untitled thanksgiving drabble
X-Files. 785 words. Takes place season seven? IDK, sometimes I fudge the whole notion of distinct time frames within the course of the show. Oh, and it's Thanksgiving-themed! From dorasolo's prompts: apple pie, a stalled car engine, and the phrase "you can't be serious."
---
He avoids the saccharine sweet holiday cheer they stuff down your throat on Thanksgiving by focusing all his energy on college football and his favorite paranormal listservs. Come the evening, though, his options are always pretty limited. Of all the Christmas movies out there, It's a Wonderful Life depresses him the least, and he likes that they save it for prime time. When normal families are all sitting around their table laughing and eating and reminiscing, he spends dinner with good ol' George Bailey and Clarence. If he closes his eyes, he can hear Samantha cry out as George leans over the edge of that bridge, his mother laughing in the kitchen. It hurts to remember, but everything hurts; at least this is a good pain.
He’s sprawled out across his couch, his coffee table littered with boxes of Chinese take-out and shards of fortune cookies when his cell rings.
“Hello?” The sound of his own voice startles him and he realizes it’s the first word he’s spoken all day.
“Hey, it’s me.”
He jolts up and his blanket falls to the floor in a heap. He didn’t expect to hear from her until tomorrow at the earliest.
“Scully, hey.” He doesn’t know when talking to her made him so nervous. Her voice is warm and soft, and he acts like his didn't just crack, like his palms are dry. "How was dinner?"
"Good, it was good..." she sounds out of breath and far away. "Hey, are you busy or could you do me a huge favor?"
---
“Jesus, Scully, what were you thinking? It’s colder than a snowman’s ass out here!” He jumps out of his car wearing a thick red sweater under his leather jacket, plaid pajamas and basketball shoes. She wants to laugh, but he’s staring at her like she’s crazy and a scowl seems to have frozen itself to her face.
After trekking a mile through the bitter cold for him, this is the thanks I get, she thinks. Typical.
“Really? I had no idea.” She thrusts the shopping bag hanging from her wrist towards him, and the pie she’s holding into his hands. “These were for you.” She doesn’t bother to wait for a response, quickly making her way towards his car. "My mom says hi," she calls out over her shoulder before hopping in the passenger seat. She places her numb fingers over the vents and watches his confused expression morph into a silly grin as he peeks into the bag, then up at her.
She laughs and rolls her eyes, focuses on the warmth.
“Alright, so lets turn around and hook a left, my car's stalled about a mile down,” she says as he gets in. He doesn't respond, instead resting his forehead on the steering wheel. He stares at her with that spark in his eyes, that spark that seems to have grown more and more bright since his recovery, that spark that makes her stomach flop. Seven years and she still feels this way: she doesn't understand how it's possible.
"What?" His eyes have sufficiently thawed her frosty demeanor, and she's grinning: pure, unfiltered joy. Seeing her family is nice, but always a chore. Seeing Mulder is like coming home. "Seriously, Mulder. Quit staring." She nudges his shoulder and he laughs.
---
"You at least could have taken me back to get my things."
"Scully, I can lend you pajamas and I'm sure your face can handle a plain old bar of soap just one night."
As they walk into his apartment, she stops dead in her tracks.
"You can't be serious."
"What?" He shrugs his jacket off and tosses it onto the couch before maneuvering around her, pie in hand.
"Chinese food on Thanksgiving? Really?"
"Did you know, Scully," he's laughing to himself before even hitting the punchline, "that the origins of chicken chow mein actually date back to native tribes of North America thousands of years ago?" He settles on the couch, pushing the empty food cartons to the side and replacing them with tupperware containers full of stuffing, mashed potatoes and turkey. He places the pie in front of him and rubs his hands together eagerly.
"Is that so?" She plays along, flopping down beside him as he opens the box and takes a whiff.
"Mmm, apple. My favorite."
She knows, that's why she brought it, but she doesn't say. He knows that's why she brought it, too, and that things are different now than they were before. Instead of a disjointed, distracted voice on Friday afternoon or two day old leftovers, he gets a fresh pie, his own Thanksgiving dinner, and her.
"À la mode?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
---
He avoids the saccharine sweet holiday cheer they stuff down your throat on Thanksgiving by focusing all his energy on college football and his favorite paranormal listservs. Come the evening, though, his options are always pretty limited. Of all the Christmas movies out there, It's a Wonderful Life depresses him the least, and he likes that they save it for prime time. When normal families are all sitting around their table laughing and eating and reminiscing, he spends dinner with good ol' George Bailey and Clarence. If he closes his eyes, he can hear Samantha cry out as George leans over the edge of that bridge, his mother laughing in the kitchen. It hurts to remember, but everything hurts; at least this is a good pain.
He’s sprawled out across his couch, his coffee table littered with boxes of Chinese take-out and shards of fortune cookies when his cell rings.
“Hello?” The sound of his own voice startles him and he realizes it’s the first word he’s spoken all day.
“Hey, it’s me.”
He jolts up and his blanket falls to the floor in a heap. He didn’t expect to hear from her until tomorrow at the earliest.
“Scully, hey.” He doesn’t know when talking to her made him so nervous. Her voice is warm and soft, and he acts like his didn't just crack, like his palms are dry. "How was dinner?"
"Good, it was good..." she sounds out of breath and far away. "Hey, are you busy or could you do me a huge favor?"
---
“Jesus, Scully, what were you thinking? It’s colder than a snowman’s ass out here!” He jumps out of his car wearing a thick red sweater under his leather jacket, plaid pajamas and basketball shoes. She wants to laugh, but he’s staring at her like she’s crazy and a scowl seems to have frozen itself to her face.
After trekking a mile through the bitter cold for him, this is the thanks I get, she thinks. Typical.
“Really? I had no idea.” She thrusts the shopping bag hanging from her wrist towards him, and the pie she’s holding into his hands. “These were for you.” She doesn’t bother to wait for a response, quickly making her way towards his car. "My mom says hi," she calls out over her shoulder before hopping in the passenger seat. She places her numb fingers over the vents and watches his confused expression morph into a silly grin as he peeks into the bag, then up at her.
She laughs and rolls her eyes, focuses on the warmth.
“Alright, so lets turn around and hook a left, my car's stalled about a mile down,” she says as he gets in. He doesn't respond, instead resting his forehead on the steering wheel. He stares at her with that spark in his eyes, that spark that seems to have grown more and more bright since his recovery, that spark that makes her stomach flop. Seven years and she still feels this way: she doesn't understand how it's possible.
"What?" His eyes have sufficiently thawed her frosty demeanor, and she's grinning: pure, unfiltered joy. Seeing her family is nice, but always a chore. Seeing Mulder is like coming home. "Seriously, Mulder. Quit staring." She nudges his shoulder and he laughs.
---
"You at least could have taken me back to get my things."
"Scully, I can lend you pajamas and I'm sure your face can handle a plain old bar of soap just one night."
As they walk into his apartment, she stops dead in her tracks.
"You can't be serious."
"What?" He shrugs his jacket off and tosses it onto the couch before maneuvering around her, pie in hand.
"Chinese food on Thanksgiving? Really?"
"Did you know, Scully," he's laughing to himself before even hitting the punchline, "that the origins of chicken chow mein actually date back to native tribes of North America thousands of years ago?" He settles on the couch, pushing the empty food cartons to the side and replacing them with tupperware containers full of stuffing, mashed potatoes and turkey. He places the pie in front of him and rubs his hands together eagerly.
"Is that so?" She plays along, flopping down beside him as he opens the box and takes a whiff.
"Mmm, apple. My favorite."
She knows, that's why she brought it, but she doesn't say. He knows that's why she brought it, too, and that things are different now than they were before. Instead of a disjointed, distracted voice on Friday afternoon or two day old leftovers, he gets a fresh pie, his own Thanksgiving dinner, and her.
"À la mode?"
"I thought you'd never ask."