alt.tv.xfiles.creative Thu, 30 Nov 2000 05:09:19 GMT
NEW: Sunday Matinee

Title: Sunday Matinee

Author:  Verona

Rating: PG

Category: Angsty vignette

Spoilers: none

Summary:  Set during season 8.  Mulder's gone.  Scully's pissed, and
depressed, and a little drunk.  She goes of on the idea of 'what would
it be like' while 'talking' to Mulder.

Author's Notes: This came to me randomly and just developed into
something that I really like.  If you don't like it, then your probably
right and I'm being self-indulgent but give it a chance.

Archive:  Anywhere, just as long as this header stays attached.

Disclaimer:  They're not mine.

Feedback:  PLEASE!  This is one of my first fics and I'd really
appreciate any kind of response or ideas. veronafic@chickmail.com


**********************************************************************


It's cold for November.  Especially for D.C., it's unseasonably bitter
and damp.  I'm hulled up in my apartment, for the (let's see, um)
fourth day.  Yeah, four days alone with nothing but some Edith Wharton
novels and whatever's on cable.  My hair is dirty.  My clothes are
wrinkled from being slept in.  There are about 7 cartons, which once
held General Taos chicken strewn beside my bed.  This place is starting
to look like yours.

Shit, Mulder.

Shit.

I turn up the volume of the 'Happy Days' rerun and get lost
contemplating the fucking irony of that show's title.  Except it's only
ironic because I'm watching it.

Where the fuck are you?

Who do you think you are?  I'm pregnant, you asshole.  Come home and be
a dad.

Sorry, I'm a little drunk.

I shouldn't be drinking.  But who's going to stop me?  Skinner?
Doggett?  They don't seem to mind me running all over the country
chasing down x-files that you should be dragging me on.

Except you wouldn't this time.  You'd tell me to cool it.  To cut it
out.  Take care of myself.  And you'd order Chinese with me, and go out
for ice cream when I wanted some.  And I'd buy you a toothbrush for my
place.  I'd move my stuff over in the closet for yours.

Yeah.  God, wouldn't it be so fucking great?

What else?  You'd come home early, and I'd tell you to go out on some
case, and you'd refuse.  But I would make you go, and you wouldn't even
make it to the airport.  You'd turn around and come home, and pick up a
video for us on the way.

I would cook dinner and we'd go shopping for cute baby shit.  We'd lie
in bed and try to think of names.  You'd come up with names like
Zavier, and I'd make fun of you.  It would become a habit for us.  We'd
come up with names randomly over the breakfast table or at the
supermarket.

"Alexander."  I'd say.  "Are we out of milk?"

"Andromeda."  You'd reply.  "Yeah, and we're low on coffee too."

And we'd have fun.  We'd go to Sunday matinees.  We'd read the
newspaper in bed.

"You done with Style yet?"

"Almost.  What's playing at the Outer Circle?"

"Oooh, 'Rear Window.'  If we hurry we could catch the 1:45."

But we'd stay in bed, and see the 4:30, and then spend the rest of the
day at the little league championship over in Arlington.  We'd go out.
We'd stay in.  We'd sleep, and work better than we ever have.

I'm still drunk though.  And you're still not here.  I've been to your
place almost every day, just to make sure everything's okay.  Come
home, Mulder.  The fish miss you.