TITLE: Chicken Cordon Bleu
AUTHOR: Susanne Barringer
EMAIL: sbarringer@usa.net
ARCHIVE: Already sent to Gossamer. Anywhere else? Sure, no problem.
CLASSIFICATION: V H?
SUMMARY: Companion piece to "Five Senses: Taste," a.k.a. the
meatloaf story.
SPOILERS: zilch
RATING: very G
DISCLAIMER: Characters borrowed from CC, 1013, and Fox. Sorry.
No infringement intended. As before, the meatloaf is mine, mine, mine.
___________
NOTE:
This is a little fluff piece for the people who harassed me into writing
Mulder's side of the meatloaf story. Since it doesn't fit into my Five Senses
series, I've made it a stand-alone story. It's probably better to read "Taste"
first, although you don't have to. E-mail me if you want it.
_______________
Chicken Cordon Bleu
by Susanne Barringer
Scully hates my meatloaf. I know it. She has never told me that, nor has
she ever hinted at it, but I know it just the same. She tries to hide her
disgust, but I cannot miss the struggle in her eyes, the intensity of her face,
as she fights not to show it. I didn't notice at first; it was maybe the third
or fourth time that I served meatloaf that the signs began to register.
Why she doesn't tell me, I'm not sure. I suppose she does not want to hurt
my feelings. I love her for that. I love her for hating my meatloaf--I find it
inexplicably charming. But I love her even more for tolerating it. If I ever
doubted that Scully loved me, her reaction to my meatloaf only confirms
my deepest hopes. Thanks to meatloaf, I am assured every time I cook for
her that she loves me.
I guess that is exactly why I continue making it even though I know she
despises it. Sure, it disturbs me that she is suffering, but I love to watch
her face as she smiles, acquiescing when I ask her if it is good. I always
ask. The feeling I get watching her try to cover for my sake is as strong as
any other time we are together. She has sacrificed so much for me, but for
some reason this sacrifice touches me the most because it is so trivial, so
easy for her to just scream out "Mulder, your meatloaf stinks!" The fact
that she will not hurt my feelings, even over something so small, speaks
volumes for an otherwise to-the-point woman.
So, I continue making meatloaf even after I realize her deception. I have
been kind enough to cut it back to twice a month. Scully bears it
heroically. She did attempt once to get me to switch over to her meatloaf
recipe. I tried to be nice about it, but really it wasn't all that great. I like
my meatloaf fine. If I had known it was so horrible, though, I would not
have inflicted it on her in the first place.
I have finally decided that it is time to thank her for indulging me. For her
birthday, I'm having her over for a home-cooked meal, but the surprise is
that it will not be meatloaf. I do not know how to cook anything else
unless it is frozen or out of a can, so I call Mrs. Scully to help. She is the
only person I can think of who can teach me how to make something
special for Scully, something she will love.
"Chicken Cordon Bleu," says Mrs. Scully practically.
"French? I don't think I'm ready for French."
"It's easy," she assures me, "and it's one of Dana's favorites." She invites
me over one Saturday afternoon to tutor me. I suspect Mrs. Scully has
heard about my meatloaf. Her willingness to help me goes far beyond what
I expected. I'm sure it's because she wants to see Scully happy, and my
meatloaf isn't doing it. While I'm there, she shows me how Scully likes her
mashed potatoes as an added bonus.
Chicken Cordon Bleu is, as Mrs. Scully promised, not too difficult, and no
more time consuming than meatloaf. After one more practice run, this time
in my own kitchen, I call Scully.
"Come over tomorrow night and I'll cook dinner."
There is a pause and I try not to laugh as I envision Scully fishing for
excuses. "You know what I'd like, Mulder? I'd really like to go out
somewhere nice."
"Nonsense. It's your birthday. I want to cook for you." I hear her sigh in
the background. "I've got a surprise," I add.
"Meatloaf," she laments. It is not a question; it is a fact to which she has
resigned herself.
"Maybe," I tease. "Maybe not."
There is silence, but I hear hope in the silence. I love her for hoping, even
when she believes there to be no chance. I love her for giving me the
chance.
"I'll see you at seven," I say.
"Okay, I'll see you then." She sounds like she is looking forward to it even
if she is dreading it at the same time, which I know she is. I cannot wait to
see her face when I present my new masterpiece. It is a gift she deserves--
for her patience, tolerance, and love. Chicken Cordon Bleu. Perhaps the
best gift I could ever give her.
__________
END
All my fanfic is available on my webpage:
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sbarringer@usa.net
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