Title: She Who Watches Author: Sarah Segretti Rating: R, mild language Classification: VA Spoilers: The Truth Email: mrsblome@yahoo.com Website: http://home.midsouth.rr.com/xffanfic/segretti/index.html Summary: At least he made chocolate pie. Author's note #1: A Beat the Heat "Secret Santa" Summer Emuse challenge. She Who Watches by Sarah Segretti August 2003 Sioux Falls, S.D. 10:46 a.m. Two tablespoons of vegetable oil. Saute several cups of rabbit food until soft, however Julia Child defines soft. Sausage. No shortage of sausage in this town. Mulder poked randomly at the dark pink meat as he browned it, the spicy aroma much more appetizing than the odor that wafted out of the nearby plant where it was produced. His right hip was starting to hurt, as it still did whenever he stood in one place for too long. He shifted his weight; it didn't help. Apples, dried cherries, hazelnuts. Hazelnuts. Scully always added them, but he preferred his stuffing mushy. He picked up the plastic measuring cup full of nuts with his good hand, held it over the mixing bowl for a second -- and then set it aside, the feeling of disloyalty a larger ache than the one in his hip. Bread crumbs, spice, spice, spice, spice, chicken broth. One cup tawny port. Okay, two; one for the cook. "Save some for the turkey," said a voice behind him. Mulder turned and held out the cup. "Sure thing, John." "Fuck you, Mulder," Doggett said with a smile. He approached the counter, crowded with onion skin and open spice bottles and torn plastic wrap from the sausage. "Barbara always told me it was easier to cook these big dinners if you cleaned up as you went along." Mulder gazed at the turkey resting in the sink, absently scratching the scar on his left wrist. The bird wasn't that big, just a ten-pounder, but the logistics of lifting anything had become daunting. He never had gotten the grip back in that hand. "I never did listen to her, though," Doggett continued, grabbing the turkey by its drumsticks and hoisting it onto Mulder's cutting board. Their eyes met, and Mulder nodded silently. "Check the pie, would you?" he asked after a second. "Chocolate!" Doggett said, his head in the refrigerator. "Mulder, that's un-American. Pumpkin. Apple." "Scully's favorite," Mulder said sharply. Doggett fell silent. "Right," he said. Mulder occupied himself with stuffing the turkey. Doggett always had a way -- never mind. Rephrase. He admired the way -- yeah, that's what he meant -- the way the man could talk about his ex-wife and his dead son so naturally. Not so easily about Reyes, though; memories of the last SARS epidemic were still fresh for everyone. "Want some help with that?" Doggett asked. "No." Mulder stared intently at the bird's wattled pink skin. "I think that fisting a turkey is something a man should do alone." He heard Doggett sigh and leave. Just as well. He wasn't in a particularly chatty mood. This ritual should be conducted in silence, he thought, and not just because he was having trouble remembering which ingredient he read off the card just a second ago. Oh, yeah. Tawny port to baste the turkey, and another cup to waste the cook. "Meant to show you something." Doggett reappeared at his side, a digital camera in one hand. "Should that go in the oven?" "Yes," Mulder said, again meeting Doggett's eyes with a slight nod. He pushed away from the counter and with difficulty limped to the battered kitchen table. The transition between standing and sitting was as painful as either act on its own. He grimaced, and hoped Doggett hadn't noticed. Getting help with the turkey was one thing. Help with anything else was quite another. Doggett handed him the camera, then went to stow the turkey in the oven. "Thought I'd erase some pictures, free up some memory. Found some interesting stuff." His voice was too calm. Mulder glanced at him suspiciously, then looked at the screen on the camera's back. "Jesus, John. Why are you wearing pantyhose on your head?" "I was being fitted for a wig," Doggett said primly. "Undercover assignment." Mulder would have paid money to know what kind of assignment, but knew better from the tone of Doggett's voice than to ask. He clicked to the next picture. "What the --?" he said. "That is the ugliest chair I've ever seen." "Dentist's chair," Doggett replied. "From an old case. Doc claimed it screamed every time he put a patient with a bad tooth in it. Crazy, the things we cared about." Mulder barely heard. /chair screaming pain god no don't what are you doing Scully/ Doggett was saying something. "Huh? No, I'm okay," Mulder lied. Damn flashbacks. He hadn't expected to still be having them after all this time, but he did. /Mulder Mulder watch out he's running the stop/ New trauma often brings old trauma back to the surface, his abnormal psych professor's voice said. Karen Kosseff's voice said. Scully's voice said. "This is the one I thought you'd like to see," Doggett said gently, and clicked to the next picture. Mulder only distantly heard Doggett leave. Scully. Her hair longer, its original ginger shot through with gray. She was waving at the photographer with one hand and holding the reins of a pony with the other. He remembered that day, her 48th birthday. They'd been joking about having a party when they came across the farm. All little girls love pony rides for their birthdays, he kidded her, but when her face lit up, he stopped the car. In the picture she was bundled against the cold but not wearing a hat. They'd gotten as far north as Iowa by then, Doggett following alone. The plan had been to go further, the way they'd been told to more than a decade ago. In the picture, Scully was smiling, a wide, open-mouthed expression of joy. Scully was still smiling. "You're not using marshmallows on the sweet potatoes, are you?" she asked. Mulder swallowed hard. She was young again, her hair red and cropped and severe, her tiny body poured into a sleek black pantsuit. "I was thinking about it." "Ah, well," she said. "At least you made chocolate pie." She paused. "Mulder, you've got to keep going..." Her voice died away, drowned out by screeching tires and screaming metal and the explosive thud of car against car. They'd been going, and this was his reward: memories of the coppery smell of blood, her hair soaked with it; the weight of her body, pressed against his, trapping him against the door -- He tried to get up from the chair and go to her, but the pain in his back and hip was too much. Crippled by the accident that had killed her, he sank back down. "Mulder, are you all right?" There was no way to answer that question. "I'm fine" would have been cruel. He found himself staring at the kitchen calendar. November featured a big-eyed creature, a hieroglyph found in the Columbia Gorge. Tsagaglalal was watching him, watching out for him. The date today was November 22, 2012. We'll be together soon, he thought. Soon. -30- Author's note #2: This is also an improv from elements given to me in 2000. Yes, you read that date right. So long ago that Scullyfic was on Egroups, that the Improv Archive was on Simplenet, the Madness Archive was on xoom.com and I was on AOL. Good times, good times. Elements: Someone in the act of developing film by hand (hey, downloading counts) -- lore Mulder makes a complete, traditional American turkey dinner -- Shannon An antique dentist's chair reported to scream in pain if sat in by someone who needs a tooth pulled -- Lil Barb Scully as an adult, riding a pony -- Jen Doggett wearing pantyhose -- Piper A Wishram Indian petroglyph called "She Who Watches" (Tsagaglalal) -- Cofax. To refresh your memories: CSM claimed that the end of the world would happen on Dec. 27, 2012. This week's Beta Band: Barbara D., M. Sebasky, Amanda Finch. This wouldn't have been written without a strong nudge from Bonetree. Anjou gives good feedback. -30-