Smelting
by haphazard method
Summary: Spooning and forking on a Sunday morning. Schmoop for
Dasha and Shari, to celebrate their birthdays.
Rating: PG-13 (sorry, Dasha!)
Disclaimer: M & S belong to CC and his minions. The fondue pot is
mine. Axel is his own man.
Archive: Yes. Please drop me a note if you do.
With the quiet thrum of the dishwasher behind her and the first
strands of morning light nudging their way through the living room
window blinds, Scully stood in the doorway of her kitchen with her
hands cupped around her mug of coffee, sipping at the steaming
bitter liquid, imagining she could feel its warmth slide from her
tongue into her toes. She heard the thump of the newspaper against
her door, and turned back to set her cup down on the table before
padding quietly to the door. Her socks whisked against the hardwood
floor. A floorboard creaked and she froze, cocking her head towards
the bedroom door and listening intently, hoping she hadn't woken
him. No sound. A huff of breath and a satisfied smile, and she
slowly, slowly unthreaded the chain from its brass groove on the
door, and gently turned the deadbolt, easing the door open. The
Sunday New York Times. An indulgence, an expensive one, to have it
delivered to the door, but she loved to wake up and read in the
early morning hush, lazing around in leggings and an old t-shirt
before she had to get ready for church.
Closing the door quietly behind her, she walked back to the kitchen,
poking her fingers through the plastic wrap and letting the
newspaper unroll onto the table. She shifted a chair and plopped
down,, curling one leg underneath her to let the heat from her thigh
warm the sole of her foot. Without looking up, she reached for her
glasses and then her coffee mug, settling in to start with the book
reviews, accompanied by a couple of worm-hunting robins twittering
outside and the rhythmic swish of the dishwasher inside.
Absently, she brought the mug to her lips, looking up only when she
realized that it was empty, finished off somewhere between the front
page and the sports section. She stood up and stretched her arms
overhead with a quiet groan, her t-shirt billowing out. The cool
air rushing across her stomach left a trail of goosebumps. She
tugged the shirt down and rubbed her arms. The dishwasher clicked
off and after refilling her cup, Scully went to stand beside it, to
soak up some of the heat emanating from its surface. A shower, she
thought, that would warm me up. But it would wake him and she
wanted to savor the quiet morning a little longer, happy not to be
at work, happy knowing that if she wanted, she could climb under the
comforter and curl up around him to get warm. Soon.
Still smiling, she turned to set her cup down and open the
dishwasher. A whoosh of steam and the kitchen was lost in the
mist. She took her foggy glasses off with one hand, shaking them
free of her hair and setting them on the tile counter with a clink.
With her other hand, she rolled the dish rack out of its warm cave,
setting the gleaming silverware jingling. As always, the plates
were lined up on the left, bowls on the right. As it should be.
Mulder's only attempt at loading her dishwasher following a dinner
together for the purposes of discussing a case had ended in
disaster. Bowls up against plates, everything at random angles. At
the time, he laughed at her for shooing him away and setting things
to rights. Now he just rinsed the dishes off and piled them next to
the sink, claiming he lacked the "scientific rigor that is
apparently required to get a dish washed around here." Smartass,
she thought with a grin.
Running her fingers over a still damp plate, Scully searched for
remnants of last night's meal. Fondue was delicious, but murder to
get off of plates and forks. All she could feel was the slick
surface under her fingertips, the slight bumps along the glazed rim
where blue and yellow flowers teased each other over the edge. Not
so the next plate, and she scraped at a hardened lump of gouda,
wrinkling her nose when it broke free of the plate to lodge under
her fingernail. She swiped her hand on the dishrag and set the
plate in the sink for later re-washing.
Plates put away, she started on the silverware, bringing the caddy
over to the drawer. The drawer always took some coaxing and she
tugged twice before it slid out with a groan. Peering down the
length of a knife, she couldn't see any cheesy remnants, just the
distorted reflection of the morning light from the window, warped
like a fun house mirror. She grabbed a fondue fork next, one of
six from the set her mother had given her, each with a different
colored plastic dot on the end. When Maggie declared she'd had
enough of the avocado green pot and the wooden forks, and that it
was time for a new set, Scully, aghast, had rescued them. She loved
its 70s chic, the way the pot squatted above its Sterno flame. This
one cradled so many memories, of jousting with Melissa, clacking
forks and girlish giggles, of Bill and Charlie trying to knock each
other's bread loose when her mother wasn't looking, the bets about
who would be the first to lose their bread in the bubbling cheese
and the goofy things the loser would be forced to do. Winter food,
cheese and Kirsch and bread, and plenty of it to warm them up.
And now she had new memories, of Mulder's long fingers wielding the
thin fork, swirling hunks of bread through the golden-ivory melted
cheese, watching them disappear between his glistening lips. He'd
used the green-tipped fork, her father's fork, though she didn't
tell him that, not sure how he'd feel about it. She'd used the
blue-tipped one, as always. Her fork. Funny how you become
possessive like that, she mused, tucking the forks into the drawer.
As a kid, it was comforting. Orange was Charlie's, and yellow
Mom's. Family routines, unspoken, unnoticed, really. Her father
telling them every time about his Swiss friend, Axel, who gave him
the recipe, funny Axel who would come to the U.S. with an extra
empty suitcase, so he could stock up on the Sears Craftsman tools he
loved and couldn't get at home. They'd roll their eyes at hearing
the story again, but they always laughed. She smiled even now,
hearing her father's voice in her head. Last she'd heard, Axel had
retired from the diplomatic corps. She'd have to ask her mother.
Another knife passed inspection and was slid into the silverware
drawer. At this rate, she'd be here all day. Fine with her, she'd
had worse mornings. It was warm and quiet in here, and it smelled
like coffee. A movement in the corner of the window caught her eye
and she leaned against the sink on tip-toes to look out. A few more
robins had discovered the patch of lawn under her kitchen window.
Such proud, territorial little birds. She could just barely see
one as he stalked back and forth on a small patch of lawn, declaring
his territorial boundaries with a long trilling song.
She sympathized, appreciating the importance of having some space of
your own. She thought about Mulder sprawled now in the bed, no
doubt taking all the room he was offered. Not when she was there to
claim half the bed, though. No bed hog, he. Maybe it was all the
years he spent sleeping on his couch, but even asleep he
instinctively knew not to crowd her off the edge of the bed. No, he
was happiest spooning up behind her in the middle of the bed,
snuggling between the down comforter and the flannel sheets, wrapped
around her while their heartrates slowed. Eventually, he would kiss
her hair, and climb out of bed to get dressed and go home. Without
discussing it, they knew this arrangement suited them both, still
independent creatures despite the happiness they explored together.
Several months into this new aspect of their partnership, they were
developing traditions of their own, it seemed. Not the storybook
romance variety, perhaps, but ones that suited them just fine. Last
night was only the second time he'd stayed the night, and as was
their wont, they hadn't discussed it, but just did what felt most
comfortable.
She pulled a spoon from the caddy, examining it for bits of cheese
and, finding none, placed it in the drawer. The next spoon wasn't
so lucky. The third spoon caught a glint of the morning sun and she
turned it slowly in her hands, thinking of the case they'd
investigated a few days earlier. A would-be Uri Gellar who claimed
he could bend spoons with his mind. A bartender with his throat
slashed in front of possibly inebriated witnesses who swore the
knife had flung itself off a table without anyone ever touching it.
Something weird was going on, she just wasn't sure it was what
Mulder said it was. She could still hear him arguing with her in
the car about telekinesis.
"We've seen this kind of thing before, Scully. Maybe he focused the
energy in his mind more intently than most people can, and create
some kind of magnetic field," he'd said, rapping on the steering
wheel for emphasis.
"You can't seriously believe this, Mulder. It's about as plausible
as..." she'd struggled for a comparison, "as using a forked stick to
locate water in the ground. There has to be a better explanation,
one that doesn't defy everything we know about matter and energy.
What about his former job as a magician? What we saw could just as
easily have been a skilled illusion."
"Scully, you saw it. You saw the spoon bend, and you saw there
wasn't anyone else around flashing smoke and mirrors. It was real,"
he'd concluded, before they'd finally agreed to disagree.
Standing in her kitchen, she still didn't have an explanation but
that didn't mean she was going to buy his story. She stared at the
spoon, wondering what Mulder thought was doing the bending. Brain
waves? Feeling slightly silly, she stared at the spoon,
concentrating on the spot where it flared from the handle into the
bowl. Nothing. Did he think it worked like sound waves, emanating
from behind her forehead? She could feel the skin between her
eyebrows wrinkle as she tried to gather up all the loose threads of
her attention and focus them on the spoon.
Two arms reaching around her waist and warm breath on her ear
startled her, breaking her concentration.
"Any luck?" he asked softly, and she could hear the smile in his
husky morning voice.
"You're awake," she replied, her cheeks burning at being caught.
"Sleep well? I hope my clanking around out here didn't wake you."
"No, I slept fine, but I missed you when I woke up." His arms
tightened slightly around her and she leaned into his warm chest.
"Had I known you were out here demonstrating your powers of
telekinesis, I would've gotten up sooner."
"Mulder, I don't have powers of telekinesis. There is no such
thing."
"Oh? Then how do you explain that spoon?"
Shocked, her eyes snapped down to the spoon, but it looked just the
same in her hand as it did before. She could feel his body shake
with gentle laughter.
"Go ahead, Scully. Tell me you don't believe."
"I don't believe, Mulder."
"I do," he said, suggestively bumping his pelvis against her back.
"I've always known you've had the power to bend steel with just your
eyes and your mind."
"Steel, Mulder? Think a little highly of ourselves, do we?" she
asked, archly.
"Oh, yeah." The rest of his reply was lost in her hair as he bent
down to nuzzle her ear, tracing its whorls with the tip of his
tongue and sending shivers down her body. She closed her eyes and
tilted her head, tossing the spoon in the drawer and folding her
hands over his. A soft nip on her earlobe, and then he pulled back,
resting his chin on the top of her head. She resisted the urge to
wipe her ear. Wouldn't want to discourage him from so lovely an
activity, but her ear was getting cold now that it was wet.
"Do you want some coffee? I made it when I got up."
"Sure. I'll get it."
She turned and leaned against the counter, watching him find the
right cabinet door on his first try. It didn't feel as odd as she
thought it might to see him so comfortable in her kitchen. In fact,
looking at him barefoot in his jeans and t-shirt, she thought she
could get used to adding Mulder to her Sunday morning routine.
She'd have to think about that for a bit. The idea wasn't quite as
suffocating as she'd expected it to be. Maybe her subconscious had
been pondering this for awhile.
"Breakfast?" she offered, turning back to finish sorting silverware.
"No. Not hungry, thanks." He moved next to her, his back against
the counter, with his hands wrapped around his mug. "I don't think
I'll ever be hungry again. Centuries from now, they'll find my body
and it will still have a stomach full of cheese and bread."
She almost launched into a lecture on metabolism, but when she
looked up and saw the expectant glint in his eyes, she twisted her
lips at him before breaking into a smile. "We probably did a number
on our arteries, but every once in awhile, I just have to have
fondue."
"Mmm," he hummed while sipping his coffee. "It's worth the risk, if
you ask me. All this time, I didn't know what I was missing. Never
seen it on a menu, and no one ever offered to make it for me before.
Though I have to admit, when you first mentioned it, I thought all
that cheese would be too much. The wine and the cherry brandy help
with that, I think."
"It's important to get the right cheese, too. I drove all over D.C.
and Silver Springs yesterday looking for Emmenthal that had been
aged at least four months. A pain, but definitely worth it."
He laughed. "You sound like one of those California Cheese ads on
TV."
"Sure, you laugh now, monkey-boy, but you weren't complaining last
night."
"Hell, no. Do I look like an idiot? I'm not complaining now,
either. I'm glad you called." He smiled down at her, and gazing
back, she was surprised at how easy this was. Who would have
guessed?
"So am I." She touched his arm lightly, and went back to putting
the clean forks and knives away.
"I like eating with you." She looked over at him, curious about his
absent-minded tone, and found him holding the coffee cup to his chin
and looking out into the dining room like he was remembering
something. She waited to see if he would continue. He did, his
voice dreamy.
"It's not just not having to eat alone. I like the way you eat."
She snickered and he glanced at her, smiling indulgently, then
looked down at the mug he'd moved to rest on his stomach. "No, I
didn't mean it like that. It's just that when we're not caught up
in a case, you really pay attention to what you eat. You enjoy it,"
he said, waving one hand in the air. "All of it, not just the
eating, but the taste and the feel of it. And when I'm with you, I
do, too. By myself, I just shovel it in and keep on reading or
watching TV. But with you, it's not just a meal, it's a whole
sensual experience."
He paused, and she wasn't sure how to respond.
"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."
"No, Mulder, I'm not embarrassed. I'm just surprised. I never
really thought of it that way," she said, thinking for a moment
before adding, "I've always been like that, my whole family is.
Meals were a time to relax and enjoy the company." As soon as she
said it, she wanted to kick herself.
A corner of his mouth quirked, acknowledging her sudden discomfort.
"It's okay, Scully. I wish I'd had something like that. It sounds
nice. My family never really talked at the table, especially just
before my folks got divorced. I remember a school counselor once
recommended that for a week, we not bring reading material to the
dinner table. We lasted three days. It was so awkward, my mother
staring out the window, my father keeping his eyes on his plate, me
not knowing what to do or what to say. The next night, we all
brought our books. And I guess the habit stuck."
Slipping another long fork into the drawer, she moved her hand up to
cup the edge of his face, his whiskers prickly against her palm. He
leaned into it for a moment and then, setting his mug on the counter
behind him, reached out and drew her into a hug. She linked her
fingers together and rested them in the small of his back, listening
to his heart under her ear. She wondered if he could feel her
heart, then decided he could, even if he sensed it with his own
heart and not with the nerve endings in his skin.
"I especially liked eating with you last night," he continued,
mischief rumbling in his voice and lifting the sober mood that had
settled in. "I may never recover from watching you swirl that gooey
string of cheese into your mouth with your tongue."
She poked him in the ribs and leaned back to look at him. "Well, I
may never recover from being fed warm, crusty French bread from the
fingers of a very handsome man."
He flushed slightly and she was charmed. Able to dish out all that
innuendo with a straight face, but when you got right down to it, he
was a mushball. She could definitely get used to this Sunday
morning routine. Though if she had hopes of making it to church on
time, she was going to have to start getting ready soon. She kissed
him lightly and backed away, ignoring the disappointed look on his
face.
"I have to finish putting this stuff away so I can get to church on
time."
He straightened up quickly, a worried look clouding his face, as if
he thought she wanted him out of her house, like he'd overstepped
some boundary.
"Not so fast, G-man. You aren't escaping without helping me finish
in here." As she'd intended, his face relaxed at her lilting tone.
"You, the woman who has a detailed battle plan for loading a
dishwasher, is going to let me put stuff away?" he teased.
"Well, let's not get carried away. You can start by putting away
your fork," she gestured at the caddy, his green-tipped fondue fork
from the night before the last utensil waiting patiently for a home.
His eyes shot up to meet hers, and she wondered what she'd said that
made him watch her so carefully, his eyes serious above his playful
smile. "Mine?" he asked.
She looked at him, suddenly aware they were talking about more than
a fork. "Yours," she said firmly.
He hesitated, then smiled shyly, pleased. "Mine," he agreed.
* * *
The End.
* * *
Notes: Happy birthday to Dasha and Shari! I hope this story has all
the food and spooning you hoped for. Many thanks to Barbara D. for
excellent and cheerful beta services and for offering a title to
replace "Mulder Gets Forked."
This started as a writing exercise that Jill recommended on
scullyfic, to write a story about an everyday activity, whose
purpose was to evoke all 5 senses. Emptying the dishwasher seemed
to fit the bill. But then I thought, why stop at 5? Add a sense of
humor and a "Spidey sense," and you're already up to 7. :-) Thanks,
Jill, for running such an educational and entertaining list serve.
And, of course:
Axel's Fondue Recipe
15 oz. of Gruyere cheese
3 oz. Emmenthal cheese
2 oz. cheddar cheese
1/4 tsp. baking soda, sprinkled on top of the grated cheese
Dry white wine, about 3 oz. a person. If less than 6 people, add
one more for the pot.
Wipe the pot with a clove of peeled garlic, and after chopping it
finely, add it to the pot. Warm the wine slowly in the pot until it
bubbles, then add the cheese in gradually. Stir in a clockwise
direction with a wooden spoon (the Swiss are a *very* precise people
). When the cheese melts, add 1 liquor glass of Kirsch (cherry
brandy) and a little corn starch to thicken the mixture. Bring the
pot to a boil twice. Serve with crusty French or Italian bread
that's not too fresh.
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