI agent in 
front of your mother, Popeye?  

"Ghosts this time," I murmur.  Idiot that I am.

"Oh, *ghosts.*  Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

The guy has a way with sarcasm.

I nearly faint with relief when Margaret Scully's smiling face
appears just beyond her son's broad shoulders.  Save me, Mrs.
Scully. Save me from the big, mean bully.  Before I smack him in
his smart mouth and make this a Christmas that will live in
infamy.

"Merry Christmas, Fox," she greets me.

Billy Boy winces at his mother's use of my first name.  And for 
the first time I can remember, I LIKE my first name.  I smile
extra-wide at Mrs. Scully.  Not just because I like her, either.  
"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Scully."

"Bill, please move and let Fox come inside."  Her voice is low,
mildly amused.  The arch look she shoots at me only widens my
grin.

Bill stands there a moment longer, his expression unmistakable--
*I'm moving, you stupid little fuck, but only because I respect
my mother*--then he sidesteps enough that I can come inside.  I
just keep grinning, making sure that he doesn't miss a single
glimmer of my pearly whites.

I should be ashamed of myself.  

I'm not.

Scully is in the kitchen with Tara Scully, cooing over Matthew, 
the heir apparent.  He's almost a year old, I realize with a 
flicker of surprise.  I remember the day he was born, just a few 
short hours after Emily died.  Same hospital.  Four floors down.  
I sat outside the delivery room, with no good reason to be there
except that Scully was inside with her family, trying to pretend
she hadn't just watched a little girl die.

The pain catches me by surprise.  It always does.  It hits just
when I think I've got it all figured out, when all the pieces of
the moral conundrum seem to fit neatly together in my mind.  I've
spent nearly a year trying to answer all the questions--who was
Emily to me?  To Scully?  Who were we to her?

Not Mommy and Daddy.  The Simses were Mommy and Daddy. They're 
the ones she knew her whole life, the ones who tucked her into
bed with stories and songs. They were the ones who knew her sweet
strawberry-jam-and-peanut-butter kisses, the ones who'd held her
when she was sick and tired of this short, painful life she'd
been thrust into against her will or her best interests.  

Scully knew her a few short days; I knew her even fewer days.  We
were witnesses to the crime against her.  We hurt when she was
gone.

But we weren't Mommy and Daddy.    

Tara Scully catches sight of me lingering in the kitchen doorway.
She smiles at me, but it's an impersonal, polite gesture. 

Scully doesn't smile.  But her solemn, understanding gaze bears
more warmth than a thousand bright smiles from a stranger.  I
move closer to that warmth, needing it to dull the pain that
throbs in my chest.

Mrs. Scully is right behind me, moving past us to the
refrigerator.  "We always make too much food at Christmas,
Fox--would you like to take some leftovers home with you?"

My first inclination is to decline, but Scully touches my back,
her hand warm and firm against my lower spine.  "Get extra pieces
of lime pie," she says, softly enough that only I can hear her. 
"You'll thank me later."

I nod at Mrs. Scully.  "That would be great.  Thank you."

She bends to the task of sorting through the leftovers packed in
her huge refrigerator.  Scully's hand slides gently up and down
my back, her gesture wonderfully proprietary.  I glance her way,
but my gaze is caught momentarily by the look in Tara Scully's
eyes as she observes the little gesture.  Tara looks up at me
briefly, her expression somewhere between approving and 
apprehensive.

"Mom, have you seen--"  Charles Scully stops short in the back
door, one eyebrow arching slightly as he catches sight of me. His
gaze slides away from me toward a point just beyond me, and I
know that the whole gang is here now.  "Hi, Mulder. Didn't expect
to see you here."

I nod in his direction.  "Charles."  I'm beginning to feel very 
claustrophobic suddenly.  The kitchen is way too small for this 
much edgy testosterone.

"I didn't realize you'd met."  Bill's voice was low.

"We, uh, met earlier today.  At The Mall.  I ran into Charles and
his kids with Dana."  The sound of her first name on my tongue,
as always, sounds odd. Not quite right.  I can tell by the way
her fingers flutter lightly against my spine that she is struck
by the strangeness as well.  I don't even want to think about
what that tells us about our relationship.

"You haven't met Angie yet, Mulder," Charles interjects.  "My
wife.  She's around here somewhere.  Don't wander off without
saying hello."  

Bill bristles a little at his younger brother's words.  But
Charles is oblivious.  He's busy pulling his son into the kitchen
by one mittened hand.  Little Patrick is grumpy about being
brought inside when there's still crusty snow to be rolled into a
brick-hard lump and thrown at the nearest passing victim.  He
looks like Scully in a stubborn mood.

Mrs. Scully looks away from the refrigerator momentarily.
"Angie's in the back bedroom, trying to get Kelly to settle down
for a nap."

"I'm headed in the same direction," Tara says, cuddling her
sleepy son close.  He's fighting sleep, his head bobbing and his
eyes drooping as his mother carries him out of the room. He's
cuter than the wrinkly red newborn I remember.

Margaret Scully, bless her heart, continues to quietly ignore the
tension, busy with her task of packing a large brown bag full of
leftovers for me.  "Do you prefer turkey or ham, Fox?"

"Either is fine," I assure her. "Please don't go to too much
trouble--"

"No trouble at all."  She brushes aside my protest.  

An uncomfortable silence falls over the kitchen.  I feel like I
should be doing something besides standing there in the middle of
the warm, homey room, the center of brotherly scrutiny.  I glance
at Scully, hoping for a little direction, but she looks as
uncomfortable as I feel.

Bill breaks the silence first.  "You didn't have Christmas with
your own family, Mulder?"

Ouch.  Trust the big bully to poke me where it hurts.  "We're not
big on family get-togethers."  Not much family left now, anyway. 
Just mom and me and some woman who looks like my sister but
doesn't want anything to do with us.  

Besides, I did spend Christmas with family.  The only person who
feels like family to me any more.

I look at her, ground myself for a moment in her blue gaze.  She
is so serene sometimes, so still and controlled that I want to
drown myself in her.  This is one of those moments, and I don't
have the luxury of losing myself, because I'm standing in front
of her family, in front of people who have no real idea just how
much a part of me she really is.

Scully knows it, I think.  Sometimes I wonder if that's not part
of the reason she holds back from me sometimes--she's afraid that
I'll swallow her whole if she lets me. 

Maybe she's right.  Maybe I would.

"Dana, have you shown Fox the Christmas tree?" Mrs. Scully asks,
breaking the silence that had fallen once again.

"Come on, Mulder."  Scully latches onto that excuse to get out of
the kitchen, and I follow her gladly.  She leads me into the
living room, where a huge Scotch pine tree fills the corner near
the fireplace.  She glances behind her to make sure no one has
followed us, then she looks up at me, her gaze apologetic.  "I'm
sorry--I shouldn't have dragged you here."

That's funny.  I thought I was the one who did all the dragging
over the past twenty-four hours.  I was the one who lured her
away from her Christmas plans to keep me company on Christmas
Eve.  I'm the one who picked that damned haunted house as the
perfect place for us to share a little holiday cheer.  

Bill was right.  I'm always pulling Scully into harm's way.  I
use her sense of loyalty to manipulate her into doing what I
want.  I bank on her need to never let me down, knowing that just
the right combination of foolhardiness and vulnerability will
bring her running.  

It strikes me--isn't that exactly what Maurice was telling me in
the haunted house?  That I'm a lonely, messed-up,
paramasturbatory asshole who can't win a woman's love--so I
settle for taking advantage of her inexplicable willingness to
put up with the shit I dish out to her?

Standing there in front of the beautiful Scully family Christmas
tree, I'm on the verge of tears.  

"I should go now," I say softly, my voice a little ragged. "Let
you spend the rest of your Christmas with your family.  I
shouldn't have dragged you away from them last night."

She looks puzzled by my words.  Puzzled and maybe a little
worried.  But I can't give her any assurances--not until I think
about my motives.  What I want from her and why.  

And I can't do it here.

"Mulder--"

"I'll call you tomorrow."  I'm already moving toward the door.

"Charles wanted you to meet Angie," Scully says softly.  There's
more she wants to say.  I see it in her eyes.  But she doesn't
say it.

I look at her helplessly.

"Mom's in there packing you some leftovers," she adds. 

I feel trapped.

And she sees that.  Her expression shifts subtly.  Closes off a
little.  Ices over.  "I'll explain for you," she adds.  

Fuck.

"No, I don't need to leave yet."  I take a deep breath.  "I just
need to go outside for a moment.  It's warm in here."

She looks at me, her expression enigmatic.  Then she gives a
little nod and I escape through the front door into the frigid
afternoon air.  I tuck my jacket more tightly around me and lift
my face to the sliver of sunlight trying to break through the low
gray clouds.  I draw several long, deep breaths.

The panic subsides a little. Think, Mulder.  Think now, while you
still can.  I close my eyes, listen to the soft rustle of the
winter wind in the trees, and wait for an answer.  A direction.

A single truth blooms in my mind, full and unmistakable.

I do love her. 

I've always loved her, in some capacity or another.  Maybe even
from the moment she walked into my office, all confidence and
fresh-faced naivete.  I can remember every detail of that
morning, from the soft, clean smell of her to the timbre of her
voice.  I remember the thought that struck me like a bolt of
lightening the second I turned around and caught sight of her
standing there, a little half-smile curving her lips.

*My life will never be the same.*

And it's not.

I'm not the man Maurice accused me of being.  I'm not the man
Bill Scully thinks I am.  I'm not Spooky Mulder, I'm not the
Bureau pariah, I'm not the ungrateful son my mother believes or
the patsy the smoking man thinks.  I'm not Kersh's whipping boy
or Skinner's headache or my father's greatest disappointment.

I'm Scully's man.  The one she loves, the one she defends, the
one she challenges and hassles and haunts, day and night.  I'm
the lucky son of a bitch who somehow got under her thick skin,
inside her brittle heart. 

She doesn't open herself easily.  She doesn't love with abandon.  

But she loves me.  She's never said the words.  She's never
expressed the sentiment.

But I know it.  Bone deep.

I didn't drag her anywhere last night.  Scully's too strong a
woman to be dragged anywhere against her will. She wanted to be
there.  With me.  Even if she didn't want to admit it.

I turn to look back at the house and catch sight of Scully,
watching me through the window.  She starts to move away, but I
shake my head and gesture for her to join me outside.  She cocks
her head slightly, as if she's considering all her options.  Then
she disappears from the window, and a moment later, she's walking
out the front door, down the stoop, and across the lawn to where
I stand.

"You're leaving," she says softly.

I shake my head.  "I'm not going anywhere without that lime pie."

She closes her eyes for a moment, her lips curling slightly up at
the corners.  Then she looks back at me, relief blazing from her
bright blue eyes.  "Are we okay?"

I nod.  "We're great."

"I know my brothers can be a pain--"

"Your brothers look out for you."  That wins the Mulder Seal of
Approval.

"You really don't have to stay if you're uncomfortable.  I'm
feeling a little claustrophobic myself," she adds.

"We'll go soon," I promise.  "I should go meet Charles' wife
first."

"You'll like Angie," she promises as we walk toward the front
door.

And I do.  Angie is tall and cute, a green-eyed brunette with a
bright mind and a quick laugh.  Of all the people gathered in
Mrs. Scully's living room, she's the one who sees through the
carefully constructed reserve Scully and I have built around
ourselves.  I see it in her eyes.  She knows exactly what we are.

She'll tell Charles.  He'll tell her not to tell Bill or Mrs.
Scully.  It'll be their little secret, one of many I suspect they
share in the private little world they've constructed for
themselves.

Scully and I both take our leave soon after that.  Mrs. Scully
loads my arms with two sacks of leftovers--one for me, one for
Scully.  Angie actually kisses me goodbye, her lips soft and warm
against my cheek, her affection instant and real. Charles whacks
me on the back, nearly knocking me off balance.  Bill just
scowls.

Scully takes her bag of goodies from my arm and loads it into the
passenger seat of her car.  "I think I should go home, Mulder."

I crook one eyebrow.  Oh.  I wasn't expecting that.

"I think it will be better.  Just for now.  I'll call you
tomorrow," she adds.  

I'm feeling flat-footed.  Just when I think I have it all figured
out....

Looking for a way to cover my confusion, I put my own sack of
leftovers into my car.  When I close the car door and turn toward
her, she's standing right in front of me, close enough to touch.

But I don't touch her.  

"I want time to process everything," she says softly.  Her gaze
is luminous, somehow open and vulnerable.  I stare for a long
moment, captivated by the depths I see there, depths she's never
let me see before.  "I want us both to have some time to think
and let everything that's happened sink in."

"I don't need time," I say.

She smiles slightly.  "I do."

I'm prone to thinking the worst, so naturally I do.  "You're
having second thoughts--"

"No."  She shakes her head quickly.  "No second thoughts.  No
regrets.  I just want time to decompress.  I'll call you
tomorrow."

I nod.  Not that I completely understand, but for the moment, at
least, I'm not panicking at the thought of letting her walk away
from me.

We're just standing here, now.  Standing and looking.  Wondering
what to do--kiss good bye?  Not in public and especially not in
front of her mother's house, where God and Scully's brothers
could see.  Declare my love?  Somehow that doesn't seem like the
thing to do, either.

Scully manages to save our asses in the end.  As always.  "This
is the best Christmas I can remember," she declares softly.  Her
hand brushes lightly over mine, her fingers cool and soft.  It's
not even a hand-hold--just a light touch of skin to skin.

It's perfect.

"I'll call you tomorrow," she repeats.  I nod again.  

Then she's gone, sliding behind the wheel of her car.  I walk
more slowly around my own car, unlocking the driver's door as
she's pulling away from the curb.

I'm less than a block away when my cell phone rings. It startles
me.  I thumb the power button.  "Mulder."

"Mom packed all the leftover pie in your bag."

I release a soft breath at the sound of her voice.  "What did you
do, start digging as soon as you got stopped at a red light?"

"You have a problem with that?"

No, I don't.  "You want me to save you some pie?"

"Yeah."

"Will do."  If my own winsome qualities can't lure her to me, the
pie should do the trick.  I'm not proud. 

"Thanks."  She hangs up without saying goodbye.  As usual.
 
I put away the phone and glance at the sack of leftovers next to
me.  Once upon a time, everything in there was part of a Hallmark
moment on the Scully dining room table.  The turkey brown and
tender, cornbread dressing elegantly garnished, potatoes whipped
to buttery perfection.  All the Scullys, big and small, dressed
in their Christmas finest, singing carols and hymns, hair combed,
faces scrubbed, shoes shined--

But that's not so, either.  It's an incomplete picture without
Captain Scully there to carve the bird or Melissa there to pick
out all the pieces of dead animal from her cornbread dressing. 
No little Emily there, her arms wrapped around Scully's leg and
her bright little eyes shining.

I remember something I haven't thought about in years. 
Thanksgiving 1973 was just days before Samantha disappeared. The
turkey that year had been bigger than usual, and somehow we had a
half a bird left over.  Turkey every day for almost a week.  The
last meal Samantha ate with any of us was a cold turkey sandwich
I made for her before we sat down to play Stratego. 

I pull to a stop at a traffic light, my eyes brimming with tears. 
I push them away and face a simple truth: life is nothing but
leftovers for any of us.  

But leftovers can be good.  They can be great.  Sometimes you can
take leftovers and make something new and wonderful from them.
All it takes is the right blend of ingredients.  Complementary
flavors.  A willingness to take a chance on messing up the
recipe, knowing that if it comes out just right, it'll be so
great it'll blow your mind.

There's always that risk of overshooting heaven and ending up in
hell.  But if you never try, you spend eternity in limbo.  

A little hell of its very own.

The light changes, and I drive on, taking the shortest route back
to my apartment.  Tempting aromas waft from the sack of food next
to me, teasing my senses and making all sorts of promises of
pleasures to come.

And I'm hungry.

  
= end


Anne Haynes

My XF Fanfic is stored at http://members.aol.com/ahaynes33/index.htm