From: Maggie McCain 
Date: Wed, 08 Dec 1999 18:41:06 -0500
Subject: submission: Another Lunch at Will's by Maggie McCain
Source: direct

Reply To: jainaps@my-deja.com

"Another Lunch at Will's" by Maggie McCain

TITLE: Another Lunch At Will's
AUTHOR: Maggie McCain
DISTRIBUTION: Please ask first. I doubt I'll say no, but I want 
to know where it is. 
FEEDBACK: Send it to jainaps@my-deja.com, and I'll entertain it 
by playing air guitar to "All Along the Watchtower."
SPOILERS: References all over the place, but no spoilers.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATION: V, H (sorta-kinda), M/S UST
DISCLAIMER: "The X-Files" and all its characters and situations 
are owned by CC, 1013, and Fox. No infringement is intended. 
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Eternal thanks are due to Maria Nicole, Beta of Life,
for her priceless insights on thematic consistency and tonal 
dissonance. Also, the menu of Will's Deli was provided by Josh 
Freeman, the most literate programmer I know. 
 


                   Another Lunch At Will's
                      By Maggie McCain

I wonder if she'll ever realize what she does to me. It seems 
like it would be obvious, but apparently I'm wrong about that, 
because she's never shown any signs of figuring it out; either 
one of us is a lot better actor than I thought or she is simply 
oblivious to my obsession. And it is obsession. I'd probably be 
stalking her by this point if it weren't for the fact that we 
spend something like eighty percent of our waking hours together.

It's actually getting kind of ridiculous. Yeah, the flirting and 
the games were fun for the first five years or so, but the whole 
innuendo thing started getting really old quite some time ago. I'm 
sick of avoidance, of circling around this thing we have between 
us. I'm tired of preserving the distance. It's just a sham by now, 
anyway. We could rip our clothes off and start going at it in the 
lobby of the Hoover building and I doubt anyone would be surprised.

Except for me. I'd be surprised. In fact I would probably be 
paralyzed with shock, up until the time I had a coronary episode. 
I'm not a kid anymore, you know.

But oh, what a way to go. 

I shake my head to clear the sudden, all-too-vivid image of us 
locked in a passionate embrace atop the FBI seal near the metal 
detectors. I wonder what the tour guides would say about that; 
the school kids would probably love it. I glance down at my 
watch. Time to go. Scully's been at a conference across town most 
of the week, but it ends today at noon and I'm meeting her at 
Will's Deli for lunch.

XOXOXOXOXOX

I know Mulder loves this place, but sometimes it really annoys 
me. I just don't see the purpose in charging an extra three 
dollars for a sandwich because it has a cutesy name taken from an 
Elizabethan drama. And the oh-so-manufactured "Ye Olde Luncheon 
Shoppe" decor does nothing for me either. But when Mulder asks me 
here it means that he's in a good mood, and good MulderMoods are 
few and far between. I like to enjoy them while I can. So when he 
asked me to meet him here today, I agreed. I figure the chance to 
eat with HappyMulder is worth another lunch at Will's. I don't know 
if he has some juicy new mutant for me to autopsy, or if he's just 
happy to have me back after a week of catching up on paperwork by 
himself in the office. I'd like to think it's the latter. It would 
make me feel less self-conscious about how much I'm looking 
forward to seeing him again. I mean, it's only been four days 
since I talked to him last, and I haven't even been out of town. 
I shake my head in exasperation at my own foolishness and start 
reading the menu.

"Eggs Benedick" looks like pretty standard eggs benedict to me. 
Its companion, "Eggs Beatrice," is a spicier version. Get them 
both and it's a "Sarcasm Sampler." Gimme a break. Even Mulder 
makes better jokes than that. Maybe that's why he likes it here; 
it makes him seem funnier by comparison.

I'd never tell him this, but I actually do think Mulder's pretty 
funny. One cannot, however, burst into hysterical laughter while 
examining bodies in various stages of decay, dismemberment, and 
what, for lack of a better word, we pathologists call "ickiness." 
It's just not professional. So I've learned to bury my laughter 
beneath a sigh or a raised eyebrow. My lack of response just 
makes him try all the harder to break my composure. Little does 
he know that sometimes, when I'm alone, in the middle of cooking 
dinner, or taking a bubble bath, or something else normal and 
inane, I'll suddenly remember one of his smart-ass comments and 
laugh until my stomach hurts.
 
Without him, my life would be dry and dead. He brings me warmth and 
color and vitality where, left to myself, I would be as chilly 
and antiseptic as a biocontainment facility. I try to keep my life 
in rigid order, regimented and categorized like a scientist's lab. 
His is a whirlwind of disorder and craziness, and yet it somehow 
saves me from myself. Sometimes I wish I could convince him of how 
important he is to me. I want so badly to be able to tell him that 
he was wrong that time in his hallway, that I _do_ owe him as much 
as he owes me. But I've spent so many years being the strong silent 
one in this partnership that I just can't make myself give voice to 
the truths I think about every day. And somehow, despite being the 
Profiler Extraordinaire, Mulder doesn't seem to be able to figure me 
out without help. I've become convinced that it's going to take the 
emotional equivalent of a two-by-four to make us acknowledge this 
thing that we both know is there--out loud, and at the same time, 
and when neither one of us is under sedation. The only problem is,
I'm not sure either of us would survive the encounter.

Sighing, I resume my menu perusal. Item #2B is a "Grilled Cheese 
and Hamlet" sandwich. I hate this place.

XOXOXOXOXOX

I love this place. The combination of an Oxford education and an 
eidetic memory renders me very receptive to Shakespearean puns. 
So when I found a Shakespearean deli within an easy distance of 
the Hoover building, I was thrilled. I know people think of me as 
this twisted loner psycho, but I'm not like that at all. Well, 
not all the time. Well, OK, not today. But be that as it may, 
I do have the capacity for happiness, and sometimes it makes 
me happy to take my partner to lunch at Will's and smirk to 
myself when the menu informs me that the Julius Caesar Salad 
is not served on March 15. So I'm in a good mood for once. 
Bite me. Even I can't be morose _all_ the time.

Scully is already seated when I walk in. I'm not late; she must have 
finished early at the conference. She's reading over the menu and 
shaking her head at the corny jokes. She'd never admit it, but 
she likes that kind of thing as much as I do. Just one of the 
many reasons we work so well together.

She has her back to the door. It's obvious she hasn't been a 
professional paranoid for as long as I have. The only time I 
can stand having my back to the door is when she's facing it. I 
ate with the Gunmen once, during a time when we were a little more 
on edge than usual, and we all lined up on one side of the table. 
The waitress kept asking in a bewildered voice if we were 
expecting more people to join our party. Anyway, I never have to 
do that with Scully. I trust her to watch the door for me.

I trust her for everything. With my life, that goes without 
saying. With my health; there's no doctor I'd rather have, even 
if most of her patients are no fresher than the OJ in my fridge. 
With my happiness; lately I've tried to share more of that with 
her, playing baseball and eating at this cheesy restaurant. With 
my hopes, my fears, my frustrations. I've laid it all on her 
small, sturdy shoulders, and she's taken it without a word. 

Sometimes I worry that I lean on her too much. But it's so easy, 
at times when everything is shattering around me, to latch 
onto her like some kind of parasite, draining her strength to 
keep myself alive. Forget Flukeman; I'm Leech Boy. Your liver 
is safe, but your sanity is fair game. 

My good mood begins to evaporate as I start remembering all the 
ways I hurt her, just by being part of her life.

She turns and squints into the doorway, looking for something. 
Looking for me. When she picks me out against the glare she 
smiles widely and beckons me over to her. Her smile is like 
calamine lotion on chicken pox, and I remember again why I can't 
just suck it up and find a way to make her save herself by 
leaving me. Loving Scully is like breathing for me now; I can try 
to stop it, even succeed for a time, but eventually I have to 
begin again or die.

I take my seat across from her, sighing with relief as the chill 
of my thoughts fades, driven away by her warmth and light. My psyche 
is like one of those old "lost in the wilderness" movies where the 
wolves skulk around the edges of the campfire, but are held at bay 
by the flames. The night is always filled with danger, but as long 
as the hero stays by the fire, he's safe. He can rest.
 
Scully is my campfire. 

XOXOXOXOXOX

I glance at my watch. Mulder should be here by now; punctuality 
is not one of his strengths, but he's usually on time for 
meetings with me. Usually. 

I turn around and look for him. Squinting, I try to see through 
the annoyingly bright sunlight reflected off several parked cars 
into the restaurant. It's a good thing Mulder is paranoid and 
doesn't like to sit with his back to the door, because I hate 
facing the glare. It gives me a headache. Ever since the 
cancer, headaches give me this tight nervous feeling somewhere 
down around my spleen. It's not fear so much as unpleasant 
association, but I still try to avoid the situation altogether. 

I'm good at avoidance.

I pick him out easily; even in silhouette he is distinctive. I 
can tell by the set of his shoulders that there's something 
wrong; maybe Skinner chewed him out again this morning. Much as 
he tries to hide it, Mulder really respects our boss. A lecture 
from him, deserved or not, always induces that look. It makes me 
think of a puppy that knows it really deserves to get whacked with a 
newspaper for eating your shoes, but wishes you'd pat it when you're 
through and tell it you love it anyway. 

Mulder's childhood, from the little I can gather, was characterized 
by the everlasting futile quest for approval from his parents. 
The practice has stood him in good stead for all his other 
everlasting quests; I hope they don't all turn out to be as futile 
as the first one was. I still don't think he understands that when 
someone really cares for you, they don't make you earn it. He 
doesn't realize that even when I'm furious at him, he is still 
my partner, my best friend. I think that's why he acts like such 
a jerk sometimes. He gets panicky and possessive and protective 
and pushes all my buttons. But then he looks at me, and all his 
love and fear leap out and beg me to understand him, plead with 
me to forgive him. And I do. Because when all is said and done, 
I feel the same way about Mulder that he does about me. 

I've done things for him that would have shocked the person I was 
before I made that fateful journey into the bowels of the Hoover 
Building. Before Mulder, I was a rigid adherent to rules, a stern 
believer in doing things according to proper procedure. If someone 
had tried to tell me then that I would end up breaching military 
security, holding my superiors at gunpoint, being held in contempt 
of Congress, threatening the life of a colleague, and committing God 
only knows how many other misdeeds large and small, I would have 
started legal proceedings for involuntary committal. But all that 
changed one gray day in Idaho, when I realized that I had to choose 
between saving my partner and following orders. By now, the only 
difference between us, at least as far as our mutual protective 
paranoia goes, is that Mulder _likes_ it when I hover over him. 
What I perceive as a sign of doubt, he recognizes as a sign of care, 
as proof that I value him highly enough to risk myself.

I know he loves me. Frankly, I've probably known it longer than he 
has. I realized that I loved him in Dead Horse, Alaska, when I blocked
his gate to Heaven with little more than determination and a pair of 
defibrillator paddles. The bond goes so deep in us now that I doubt 
we could separate even if we wanted to. Leaving Mulder would 
be like choosing to have my right arm amputated; the emotional 
phantom pains would cripple me. 

Knowing, indisputably, within our souls, that we love each other 
is easy. Admitting it, however, is hard. Especially for people 
like us. The Ditch King and the Queen of Denial, ruling the 
kingdom of emotional repression from their palace of the 
paranormal. What a picture we would make if we ever dared to try 
a romantic relationship. It would be like some kind of warped 
soap opera.

Mulder feels guilty for keeping me from the "normal" life he 
thinks I should have. What he doesn't realize is that I wouldn't 
be able to have one anymore; it would bore me to tears, for one 
thing, and besides that I would feel guilty for abandoning the 
work that I have come to feel, despite my initial reservations, 
is not only valid, but vital. 

Sometimes I do wish for a life of peace. But it isn't peace for 
myself alone that I dream of; it's peace for him. For us. The 
rare times that I have seen him relaxed and happy gave me glimpses 
of what could have been--of what, perhaps, may still be, in some 
hazy future after all the battles have been fought. Lately, he 
seems to be finding more intervals of contentment, and I treasure 
the ones we share. That's why I pretended not to know how to hit 
a baseball; that's why I come to this corny, overpriced sandwich 
shop to eat with him and roll my eyes at the menu. 

He turns slightly and sees me; in an effort to lift his mood I 
give him my "I'm-so-glad-you-came-out-of-the-coma-after-all-
Mulder" smile. It seems to work. His head lifts and his shoulders 
straighten as he crosses the restaurant to our table.

XOXOXOXOXOX

If the people that write export laws ever saw Scully smile, they 
would revoke her passport and forbid her to leave the country, 
under that same munitions law that prohibits non-US citizens from 
downloading the good version of Netscape. She is always a 
beautiful woman, but most of the time it's kind of understated; 
her presence is so strong that it's like some kind of cloaking 
device. When she's in SpecialAgentScully! mode she can blast 
suspects, mutants, rogue livestock, and uncooperative local law 
enforcement out of her way without rumpling her composure or her 
Donna Karan suit. But when she smiles like that--and it doesn't 
happen often--it's like the scales fall from your eyes and you 
realize you've been discussing crime scene photos and eating 
takeout with an angel. Or maybe a goddess. Something divine and 
mythological anyway. God, I'm such a sap. 

She knows how powerful that smile is; that's why she saves it for 
the times when she needs heavy artillery. Usually a near-death 
experience is involved. I have no idea why she pulled it out 
today; when I take my seat, I regard her with slight wariness.

"What's up?" I ask casually as I take the menu she hands me. "You 
look like Ed McMahon just came to your door with balloons, a 
camera crew, and a giant check."

She grins at me--another rare occurrence--and shrugs. "I guess 
I'm just in a good mood, now that the conference is over," she 
replies. "It was a big waste of time. Only one of the sessions 
had anything to do with our work, and that was on the second 
day."

"Why didn't you just skip out on the rest?" I ask, although I 
know what she's going to say.

"Mulder, the Bureau paid for me to go to that conference. We just 
got the X-Files back; the last thing I need to do is waste funds 
like that."

"So you sacrificed yourself to the cause? Very noble, Scully."

"Well, actually I got caught up on my correspondence and finished 
our latest expense report," she says smugly. "So it wasn't 
entirely wasted time. I wished you had been there today, though. 
Tom Colton gave a presentation on 'Inter-unit Cooperation During 
the Joint Investigation of Violent Crimes.'" 

"Colton? You've got to be kidding."

"It was so funny, Mulder. Colton doesn't work with the guys in 
VICAP any better than he worked with us, and everyone knows it. I 
could hardly hear him through the ambient snickering. Like I 
said, I wish you had been there." 

XOXOXOXOXOX

When I told Mulder that I had missed him I felt like I had patted 
his inner puppy. It sounds horribly cliched to say this, I know, 
but his eyes really did light up; I could almost see his tail wagging. 
For a minute I allowed myself to mentally morph Mulder into my 
neighbor's beagle puppy. It was a good fit, except that Mulder 
doesn't wet the floor with excitement every time he sees me. The 
thought strikes me suddenly and I have to choke back a laughing 
fit. Mulder gives me that look he usually saves for unidentified 
viscous substances found at crime scenes and asks if I'm OK.

"I'm fine," I reply. "I just need to eat something. Wave to the 
waitress so we can order."

XOXOXOXOXOX

The waitress catches my eye and nods before picking up a tray and 
crossing to us. She sets drinks and an appetizer sampler platter--I
think they call it "Groundling Grub"--on the table between us. 

"I ordered these before you got here," she explains. I grin at her; 
ever efficient, my Scully. I sip my drink appreciatively. Iced tea, 
cool and sweet with a sprig of mint and a twist of lime. Perfect. 
I shoot her an appreciative leer and lower my voice into a faux-
intimate croon. 

"Oooo, Scully, you know what I like."

XOXOXOXOXOX

He looks at me like I just gave him something precious. Who knows, 
maybe I did. Across the table, I can feel contentment radiating 
from him like heat on Georgia asphalt. It slips past my defenses 
and warms me with its comforting reality.

Mulder has offered me the power to make him happy. And I realize how 
unfair it is that I never let him know that he has that power, too.
Suddenly, I want to tell him. I want to let him know.

A memory hits me with the force of revelation. Mulder, a stakeout, a 
glass of root beer. 

I think it's time to get out the two-by-four. If he can't take it... 
well, I know CPR.

"What can I say, Mulder?" I take a deep breath, forbidding my voice to 
betray the fear that is making my stomach lurch and my hands tremble.

"Must be love."

END (01/01)
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