Forty-Two
by Emma Brightman
emmabrightman1013@yahoo.com

Disclaimer:  Not mine
Classification:  VA, MSR
Rating:  PG
Spoilers:  Through "The Truth"
Feedback:  Yes, please.

Deepest thanks and many bags of candy corn to Lilydale and JET
for advice and kindness.  I'm extremely grateful to you both, as
always.

More notes at the end.

- - -

Love, how the hours accumulate. Uncountable.
The trees grow tall, some people walk away
and diminish forever.
The damp pewter days slip around without warning
and we cross over one year and one year.

- Li-Young Li, "Braiding"

- - -

Piney Inn
New Waverly, Texas
October 13, 2003
 

Autumn finally arrives in Texas on the morning of Mulder's 42nd
birthday.  Scully shivers and pulls the velour motel blanket up
from the foot of the bed, covering Mulder's bare shoulders before
curling up beneath it herself, her back pressed into him for
warmth.

A crisp wind causes the drapes to twitch and part with each gust.
Through the gap Scully catches glimpses of dried leaves eddying
in the motel parking lot and notices that the sky is promisingly
salmon pink, strewn with high, wispy clouds.  The local
weatherman was right the night before, when he forecasted a cool,
gorgeous back-to-work Monday.

It isn't back to work for Mulder and her, however.  Their after-
hours foray to Johnson Space Center in search of information on
recent UFO activity was another dead end.  All they accomplished
was a narrow escape from security guards and the fastest trip out
of Houston possible in Sunday night traffic.  Still, she's
grateful for the early autumn beauty, for the breeze rustling
through the trees outside their window.  They give her the
illusion of peace and calm, at least.

Scully rolls over as carefully as she can, trying not to wake
Mulder, but needing to see him.  It seems impossible that he is
42 years old today.  A decade has passed since he first
challenged her in the basement office, that cocky, vulnerable
young man, all fluffy hair and smooth golden skin and lean
muscle.

The man sleeping beside her is still beautiful, but he's lost his
youthful leanness, becoming broad-shouldered and softer-bellied
as the years wore on.  His skin is tanned from recent days spent
out in the summer sun, but there are lines around his mouth now,
and deep crinkles around his eyes when he smiles.  His hair is
soft and full, but gray has crept in at the temples, and even the
ridiculous goatee he's grown during the past few weeks is
speckled with white.

Something clutches at her heart as she looks at this face that's
become so beloved to her.  Her throat begins to ache, and she
sniffs and brushes tears out of her eyes before they can fall.
The last thing she wants is to wake Mulder on his birthday with
her morose weeping.

She's not sure what has her so emotional this morning. She'd like
to blame it on hormones and the time of the month, or on the
cool, dry autumn air that reminds her of playing hopscotch with
Melissa in the early twilight, of the cozy warmth of her mother's
hand-knit sweaters, of the crunch of leaves beneath her feet as
she followed Mulder into the woods on a case.  She'd like to
think it's simply nostalgia for days gone by.

The truth is less pleasant.  What makes her want to hide her face
and cry is the realization that she has now known Mulder for more
years than they may have ahead of them, if the date for
colonization is set.  She might not get to see Mulder at 52, and
the thought infuriates her.  She wants the chance to grow old
with him, to see him lose the hair on his head and grow some in
his ears.  She wants to watch him get wrinkly.  She wants to
listen to his early morning groans as he drags his creaky old
bones out of bed, and to be listened to in return.

She blinks against the stinging in her eyes, her fingers skimming
lightly over Mulder's nose and down his cheek.  She lets her
thumb gently stroke his soft lips, which turn up in a sleepy
smile.  She returns the smile, hoping her sadness doesn't show,
as his eyes flutter open.

"Good morning," Mulder murmurs.  Beneath the covers, he reaches
for her, wrapping his hand around her waist and pulling her
closer to him.

"Happy birthday."  Scully replaces her thumb with her lips,
giving him a gentle kiss.  "Sleep well?"

"Mmm, yeah."  Seeing her face, his eyes lose their drowsy lack of
focus, and two deep furrows appear between his eyebrows.  If he
senses that something's the matter, though, he doesn't say so.
"It's gotten cool in here."

"Want me to shut the window?"  She begins to scoot out of the
bed, grateful for the excuse to escape Mulder's scrutiny, but he
shakes his head and pulls her back toward him.

"Uh-uh, it's nice," he says, wrapping his flannel-clad legs
around her and holding her tight.  "Gives us an excuse to warm
each other up."

Scully rubs her cheek against his chest and tries not to notice
that there are gray hairs there, too.  "Yet another reason to be
glad it's not summer anymore."

"Oh yeah," Mulder says, rolling her onto her back, holding her
head in his hands as he kisses her.  Scully wraps her arms around
him and strokes his back, feeling the muscles move beneath his
skin, the way his ribcage expands and contracts as he breathes.
She closes her eyes, trying to let go and enjoy the sweet
thoroughness with which he is tasting her, but her mind rebels
against her, filling her head with memories.

It's all passed so quickly, ten years of pain and joy elapsing in
what seemed nothing more than a heartbeat.  The next nine years
are sure to pass just as quickly, and then what?  She tries to
imagine a future for them, to envision the two of them old and
gray, visited on their front porch by their son and a few chubby
grandchildren.  Instead she finds her mind blank and her eyes
full of tears.  She sniffs, and Mulder stops kissing her.

"Scully, what's wrong?"  She turns her head toward the window,
noticing that the sky has turned a clear, piercing blue.  Mulder
turns her head back toward him with a finger on her chin.  Worry
shows in his eyes, but he tries to keep it light for her sake,
which only makes her feel guiltier.  "Surely my morning breath
isn't that bad."

Scully sobs and laughs at the same time.  "It's nothing, really."
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.  "I'm okay."

"Scully--"

"I'm sorry, Mulder, I don't mean to get your birthday off to a
bad start."  She wipes her eyes.  "Honestly, I'm fine."

"Scully, I woke up to find you looking at me like you were about
to burst into tears.  Now I kiss you and you do burst into tears.
That's not fine."  He kisses her temple.

Scully sighs and shakes her head.  Her hair crackles, staticky
against the pillowcase.  "I'm being ridiculous and maudlin I
know, but...it's your 42nd birthday, Mulder."

"You're upset about my birthday?"

She nods, feeling embarrassed and pathetic.

"I'm getting too old for you, I knew it," he teases gently,
stroking her hair.  "You're leaving me for the pizza delivery kid
from last night."

Scully rolls her eyes, finally smiling a little.  "What's with
this continuing insecurity about pizza delivery guys?"

"They make more dough than I do?"  Mulder waggles his eyebrows
like Groucho Marx and she groans.

"Don't worry, Mulder, I'm stuck on tall men with bad senses of
humor and obsessions with the paranormal."

"That narrows it down," he says, pretending to be relieved.

She nods.  "Considerably."

Mulder takes her hand in his, stroking her knuckles with his
thumb.  "So why does my birthday upset you?"

"I just..."  She sighs, trying to find a way to explain herself.
"I started thinking that I've known you since you were only 32
years old.  And in spite of all we've lost along the way I've
loved being with you.  Watching you grow into this man who means
so much to me.  I've known you for ten years, Mulder.  Ten
years."

Mulder's nods slowly.  "And you realized that we might not have
another ten together."

She doesn't reply, but her silence seems to give him the answer
he's waiting for.

"This is why I didn't want to tell you, Scully."  He gnaws
nervously at his lower lip.  "I was afraid of what it would do to
you, and now--"

"Mulder," she interrupts, "I thought we settled this a year and a
half ago.  I'm not about to give up, and my spirit isn't crushed.
It's just a little...dented this morning."  She gives him a
small, rueful smile.  "Most of the time I feel hopeful, and I
know we're doing the what we can.  It's just sometimes..."

"I know, Scully, it gets to me too.  Sometimes I think I'd have
lived my life differently if I'd known how short it might end up
being.  Sometimes I wish I'd grabbed you and kissed you that
first night in Oregon, when you came to my motel room with the
mosquito bites."

"I'd probably have slapped you and reported you to Blevins for
sexual harassment."

"Really?" he chuckles.

"I don't know.  Maybe, maybe not."  She smiles.  "Depends how
good a kisser you were back then."

Mulder smirks and gives her a quick reminder of his present
kissing skills.  Outside, someone walks past the window, shoes
clacking on the asphalt of the parking lot.  The world and its
inhabitants carry on, she thinks, oblivious to the knowledge that
weighs so heavily on the two of them.

"It's not the past I want to change though, Mulder."  For the
millionth time she wonders where William is, what he's doing.
"Not most of it, anyway."

Mulder nods, understanding.

"I just hate to think that this might not last," she continues.
"That I won't get to grow old with you."

"I feel the same way," Mulder says.  "But there aren't any
guarantees for anyone.  It's a cliche, but one of us could be hit
by a bus tomorrow..."

"I know," Scully sighs.  "I know."

For a while they hold each other, listening to pigeons cooing
outside the window, to travelers loading their trunks with
suitcases and noisily revving the engines of minivans and RVs.
To the noises of another day moving inexorably forward.

Finally, Scully props herself up on one elbow, running a finger
down Mulder's chest.  She smiles, determined to get rid of the
pall that's descended over the room.  "So, what do you want for
your birthday?"

Mulder smiles back, a wicked glint in his eyes as he too attempts
to shake off the gloom.  "I think you know what I want, Scully."

"Well, that's a given," she says, eyebrow lifted.  "I was
thinking more along the lines of cake and ice cream.  Maybe a
present of some kind."

"Cake and ice cream sounds good."  He takes her hand from his
chest and kisses it.  "Being here with you is enough of a gift,
though, Scully.  Having you tell me what's really on your mind?
That's plenty."

"You are so easy," Scully says.  She attempts to sound flippant,
but somehow she thinks the hoarseness of her voice gives her
away.

"Don't you know it," he replies.  He nibbles her ear and she
shivers.  "So, what do you want for my birthday?"

Scully sighs as he unbuttons the top few buttons of her silky
pajama top, all the while kissing her neck.  "I get a present for
your birthday?" she asks.  "Why?"

"Why not?" he says, his hand roaming beneath her shirt.

"Mmmmm," she hums.  She finds it hard to concentrate when he
touches her like this, but eventually what she wants comes to
her.  "Well, there is a little something you could do for me,
Mulder.  I'm not sure you're going to like it, though."

He stops kissing her, looking at her with curiosity.  "Um, okay.
Lay it on me."

Scully smiles and sits up against the headboard.  She gently
grasps Mulder's chin between her thumb and forefinger, stroking
the bit of hair right beneath his lower lip.

"It's about this goatee thing.  I kind of wish you'd shave it
off."

Mulder lifts his eyebrows, looking honestly surprised.  "Really?
It's all part of my laying low persona, Scully.  Special Agent
Fox Mulder would never have had this look."

"Thank God," she mutters, leaning forward to kiss his cheek, his
nose, his other cheek.

"Wait a second," he says, gently pushing her away.  He turns his
head from side to side to show the beard off for her.  "You don't
think it makes me look scruffy and sexy?"

"Don't take this the wrong way," she says, pulling him back
toward her for another kiss, "but I think it makes you look like
a pimp on a rerun of Starsky and Hutch."

Mulder laughs -- guffaws, really -- and suddenly looks as young
to her as the day she met him.  "That just makes me want to keep
it even more, Scully!"

She can't help laughing too, especially when Mulder grabs her and
begins to tickle her until she's begging for mercy.  They both
gasp for air as they recover, untangling sheets and blankets and
pulling them up around themselves again.

"Okay," he finally says, spooning up behind her and rubbing his
hairy chin on her shoulder.  "The mack daddy look is history."

"Thank you," she says.  She turns in his arms until she's facing
him, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tightly.
"Thank you for understanding."

"It's just a little facial hair," he says lightly, but she knows
he realizes she's thanking him for more than just the promise to
use a razor after he takes his morning shower.

"I think I know what I'd like for my birthday," he says, giving
her a squeeze to get her attention.

"What's that?" she mumbles into his chest.

"We passed a nice park on the way to the motel last night.
Plenty of benches, big swings, lots of trees.  What do you say we
pick up some lunch and that birthday cake you mentioned and have
a picnic?  It looks like it's going to be a beautiful day -- it'd
be a shame to spend all of it in bed."

"It would?" she says incredulously, peeking up at his face.

Mulder smiles.  "The fresh air will do us good.  Anyway, I'm sure
we can put our blanket someplace secluded where we can make out."

"That's more like it," she teases.  "I was about to get worried
and check your neck for a bump."

"Not funny," Mulder says, his chuckle belying his words.  He
kisses the top of her head, and Scully feels calmer and more
contented than she has in a long while.

"I love you," he says quietly.  "Whether the world ends tomorrow,
or in nine years, or in nine million years, I will always love
you.  That much I know."

To her his words sound like a prayer, like the tender, tenuous
hope that their love is enough.  For now, at least, she believes
that it is.
 

end

- - -

We turn not older with years, but newer every day.

- Emily Dickinson

- - -

Author's Notes:

This story would never have been written if not for an early cool
snap, a photo (http://duchovny.net/morephotos3/hod/hod025.jpg),
and a dear friend's fabulous sense of humor (and '70s TV
knowledge <g>).  So thank you Mother Nature, David Duchovny, and
JET.

A special note of gratitude to Sarah and Mara,  two young and
lovely birthday girls who provided title ideas. :)

Feedback would be wonderful: emmabrightman1013@yahoo.com