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By dee_ayy
December 8, 1999
Disclaimer: Fox Belongs to Fox (and they certainly don't deserve him, that's for darn sure!). Marie is all mine, and I still like her.
Category: V, A
IMPORTANT NOTE: This story is a follow up to something I wrote over a year ago, a story about a hospice worker sent to help the Scullys--and Mulder--cope with Dana's cancer. It's called "I Know." Knowledge of that story is absolutely essential. Seriously, folks, this will make no sense whatsoever if you haven't read that. It has been posted as a companion to this, or you can get to it directly by clicking here.
Archive: Absolutely. Especially anyone who archived "I Know." I'd love you to put this with it.
Feedback: Is better than any Christmas gift. dee_ayy@yahoo.com
Thanks:
Go out to Keryn, Vickie, Peggy G. and Christine, who all convinced me to
post this. And to
Mr.
H, who seems to have been my muse. Flights of angels, Frank.
Summary:
Follow up to "I Know." Two years later, a chance
encounter reopens old wounds, and maybe helps them heal.
_________________________________________
Maybe (Merry Christmas)
By
dee_ayy
“Marie? Is that you?”
I’d seen him. Seen him a while ago actually. Saw him wandering through the first floor of the department store, almost aimless in his direction, casually fingering scarves and jewelry and feminine leather goods; unsure of what he was looking for, but in no hurry. It was the behavior of a man who’d know what he was looking for when he found it, and not a moment before. I’d seen him, and I’d been watching him, unable to look away, fascinated by him--gripped by the maelstrom of emotions his presence stirred up in me. He looked exactly the same, though his hair was shorter. But at the same time he looked completely different.
He looked happy.
When his attention would shift from one item to another, sometimes his gaze would fall perilously close to mine, and I’d look down or away in haste. I didn’t want him to see me. I didn’t want to be seen. Not by him.
“Marie?”
I feel the panic of someone who has been caught red-handed. Of course I know it’s silly; he has no idea I’ve been watching him for the better part of twenty minutes. But I have been, and now he’s seen me, and I’ve been caught.
I take a deep breath, surreptitiously wiping suddenly sweaty palms on my coat, and turn to face him. I don’t smile, not yet. I’m not supposed to know who is calling my name.
“It is you…. Fox Mulder, remember? How are you?”
Time to smile. “Of course I remember. How could I forget? How’s Dana?” How am I? He doesn’t really want to know. Best to not bother.
He grins. “She’s fine. Great, actually. I want to say she’s cured, but she won’t let me. Insists on using the word ‘remission.’ Even still.”
I nod knowingly. “It’s been. . . . how long has it been?” It’s been a little over two years. I don’t need to ask.
“Two years,” he answers. “How have you been? I’ve often thought I should have. . . .” He lets his voice trail off. It’s an apology for not staying in touch, I know. Little does he know he did me a favor, as did Dana and her mom.
“No, no, of course not, there was no need. My work was done, so to speak.” How have I been? I can’t really say. I try not to think about it. “Dana’s back at work?”
He chuckles. “Oh yeah.”
I smile for him. “I remember you talking about your work. Goblins and monsters. Still chasing them?”
He nods. “You’d be surprised,” he offers.
“It must have been good to get your partner back.” I can only imagine.
“If only for her uncanny knack for saving my ass.”
I arch an eyebrow, but he doesn’t elaborate. We share a moment of uncomfortable silence, neither of us sure what to say next. Is there more to say, or has the conversation run itself to its inevitable conclusion? I’m not sure who fidgets first, him or me. But then his expression brightens. He has thought of something to say.
“So you haven’t answered my question.”
“Your question?” I know which question.
“How are you? Are you still working for hospice?” He says the word, a word he couldn’t and wouldn’t say two years ago, with ease now. He says it like someone for whom it is just an abstract concept.
I shake my head no. “I left not long after Dana went into remission.”
He seems surprised to hear that. “Do you mind if I ask why?”
I shrug. Why is a question I have asked myself many times. I try to rationalize it, try to come up with lists of logical explanations. I had been good at it. I’d helped people. I’d helped him. “It got to be too . . . ” I pause, trying to decide on the right word, and finally settle on “. . . hard.” It’s not the best word, it doesn’t even come close to explaining. But it’s the best I can do.
He nods, and I can see the sympathy. I don’t want his sympathy.
Or maybe I do.
“Well, I think I told you that I didn’t know how you could do it. It’s a shame, though. You helped a lot of people, I’m sure.” I take that for what it is--an admission that I’d helped him and Dana. I know this; he doesn’t need to tell me.
I shrug again. “Maybe.” What the hell am I doing. I don’t want him to spell it out, yet that’s what my words seem to be fishing for.
“No maybes,” he says quietly. “You did.” Thank you, Fox, for not giving me what I seem to be craving but certainly don’t need. I don’t want to be talking about this, either. “So what are you doing now?” he asks, mercifully changing the subject. I watch his countenance brighten again as he does. He’s closing the book on that topic, and I am grateful.
“This and that,” I offer. “I didn’t need to work, not really. My husband left me some money. I’m doing okay.” I see the flash of horror run across his face. He’d forgotten. He’d forgotten about Daniel.
Of course he would. Why would he remember that. I need to veer the conversation away, I can’t leave him responsible for the next words.
“I write a little,” I tell him.
He’s relieved, I can tell. “You do,” he says with a smile. “I remember you scribbling in those books. What do you write?”
“Umm, a couple of magazine articles, nothing much. There’s a novel in me somewhere, I think.”
“There’s a novel in everyone somewhere, I think,” he says. “Kudos to anyone who can get it out of themselves.”
“Well, I haven’t succeeded yet.”
“Do you know what it’s about yet?” He thinks he’s heading into safe territory. He should know better.
“Life, death, love. The usual,” I tell him. I keep my tone light, and a smile I don’t mean on my face.
He nods, and smiles back at me. “You should call Scully. She’d love to hear from you. Maggie, too.”
“No, I don’t think so. Too painful, I think.” I can’t believe I said that. I should have nodded and agreed and went on my way, with the knowledge that it would never happen. I should have lied.
His face turns serious. “For them, or for you?” he asks gently. So he does realize. He does know.
I pause for a moment, thinking. He probably thinks I am deciding the answer. I know the answer; I’m deciding how truthful to be.
“Both,” I finally decide on. I do not elaborate.
“No, no, not for them. Definitely not for them. We all understand and appreciate how much you did for us, you know. They would love to hear from you.” He’d said it. Out loud. I’d managed to make him say it, and we’re back on that topic again. And I do know. I know how much I’d helped them--but at an incredible personal cost.
Seeing them get lucky, get that second chance, had nearly killed me. In the end, for them it had all been just a bad dream. They woke up one morning and the sun was shining, the monsters in the closet were gone, the cancer was gone, and it had all been a bad dream. So many people in their situation, myself included, had fervently prayed that it was just a bad dream, that they’d wake up and it would all be better. But everyone else woke up and nothing had changed--the only changes were for the worse. Dana and Fox were the only ones who got their prayer answered. It can make me angry and jealous and envious still. I couldn’t risk living through that again.
He’s been patiently waiting out my reverie, but then he speaks again. “But I think I understand,” he says. “I still don’t know what I would have done ….” Again his voice trails off, the thought finished but unspoken. He doesn’t know what he would have done if he’d ended up like me, without the single most important person in his life.
I smile for him. It’s a happy, encouraging smile, and I think I mean it. “I know,” I tell him. “You’d have been all right. Eventually, you would have been all right.”
He looks as though he doesn’t quite believe me. “Are you?”
Am I? It’s the big question. Am I? Sometimes. Usually. Yeah, I think I am.
“Times like this,” I motion toward the overabundance of Christmas decorations all over the store, “can be hard. But yeah, I am. Time heals.” And it does. Even the wounds you try hard to keep open.
“All the more reason to call Scully,” he says. I wish he’d drop this.
“Maybe,” I allow. It’s appropriately noncommittal. Maybe it will appease him. “So how about you?” I ask. “How have you been? You look well.”
“I am. I was ill for a bit this fall,”
“Oh?” I interject. I certainly didn’t expect to hear he’d been ill himself.
“Yeah. Nothing serious. I’m 100% now, though.” He shifts uncomfortably as he speaks--he’s lying, I can tell. I could press, but I know he doesn’t want me to. It’s just the small talk of old acquaintances who have years to catch up on in a brief span of time.
“Glad to hear it.” And I am. I still feel the same affinity for this man that I’d felt years ago. It has only taken these few minutes for it to resurface. No, not true. It resurfaced the minute I saw him. It had been immediate.
I had spent a great deal of time these past years thinking about him, raging against his good fortune because he got Dana back. Wishing I could be him. Wishing I had his luck. Wishing all sorts of things I would never admit to him.
“So who are you shopping for?” I ask, but I already know.
“Guess,” he says. “Every year we agree ‘no presents.’ Every year both of us break the vow. It’s tradition at this point.” He looks around the store, apparently noticing the myriad of choices for the first time. “Any ideas?”
I couldn’t have any idea. I don’t know Dana Scully; not the woman who lives today. I knew a different one, one with different, simpler hopes and dreams and expectations. I never knew the Dana Scully with her whole life in front of her.
“The only thing I’d feel confident speaking about is her taste in nightclothes,” I remind him.
Did I do that to hurt him? Two years later and I still seem intent on reminding him how lucky he is at every opportunity. And it’s something I am positive he’s keenly aware of. He doesn’t need me to remind him.
To his credit, he takes what I say with a smile. “Well, you’re about the same age as her. What would you like? What would you like for Christmas?”
I smile wistfully. It’s the same smile I give anyone who asks me this question. What I want I can never have. Not ever. I want my husband back, and can’t have him. I want Daniel.
If he realizes what I’d like to say, it doesn’t show on his face.
“Nothing much,” I finally say. I look at my watch and feign surprise at the time. “I have to get going. I’m going to be late,” I tell him. I’m not sure why I need to cut this conversation off now, but I do. And the need is urgent.
He nods, and pulls out his wallet. I wonder what he’s doing, until he procures a business card. “Look,” he says. “That’s my office number on there. I don’t have one of her cards, unfortunately, but Scully is always hanging out in my office. Give her a call. I know she’d love to hear from you.” He stops for a moment, pensively. “I think you should see her, Marie. See how you helped her. See how she is, how it all turned out.”
Maybe. Maybe he’s right. Maybe seeing her would be cathartic somehow. Maybe it would allow me to put these feelings behind me. Maybe it would allow me to return to the work I found so fulfilling and worthwhile. Maybe.
I take the card and grin slightly. “We’ll see,” I say. “It was great to see you,” I tell him, and I mean it. “Good luck with your shopping.”
He offers his hand, and I take it, and then, to my great surprise, he pulls me into a hug. I think it surprises even him. What starts as an impulsive, awkward grasp quickly changes to a friendly embrace. He’d never seemed like one to give in to his impulses. I feel his breath over my ear. “Merry Christmas,” he whispers intimately before he lets me go.
“Merry Christmas,” I tell him before I turn to leave, pocketing the card.
I don’t look back as I stride away, but I smile when I hear him shout after me: “I want an autographed copy of that novel!”
Maybe.
I’m going to be all right.
<end>