New: Still Life with Implant
Barbara D.
Author: Barbara D. <mmal...@hotmail.com or mmal...@yahoo.com>
Category: V, A
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: The X-Files and all ancillary materials
pertaining thereto belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, 20th
Century Fox, and whoever owns them. No copyright infringement is
intended and no profit is being made.
Archive: Gossamer yes. If anyone else is interested, just let me know.
Summary: Scully and Mulder adjust to life in remission.
Timeline: Between Redux II and Detour
Spoilers: None
Author's notes: At the end
Thanks: To haphazard method for quick and careful beta reading, and for
remembering the bugs.
Thanks to marguerite, this story and others can be found at:
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Capsule/4554/index.html
***
The heavy door clanged shut behind her, and the sound echoed through the
dusty silence. She shifted the bag to her left hand and gripped the
gritty railing, as the anticipated sensation of homecoming was nearly
swamped by a wave of exhaustion. Taking a deep breath, she started down
the stairs. Her light steps made barely a dent in the close stillness of
the basement, and failed to announce her presence to the only other
living soul in this underground refuge.
She stepped into the open doorway of the office. Mulder was behind the
desk, leaning back in his chair, legs bent, feet propped on an open
drawer. His attention was focused on the folder in his lap through
glasses that reflected the overhead light. Never breaking contact with
the file, he reached for a sunflower seed from the pile on the desk,
flicking aside empty shells to find one that hadn't been eviscerated.
She stood still, waiting.
Within seconds, he looked up, somehow aware that the cocoon of quiet
surrounding him had been breached by her silent greeting. He snatched
off his glasses and dropped his feet to the floor.
"Hi," he said. It was a question.
"I had some errands," she said, walking into the room. "Did you eat?"
He gestured toward the sunflower seeds.
She frowned at the chair in front of the desk, then shifted it slightly,
back to its proper place. She sank down, grateful for the sturdy
support.
Conscious of Mulder's rapt observance of her every move, she reached
into the bag and pulled out a foil-wrapped package. "I went to Madame
Henrion's."
His eyes lit as he took the package from her. He pulled at the twisted
foil, releasing the pungent smell of country paté and cornichon pickles.
Gathering together the edges of the crusty bread, he sat back in his
chair, and raised an eyebrow at her. In the familiar pattern, she shook
her head. He smiled and took a huge bite. As soon as he swallowed, he
said, "Does she know you give these to me?"
She smiled in reply. "I think she suspects. She's been complaining about
having to put extra darts in my suits, when all she used to have to do
was hem them."
She began to search through the bag, when his sudden stillness caught
her eye.
"You should eat this, Scully," he said, standing up and reaching across
the desk, sandwich first.
"No, Mulder." She pushed gently at his hand.
"Scully--"
"It's too rich right now," she said, closing her hand around his.
"Besides, I already ate."
She managed to stare him down, back into his chair.
"Eat, Mulder," she said. "I am not going to nursemaid a weak partner
through our next case. And a handful of sunflower seeds isn't exactly
the lunch of champions."
Accompanied by an acquiescent squeak from his chair, Mulder leaned back
to enjoy his sandwich.
Wincing from the stiffness that the moment of rest had etched into her
underused muscles, she got up and walked to the water cooler, snagging a
dusty Erlenmeyer off the side table. She turned with the half-filled
flask at the sound of a drawer opening, and watched Mulder bring out her
mug and a tea bag. She set the flask on the desk, pushing aside the pile
of seeds, and pulled three roses from the bag. Into the makeshift vase
she placed one bloom and bud in milky white, and one full bloom in
brilliant scarlet, showing off its golden heart.
In response to his look of inquiry, she said, "I stopped by Mr. Wu's
this morning. Middle of fall, and he still has roses. Seeger agreed that
I can see him too, in addition to the hospital physical therapist. "
He nodded, then leaned forward to peer at the flowers. "What's that?"
She looked down at the speck of mottled red and black on the white rose.
"Oh," she said with a smile, "it's a lady bug." She placed her finger
next to the tiny creature, then frowned as it turned abruptly and tucked
itself back between the petals of the flower.
"She's shy," she said, delight turning to disappointment.
"How do you know it's a she?" he said. "I didn't see a little purse."
"Okay, he's shy," she said, picking up the mug and tea bag.
"I hate bugs," he muttered.
Hiding a smile at his surreptitious check of what was left of his
sandwich, she walked back to the cooler, and added hot water to the mug
from the red spigot.
"Do you want anything to drink, Mulder?" she asked, watching the essence
of Darjeeling spread through the clear water, enjoying the way its
subtle perfume mixed with the faint scent of roses and the earthy
remnants of Mulder's lunch.
"Got my own," he said.
At the sound of a dull pop, she turned and watched his Adam's apple bob
as he swallowed half the contents of a bottle of iced tea, eyes closed
in enjoyment.
She walked back to her chair and sat down. "What are you working on?"
He licked his lips and eyed her, a calm challenge. "What else did Dr.
Seeger say?"
"I can work half days for two weeks, starting when we get back from the
conference. Then we'll see."
His eyes lit again. "Are you going with me?"
"It's a partnership conference, Mulder. Do you think anyone else would
go with you?"
His steady look banished her smile and invited a tinge of pink to wash
across her cheeks. She dove back down to rummage through the bag, and
brought up three apples, one of which she tossed to Mulder, who caught
it neatly, one-handed.
"The specialty greengrocer on Twelfth," she said, placing the extra
apples next to the flask.
"Someone was a busy squirrel this morning."
"What are you working on?" she asked again.
Her first answer was a crisp crunch that ricocheted around the room.
"Good," he mumbled, through a mouthful of apple. He gave her a
considered look, then slid a file across the desk, scattering sunflower
seeds. "The local cops in Savannah have arrested an artist for a series
of recent murders. He exhibited some paintings that indicated intimate
knowledge of the crime scenes."
She pulled the folder toward her. "That sounds pretty straightforward,"
she said cautiously. "Where's the X-File?"
"The victims are locals, but had no connection with the artist."
"Well, that doesn't preclude him from being the murderer. Or if he's
not, the source of the paintings could be local gossip."
"That may be true, though the sheriff I've been in contact with swears
the records are sealed, and that the artist has quite a reputation as
the town recluse."
Anticipation prickled through her. "Inside information is still the most
obvious answer, Mulder. Where's the X-File?"
"The artist," he said, a smile now hovering around his lips, "is a
paraplegic. Has been since 1982. That was also the last date on any of
the murder scene paintings. Yet the latest murder took place a month
ago, on the evening of the exhibition."
"So it's an accomplice."
"He does have a companion," Mulder admitted. His smile broadened. "She's
a German shepherd."
"That's easy, Mulder, it's somebody else -- a human associate."
"Chemical analysis of the paint," he said, carefully sliding a sheaf of
papers toward her as if presenting a handful of rubies, "shows that the
paintings are all more than a decade old, and each painting is done in
the artist's style."
"They must be imitations, Mulder, what else could it be?" She pulled the
data sheets toward her. "And that particular chemical analysis is
tricky. Who did it? It should be checked."
"I've asked them to send up some samples," he said helpfully. "Maybe you
could take a look."
She gave an absent nod and started thumbing through the pages. Hearing
him shift in his chair, she lifted her head and shot him an expectant
glance. "I assume you have a theory?"
On cue, he crouched toward her over the desk, a tightly wrapped bundle
of nervous energy. "I think the artist did it, Scully. What if he
pre-ordained the murders by the act of painting them? And if he's not
the actual murderer, maybe he directed someone else, by thinking about
what he painted and somehow translating it into reality. Maybe what he's
doing are thought murders."
She felt a welcome rush of adrenaline, followed by a bubble of what
might have been joy. The dizzying combination produced a sharp,
incredulous laugh. "Thought murders? Mulder, you can't think somebody
dead, or none of us would get through rush hour."
"Just read it, Scully," he said reaching across the desk to tap the
file. "Tell me what you think. Maybe we can go down there and take a
look when you're back on full time." He punctuated his invitation by
rocking back in his chair, and taking another exuberant bite of the
apple. "Who knows, I might be able to convince you. Or maybe you'll
convince me. Either way, I think we can catch this guy."
The familiar challenge on Mulder's face slowly eased its way into a
smile. Before she could smile back, his expression twisted, and he
abruptly put up one hand to cover his eyes.
"Mulder...." She felt a lump creep up into her throat, then sipped her
tea and swallowed it back down. She folded her hands around the mug,
feeling the steam caress her face, keeping her eyes on the desk until
she heard the hollow thump of the apple hitting the bottom of the trash
can.
She looked up as he leaned forward to retrieve his glasses and pick up
another file from the stack next to his elbow. The telltale crinkles
around his eyes and across his forehead had smoothed back into their
accustomed hiding place, behind the bland mask.
"You didn't drive did you?" he asked quietly.
"Cab," she said.
He put on his glasses and propped his feet up in their accustomed
position. "Are you going back to your office?" he asked, looking down at
the open file.
Her eyes traveled across the scattered sunflower seeds, tear drop shapes
textured in an abstract pattern of black and white, across the sturdy
Pyrex flask, clear walls so thick they distorted the graceful length of
the waxy stems, across the vibrant blooms and the rosy apples, across
the expanse of file-covered pine desk.
Across to her partner.
"Maybe later," she said, settling back in the chair with the data
sheets.
"If you're still here, I'll drive you home."
"I'll still be here," she said.
***
Author's notes: I'm taking Maureen B. Ochs' word for it: Scully has her
own office (if you haven't read "Office Politics" yet -- well, why
haven't you?). A weird synergy produced this writer's block unblock:
Cancer-fic as a recent topic on Scullyfic, and Ariadne's lovely story,
"Déjeuner sur la Déją Vu", which got me thinking of other famous
Impressionist paintings as inspiration, until I hit on Cezanne's "Still
Life with Apples". Extra points for whoever can identify the most
symbols <g>