~~~ October 13, 1999 ~~~ The quiet amazed him. Moments like this especially, when he stood alone in his bathroom with only the sound of the dripping faucet to break the silence. Mulder studied his Frankenstein's monster reflection in the mirror and touched the gauze still banding his head. The only thoughts inside were his. Gone was roaring sound, the voices like rush-hour car horns in his head, each blaring louder than the other. His own thoughts had been held captive by the noise, scared up against the side of his skull in a desperate attempt to get out of the way before they got run over. He winced, his reflection grimacing as he tugged the bandage back enough to see the stitching in his scalp. He was nine days removed from his unwanted brain surgery and the hair had started to grow back around the injury. It itched like hell. Mulder poked at it and his flesh answered back with a sharp pain. He found himself doing this often, this prodding of his various parts to make sure everything still worked as it should. Yesterday, on the phone with Scully, he'd forgotten the word for milk and it hadn't returned until he went to the refrigerator and opened the door to see the carton. He'd stood with it for a long time in the diminishing light, balancing himself on the counter and staring at the word, drilling it back into his brain: milk, milk, milk. Sometimes he would zone out, sitting on his sofa and looking at the walls, only to snap to attention again and be unable to remember what he'd been thinking about, if he'd been thinking at all. He'd taken to lying in the dark and working his brain with math puzzles, verb conjugations and a mental list of all the X-files he could recall in one sitting. Tooms, Lauren Kyte, Boggs, Reverend Hartley... he could name most of them without too much trouble. His sticking point was the boy who could create lightning. He could remember the smoking bodies, but the kid's name eluded him. Kevin? David? He could ask Scully when he saw her but that would be admitting defeat. With a sigh, he tucked his hair up and resumed his mummy wrap. He thought on occasion that he could feel his brain burning where the missing chunk had been, but Scully assured him that neurons lacked pain receptors. Mulder then figured that his other cells must be hurting in sympathy. He heard a key scraping in his front door and the noise made his ears tingle. By the time he reached the entryway, she had her keys in her teeth as she juggled three sacks of groceries. "I've got those," he said, lifting all three from her at once. "Thanks," she said around a mouthful of key chain. She followed him into the kitchen, crowding behind him like she was guarding him on the basketball court. The reason why became apparent as he set down the bags only to have an onion and two peppers come tumbling out the top. Scully grabbed for the them with both hands, keys still in her teeth, and placed them back on the counter on either side of Mulder. "Hello to you too," he said as she practically humped him from behind in her efforts to keep the vegetables in check. She backed up and sagged against the stove, winded. "Oh, Mulder. Are you very sure you want me to cook dinner tonight? There are half a dozen very good restaurants within blocks of here." "And I am tired of eating takeout from them." "Okay, but I want it noted for the record that you've had your warning." She tried to blow a few errant hairs from her forehead, but they were too short to be anything but stirred by her huffing. He'd read in psych textbooks that hair cutting was a common female reaction to trauma. By the looks of Scully's new Spartan 'do, his hospitalization and subsequent kidnapping had been as much a nightmare for her as for him. In truth, he knew this to be fact, and he didn't need her hair to give her away. He had been inside that head, seen the wizard behind the curtain, and wished like hell to be home again. He watched her rise on tiptoe to poke her nose into the paper sacks as she unloaded them. The light from the sunset caught her across the back, turning what was left of her hair to brilliant copper and illuminating her naked neck. He could see the parts where her hair would grow back, the hint of fuzz high on her nape, and below that, the tiny rigid scar where the chip still lay. At least he thought it did. They had not talked of it in so long and he was afraid to bring it up again. There were some secrets she still kept. His fingers bit into the counter and he hung back as she worked. He had to physically prevent himself from touching her. Every time she arrived he wanted to crush her in his arms and say, "It's okay, Scully. I know. Finally, I know!" The force of her love had taken his breath away. He knew this because his ICU machines had told him, beeping out her frantic love song as his brain went into overdrive from listening to her. For the nurses, Scully's love had been cause for alarm. Unfortunately, for Scully herself, it was cause for terror. She saw her feelings like an abyss, and she was afraid of falling in and disappearing forever. It shocked him, how large he seemed in her mind. These days he struggled to get his socks on straight. He fell asleep in the middle of the afternoon, and he wasn't even allowed to drive a car. He felt fragile and out-of-sorts, momentarily recovering himself in her presence as her Scully-ness forced him to be Mulder again. When she left he turned back into just another guy in sweats with a head like a cracked egg. So he'd been devising ways to get her to stay longer, ordering food and videos delivered, asking her help with his laundry or, God help him, even attempting the old holding- the-thermometer-up-to-the-light-bulb trick. Scully had put her cool palm against his broken head and stood there with a furrowed brow and said, "Funny, you don't feel that warm." She flitted in and out like a bird through an attic window, staying only long enough to make sure he had food, water, and his brains still tucked inside his skull. All his efforts to fluff up his nest failed to entice her to stay. But this day, he had the Ace-in-the-hole birthday card to use, and she wasn't going anywhere. "So what are you making?" he asked as he surveyed the groceries that she had lined up on his counter. She put her hands on her hips and frowned at the vegetables as though they were a bunch of recalcitrant children. "I don't know," she admitted. "I just got some of everything. Why? Do you have any particular requests?" She turned around in a circle, searching over her head in vain. "Or at least a cookbook?" He got the Joy of Cooking down from its shelf and handed it to her. "I should think this would be easy for you," he said. "Cooking's like chemistry, right? And we all know you can handle a knife. I see the chicken breasts cowering in fear now." She snatched the book from him. "Mock me again and your portion might be laced with cayenne pepper." "Maybe I like things hot." She studiously avoided looking at him as she flipped the book open. "I've got ground meat, beef tenderloin, salmon steaks..." "Spaghetti and meatballs." She paused and raised her eyebrows. "You have the goods for that, right?" he asked as he pawed through the food on the counter. "Sure, but I thought you were looking for something a little more exotic." "I used to order it on my birthday when I was a kid. It's not hard to make." He sent a green pepper sailing over her head with a flick of his wrist and caught it with the other hand behind his back. "Add a salad, maybe some garlic bread, and we're all set." She took a deep breath and nodded to herself. "Okay. Just let me find it in the book." He pulled it out from under her and returned it to the shelf. "No need. I've got the whole thing right up here," he said, tapping the bandage on his head. Her lips thinned in sympathy and he knew she couldn't bring herself to argue with him. "You're supposed to be taking it easy," she protested eventually. "I'm doing the cooking." "We can share," he said, bumping her with his hip. "That way we'll finish before the game comes on." "Game?" "Red Sox, Yankees playoff baseball, Scully. Nothing goes better with marinara sauce than a little blood feud." "Mulder, those games go on for *hours*." "So?" He bent down and retrieved a pan from the cupboard. "I thought you had a new appreciation for baseball now." Thank God they had left that memory intact. He could call up at will the feel of her little body wiggling against him, the crystal sound of her laughter in the night air and the smell of a freshly mowed baseball field. Scully's cheeks turned bright pink and she suddenly developed a keen interest in the grout of his kitchen tile; he got the strangest sensation of being back inside her, so intense was their shared memory. We can make more of these, Scully, he tried to tell her. Just come over here and let me show you. But Scully merely tucked her non-existent hair behind her ears and set about washing the vegetables. He gathered the ingredients together for the meatballs and listened to the sounds of her in his kitchen; he was more attuned now to the click of her suit buttons against the porcelain, the rushing water, the knife slicing through crisp green flesh. They worked mostly without conversation, relying on the chopping and frying to fill the gaps. His narrow kitchen kept them close, with him reaching around her for the spices and her ducking under his arm to reach the knives. Night fell like a curtain across the windows and he closed them up from the breeze while Scully carefully made her way to the living room with two heaping plates of spaghetti. He stacked his magazines and books to the side on the floor and risked a glance at the TV. The mute was on, but the Yankees were taking the field. They trotted out to their places with the confidence of men who had been winners before. The Red Sox, meanwhile, looked nervous in the dugout. He pulled aside the blanket so Scully could sit next to him, and she plucked her wine glass from the table. "So is this the world series?" she asked as she took a sip. "Uh, no. The Red Sox and the Yankees can't meet in the World Series. They're in the same division, so it's impossible." Scully cupped a hand around her ear. "Wait, did I hear that right? Did Fox Mulder just say that something is impossible?" "Okay, if one of them switched leagues, it might be possible. But that's not going to happen, so yes, a Sox-Yanks World Series is impossible." He picked up his glass with a flourish. "The other reason that it's impossible is that the Red Sox would have to get to the World Series in the first place, and from the looks of things, that may never happen again." Scully sat forward to slice up a meatball, but she looked up at the TV. "I'm starting to feel sorry for these Red Sox, the way you talk about them." "Save your pity for someone who deserves it." "Such as?" He considered. "Al Gore." Scully laughed and nearly choked on her meatball. "He might win," she protested. "A lot can happen between now and then." "The Red Sox have a better shot." Just as the words left his mouth, Red Sox second baseman Jose Offerman led off with a sharp single to center. A few minutes later, and John Valentin reached on an error by Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter. Offerman scored and Valentin ended up at third base. One- nothing Red Sox. "I don't know much about how this works," Scully said, "but I'm pretty sure that was bad." "Jeter will make it up later with a home run," Mulder replied. "Just wait." "Pins and needles over here," she said, but she was busy trying to spear a piece of cucumber in her salad. As she chewed, she looked up in time to see Yankees pitcher Orlando Hernandez deliver another strike to home plate. "Mulder, what on earth is that man doing out there? He looks like he's trying to tie himself up into a pretzel." "It's to fool the hitter," he explained. "He's trying to make it harder for the batter to pick up the ball as it leaves his hand." "He's going to look pretty silly when he loses his balance and ends up with one leg over his head." "That's the beauty of baseball. Every game you see something you've never seen before." "Looks pretty much the same to me. One guy throws a ball at another guy, and he tries to hit it while a whole bunch of other guys stand around in the field doing not much of anything." "You're missing the subtleties." He licked sauce from the corner of his mouth and pointed at the TV. "See where Varitek is set up low and away?" "The who in the what now?" "The catcher. He moves his glove around and the pitcher tries to hit it with the ball. You can tell if he misses because the catcher has to move to field the pitch. Varitek is saying he wants the ball almost off the plate in the bottom corner." Mercker hit the glove exactly and the batter struck out swinging. Varitek stood up to throw the ball back to the pitcher and Scully watched, transfixed. "What?" Mulder asked, expecting to have to explain some other bit of baseball trivia. "That man has the largest thighs of anyone I've ever seen." Mulder looked down at his own thighs, which suddenly seemed puny inside his baggy sweats. "It's from all that squatting." "They're like tree trunks." Scully was still staring. Maybe baseball wasn't such a good idea after all. She didn't seem like a woman desperately in love with him as she leaned forward for a better view of Varitek's sequoia-esque legs. "I didn't think baseball players were this toned," she said. "I'm getting some water," Mulder said, pointedly getting up to block her view. "Do you want some?" She leaned out around him. "Yeah, that would be great. Thanks." "Pining for you," he muttered to himself in the kitchen. "Positively pining. She wouldn't be hauling Varitek's ass out of the DOD." From the other room, he heard Scully yelp. "Oh, they scored! Mulder, your guys scored!" He raced back in to see the replay. "About time," he said. The score was now three to two in favor of the Red Sox. "The Sox are still winning," Scully said. "I see that, yes." The baseball gods would not let the Red Sox defeat the Yankees in a playoff game. Not on his birthday. Scully eyed him. "I thought you were getting water." They had water and then later for dessert, chocolate torte from the bakery down the street -- "You didn't want me baking this," Scully said -- and fresh brewed coffee. The Yankees came through in the late innings, tying the game on a clutch hit by none other than Derek Jeter, of course, off pitcher Derek Lowe. "All right!" Mulder pumped his fist and grinned over at Scully to see if she had appreciated the play. She was slumped against the arm of the couch, asleep. Mulder decided not to take it personally, because after all, he got daily naps while she minded the X-files. He muted the singsong of the commercials and picked up her suit coat from where she had rested it on the couch next to her. He laid it across the back of a chair and searched around for the blanket he'd been using earlier in the week. As he spread the blanket gently over her, Scully sighed and nestled deeper into the cushions. He touched the curve of her hip with a smile and then sat down on the other end of the sofa to watch the end of the game. It went into extra innings, a thriller that had the Yankee stadium crowd roaring on its feet. Mulder kept the volume low and sat forward as Bernie Williams came to bat in the bottom of the tenth. Bernie was already a Yankee legend, having hit home run after home run in the post-season. He was big but unassuming, his face expressionless as he dug into the batter's box. Moments later, the game was over as Bernie sent one out of the yard into the cold October night. "Yes!" Mulder jumped from the couch and raised both arms in the air. It was almost midnight, but his birthday present had arrived just in time. He did a little dance next to the coffee table as the Yankee team celebrated in scrum at home plate. "I take it they won," came a sleepy voice from behind him. He snapped off the TV, turned around and did the dance again for her, cheering in silence. She smiled, pushing aside the blanket and putting her stocking feet back on the floor. "Sorry I missed it." He sat back down next to her as she started collecting the dishes. "I'll get those," he said, taking them from her. "Don't worry about it." "It's not a problem. I'll just put them in the dishwasher on my way out." "You don't have to leave." The words were out of his mouth before he had the chance to think about them. Scully froze with the dessert plates in her hands, but she didn't look at him. "You can stay if you want to," he said softly, and he saw her squeeze her eyes shut. I want you to, Scully. Say yes, Scully. Can you still hear me in there, Scully? She set the plates back on the coffee table and took a steadying breath. "Mulder. I can't." He nodded sadly and slouched against the couch. "Yeah. Okay." She shifted next to him and peered at his bandage. "How is your wound doing? Any better?" He gave a half shrug as she carefully raised the gauze to study his stitches. "It's about the same." "Stitches should come out soon," she murmured, and he could feel her breath on his face. She touched his new-grown hair with one gentle finger. "Skin looks good." "It's fine," he said, capturing her hand and pushing her away. She sank down on her side again and folded her hands in her lap. She was quiet for a long moment, and then asked, "Do you miss it?" "Miss it?" He thought she was asking about his missing brain parts. She searched his face, but he couldn't guess what answer she was seeking. "Miss hearing everyone's thoughts." A prickling broke out across the back of his neck. This was the first time she had acknowledged his ability out loud. "No," he said, and it came out as a raspy whisper, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "No." "What was it like?" "Noisy," he said, and she gave an uncomfortable smile. "I heard bits and pieces of people but never the whole, and it was hard to keep my own thoughts separate. I know it probably sounds crazy, but it felt like everyone was invading *me* not the other way around. I just wanted to shut the door and get some peace and quiet." He'd felt like he was disappearing inside his own head. Just as Scully feared he would do to her. He sat up again as this realization dawned, but Scully wasn't looking at him. She was focused on picking lint off her knee. "You probably heard me then," she said, forcing the words out in a determined fashion. God, he had no good answer to this. If he lied she'd know it, and he was just beginning to see how telling her he'd cracked her mind like a safe was the exact wrong thing she needed to hear; no wonder she felt swallowed by him. "Scully..." "I'm going to put these dishes away." She positively leapt from the couch and grabbed the plates. He sat there listening to her rinse them off and stick them in the dishwasher, wondering what the hell he could possibly say to make the situation better. When he got up at last he found her wiping down the counter with a sponge. "I think that's the worst of it," she said as she ran her hands under the faucet one more time. "And you should have enough to eat for the next few days." She tried to get past him to the door, but he caught her by the wrist. "Scully, wait." She stopped but he could see it pained her. He searched himself for the right words. "I heard everyone," he said quietly, taking her hand. "But you were the only one I listened to." She watched as he brought their hands up between them, folding his fingers over hers and giving her a squeeze. To his immense relief, she squeezed back. "Happy birthday, Mulder." He let her go and she moved to the door. "Hey, wait a second," he said, doubling back to the living room. "Don't forget your jacket." She slipped it on while he opened the door. "There's more baseball tomorrow night," he said, a hopeful note in his voice. "The Yankees are going in for the kill." "What time?" "The same. Eight." "I'll be here," she said as she flipped her collar up against the cooling night. "Yeah?" "I've developed a new appreciation for baseball. Good night, Mulder." "Night." He closed the door behind her and went into the kitchen, where she had carefully packed away the rest of the chocolate torte. He cut himself another large slice, which he took to the TV and turned it on again. On SportsCenter, there was Bernie Williams and his home run, a single white ball arcing up over everything until it vanished into the night sky. ~~~~~ syn_tax6@yahoo.com