By Jennifer Maurer
jenbird@earthlink.net
 
DISCLAIMER: Pfffft. And that's all I have to say about that.
CATEGORY: V/A, no Keywords
SPOILERS: One Breath. Too much is never enough. ;)
SUMMARY: Out with the old, in with the new.

Thanks yet again to Kes for the beta and for just being an all-around fabulous
person.

Feedback me, baby: jenbird@earthlink.net

THE YELLOW CHAIR
By: Jennifer Maurer

At last it has arrived: the day you are going to be discharged from the
hospital. You have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, you want more
than anything to return to your home environment, and take comfort in being in
familiar surroundings. The cozy first floor apartment in the old brownstone is
the first place that has really felt like a home of your own, not just some
place you happen to be staying in at the time.

Then again, your home is the place you were taken from; Duane Barry came right
through the window, dragged you away across your living room floor. You have
already decided you will be moving eventually, but you're too tired to think
about that right now. Mulder told you that he had your broken window repaired
while you were gone. He thought about having bars installed, he admitted, but
didn't; you're quite relieved at that. You know your mother, after finally
being allowed into the apartment, has cleaned away every trace of the trauma
that took place there.

Your memories of the actual moment of abduction are hazy at best, so you decide
you'll be okay in the apartment for awhile, and decline Mulder's and your
mother's repeated invitations to stay with either of them. You'll feel better
among your own things, you tell them, and perhaps, to keep busy, you may even
start a little light packing in preparation for moving to a new, more secure
apartment. Happy to hear that, they finally relent, on the condition that
Mulder stays with you for a few days. You agree.

Everyone hovers over you: Mulder shoulders your small overnight bag before you
can even reach for it; Melissa walks next to you, too close; and your mother
brings up the rear, right on your heels. You think maybe they're expecting you
to sway and faint as they close ranks around you. Normally this would irritate
you, but you understand that after the missing time and the close brush with
death, your family and your partner just want to be near you, as near as they
can get without, in their own minds, being too obvious. You've figured this out
already, but you don't mind. In a way, you like having them so close by.

You're getting used to be alone again, for short periods of time, but it still
makes you kind of jumpy. You, who used to value your solitude so highly, now
can't be left alone, like a child afraid of the dark. This, too, will pass, you
remind yourself. Some things will always feel different than before, but
gradually most things will get back to normal. You will let them fuss over you
for awhile, perhaps even enjoy being pampered a little, but eventually life
will resume its normal rhythms.

Mulder is driving, and you sit in the front seat with him. Your mother and
Melissa are in the back, their laps heaped with the flowers you received from
friends and colleagues. Mulder's offering, a dozen red roses in an elaborate
cut glass vase, are cradled carefully in Melissa's arms. You were somewhat
embarrassed (but also secretly flattered) when he lugged them in, you
protesting that something so fancy really wasn't necessary; the football video
he'd brought you the day before was enough. You suspect the arrangement's size
is roughly proportionate to the amount of guilt he feels at what happened to
you, but you don't say this to him. Instead you check the progress of the
flowers as they unfurl slowly, day by day.

You're about half way home when you realize something is definitely going on.
Mulder keeps sneaking peeks at your mother in the rearview mirror, and every so
often he smothers a smile. You can just see your mother's face in the side view
mirror, and her mouth quirks up at the corners when she looks Mulder's way.
Melissa just stares out the window, her lips pursed together in a way that you
know means she's trying not to smile herself.

"What's so funny?" you finally ask, not in an accusatory way. You just want to
be let in on the joke. Mulder whips around to look at you, and you can read his
expression instantly: slight panic that he's let the cat out of the bag
somehow. Something is definitely going on, you're sure of it now. You can tell
that it's a nice something, not anything to be afraid of. You crane around to
look at your mother and sister. Melissa continues to gaze serenely out the
window. Your mother leans forward and touches your cheek.

"We're just so glad to be bringing you home safe and healthy, sweetheart."

You squeeze your mother's hand but say nothing, both of you with tears starting
to shine in your eyes. You have no doubt that what your mother says is true,
but you still think there's something else, some kind of surprise. More flowers
at home, maybe, or a "Welcome Home" banner, drawn by Melissa, hanging over your
doorway. Whatever it is, you will have to be content to wait. Mulder sneaks
peeks at you out of the corner of his eye for the rest of the ride home, which
makes your own mouth want to twitch up into a smile. That's why they put the
"I" in "FBI," indeed. You don't need a house to fall on you to know when
something is going on.

As Mulder pulls up in front of your apartment building, everyone goes still and
waits to see how you will react to your first sight of the home you vanished
from. You try not to show how upset you really are. You force yourself to
swallow the lump in your throat as you notice the bare limbs of the trees
swaying in the breeze. When you were taken from here it was still summer,
everything green and humid. Now it is a cool, dry autumn, and all the leaves
have already fallen. Walking through crunching leaves has always been your
favorite part of the season changing, and this year you missed it. It's just a
little thing, you remind yourself. What's important, and miraculous, is that
you're coming home at all.

"It's good to be home," you say, turning to Mulder with a smile that is only a
little bit overdone. You hear your mother sniffle just a little as she climbs
out of the back of the car. Mulder goes around to the trunk for your bag and
follows your mother, whose arms are full of flowers, up the walk. Melissa,
still cradling the vase of roses in one arm, links her other arm through yours,
slowing her pace to match yours. You resist the urge to sigh and rest your head
on her shoulder, as you did when you were younger and tired of being the strong
one all the time.

"It's not a surprise party, is it?" you whisper to Melissa. You're just not up
to a big group of people yet. While you would appreciate the sentiment, right
now you want people to just accept your return without making a big deal out of
it. Celebrations don't seem appropriate for this.

"No, nothing like that," your sister whispers back. "Another kind of surprise.
You'll like it." She slips her arm out of your linked elbows and slides it
around your shoulders, pulling you close to her with one brief, fierce hug. You
wrap your own arm around her waist, and the two of you walk the rest of the way
up to your building that way. Meanwhile, your mother smiles at both of you and
Mulder shifts from one foot to the other, obviously delighted to be included in
this moment but not quite sure how to act just the same.

The first thing you notice as you walk into your apartment is the smell. Yes,
your mother has definitely been here, accompanied by liberal amounts of
Pine-Sol. You're glad the place doesn't smell musty; that would only drive home
again the fact that you have been gone for three months. As if you needed any
more reminders. All evidence of the attack has, as promised, been erased.
Someone (probably Mulder, you think) even replaced your broken phone with the
exact same model.

Sunshine pours in through the windows, filling your living room with the golden
light that makes this your favorite room in the apartment. Melissa guides you
in, and you both stop in the middle of the room. You look puzzled at the grins
that have bloomed on everyone's face but yours.

"What?" you ask, starting to feel a touch of alarm. What could you be missing?
What are they seeing that you aren't? You've missed so much already; why can't
they see that they're making you nervous waiting for you to notice what they
already know? Your eyes dart around the room quickly, looking for whatever it
is that they want you to see. You resist the sudden urge to burst into tears,
suddenly tired of this game. Just tell me, you want to cry. I can't remember
enough right now to tell you what has changed.

You finally see what they're smiling about---the surprise Melissa said you
would like---when Mulder touches it gently and sets it in motion: a glider
rocker, just the kind that you have always wanted since your father bought one
for your mother. The oak finish gleams softly in the sunlight, and the plump,
beige, floral cushions make an inviting seat. The matching ottoman, which also
glides, sits in front of it.

"Oh, my," is all you manage to get out before the lump in your throat chokes
you. You press your fingers to your lips, smiling despite the tears overflowing
from your eyes.

"Since you always gravitate to Mom's, we thought we'd get you one of your own,"
Melissa says.

You'd been thinking about getting one of these chairs for yourself, actually.
You almost bought one last year with your tax refund, but didn't think you
really had room for it. However, it fits right into your living room now as if
it's always been there. You unlink your arm from Melissa's and slowly cross the
room.

"Do you like it, sweetheart?" your mother asks you. Eyes still full, you can
only nod, smiling widely.

"Better come try it out before I park myself in it," Mulder tells you, with a
rare grin.

Everyone is delighted by your reaction to the chair. They can't tell that as
much as you appreciate it, you can't quite shake the feeling that something is
missing. You can't quite put your finger on it, so you push the feeling aside,
and sit down in the chair, resting your feet on the ottoman with a satisfied
sigh.

"This is nice," you say, rocking gently back and forth. "I could get used to
this."

"I'd get one for the office," Mulder leans down and murmurs in your ear, "But I
think we'd fight over it too much."

You just hum an agreement, closing your eyes and enjoying the soothing movement
of the chair. In the background, you hear vague noises of your mother and
sister bustling around, putting things away and getting you settled back into
your home. The vague "missing something" feeling still tugs at the back of your
mind. Something about your apartment is...different. Well, of course, there is
the new chair. But it's something else. Maybe it's just returning after an
absence, but you don't think so. Well, it will come to you.

Everyone else sits down around you, and when the quiet prompts you to open your
eyes, you see they're all watching you. Immediately you blush, and your first
instinct is to say, "Stop staring at me!" You don't, though. They mean well,
and they've been so worried. Let them get their fill of looking at you now.

Eventually Melissa breaks the increasingly awkward silence with a teasing
request that you "stop hogging the good chair," and things go on from there.
You're a little surprised, yet pleased, at how well Mulder gets along with your
mother and sister. It hadn't occurred to you until just then that they must
have gotten to know each other while you were missing, and in the hospital.

You start to feel a little left out as conversation swirls around you, taking
no notice of your silence. The three of them are talking about things you can't
say anything about, because you were gone, or almost dead, when they happened.
Your heartbeat speeds up, and you can feel a flush creeping up your neck. Why
are they doing this, however unintentional it may be? Don't they understand the
blind panic you feel when you let yourself think about the gaps in your memory?
Will you ever remember what happened to you? Do you even want to?

You jump at the touch of Mulder's hand.

"Are you all right?"

Everyone is quiet, and looking at you again. You can feel the sweat along your
hairline. Quickly, you paste a smile on your face.

"I'm fine," you say with a breathless little laugh. "I'm fine. Just...a little
tired, I guess."

You're tired almost all the time now, and that makes you panic, too, if you let
yourself dwell on it too much. You want everything back to normal. Hearing "it
takes time" just annoys you.

Your mother coaxes you to eat something before you rest, and since it's dinner
time anyway, you agree to some take-out. Mulder calls for Chinese; one of his
four major food groups, you joke, along with coffee, sunflower seeds, and
pizza. You feel more a part of the group around the dinner table, laughing with
your mother and Melissa over fortune cookies and Mulder's inability to manage
chopsticks; he prefers to use them as walrus tusks rather than eating
utensils.

Mom cleans up, despite your protests that you'll do it yourself tomorrow. Then
she and Melissa take their leave, with hugs and kisses and promises to return
first thing tomorrow morning. Mulder has volunteered for the first, and
probably every, shift of staying with you. While part of you resents the
implication that you can't possibly be left alone, another part of you is
immensely relieved that someone will be with you, and you didn't even have to
ask.

You've settled yourself back in your new glider. After seeing Mom and Melissa
to the door, Mulder comes and sits down on the ottoman before you, shifting
your legs off to the side. When you open your eyes and smile at him, he leans
forward and takes your hands.

"Okay?" is all he says.

"Yes," you reply. It's not even close to everything that still hangs, unsaid,
between the two of you, but it will do for now.

"Do you want to go to bed?" Mulder asks, and then blushes furiously when your
smile turns impish at his innocent question.

"Oh, no," you say. "It's only 8:30. I'm not *that* tired."

"We could watch a movie."

"Actually, what I'd really love is a good soak in a hot bath. Do you mind?
Movie later?"

"Fine, Scully, whatever you want."

"You're very agreeable," you say over your shoulder, walking down the hall to
your bedroom.

"Enjoy it while it lasts."

You close the door, still laughing.

Afterwards, scented of vanilla and in your most comfy pajamas, you come back
into the living room to find Mulder pecking away furiously on your computer,
his face about an inch from the screen.

"Forget your glasses again?" you ask.

"Oh, Scully, sorry," he says. "I just meant to log on and check my email while
you were in the tub."

"It's fine. Go ahead and finish what you were doing. I have a book I brought
home from the hospital around here somewhere."

You find your book, turn on the lamp, and get ready to settle in your favorite
reading chair...and that's when it hits you.

The yellow chair is gone.

It's a ridiculous thing to panic about, but there you are, suddenly short of
breath and feeling a little dizzy. You grip your book so tightly it hurts. Your
first instinct is to run around the apartment and see what else is missing, but
you stand frozen to the spot.

"Mulder?"

The sharp, high tone of your voice brings him instantly to your side.

"Scully? What's wrong?"

"Where's Oma's chair?"

"Where's what?"

"Oma's chair!" you snap, voice trembling. "The yellow chair! The one that was
right there!" You point to the new glider, suddenly and irrationally hating it
for taking up that space.

Mulder puts his arm around you, and you can feel yourself shaking against his
steady grip.

"It was right there. The yellow one," you whisper, unable to get over your
shock, even as you chide yourself for getting so upset over nothing.

"We, um, we got rid of it this morning. Your mom and I. To make room for the
new one. She said it was really old, and you'd been planning to throw it out
anyway."

"Oh," you say, calming down now that you have a logical explanation. "Right. I
guess I was. Sort of."

Mulder looks at you, curious and concerned, but you can't explain it to him.

You couldn't even explain it to your mother when you moved here; she urged you
to toss out the old yellow chair, and you refused. Yes, it was old; yes, it was
worn; maybe it didn't go with your other new furniture, but you were keeping
it. You mother shook her head and sighed. Your father laughed at your
stubbornness and said it was a comfy old chair, even if it had seen better
days.

The yellow chair belonged to your grandmother, and you loved it. When the
subject came up now and then, you agreed with your mother that you'd get rid of
it someday only to please her.

Apparently she's taken you at your word, and now it's gone.

"Scully?" Mulder says, alarmed by the blank look on your face.

"It's nothing," you reassure him. "I just...I didn't notice before, when we
came in, and now I see, and it's...it's a surprise, is all. I was
just...confused for a moment."

Don't ask, your look says. He doesn't.

After that, the evening is over for you. You can't account for the lethargy
that comes over you. Watching a movie and spending time with Mulder have
abruptly lost their appeal, and all you want to do is go to bed. Mulder is
obviously worried and confused by your sudden change of attitude, but stops
asking questions when you assure him that you're fine physically, just feeling
a little out of sorts.

For all your exhaustion, sleep eludes you. You lie very still and listen to
Mulder make himself comfortable on your couch. The light finally goes out in
the living room, and the only illumination comes from the street light outside.
The usual small noises you hear in the night don't trouble you as they would if
Mulder were not here, yet you can't relax enough to drift off.

It's that damn yellow chair. When you were in your bathroom before bed, you
could see it out the window, set down next to the dumpsters behind your
building. Alone and unloved, which is a ridiculous things to think about an
inanimate object, but that's the thought that keeps circling in your mind.

After an hour or two, you give up. When you hear Mulder shuffle to the kitchen
and get a glass of water, you rise as well. You have a brief thought of trying
to slip quietly past him, but you know if he goes to check on you and finds you
gone, he'll be terrified. Instead you head for the kitchen and bump right into
Mulder on his way out.

"What's wrong?" he asks, instantly on the alert.

You sigh. This is so stupid. Mulder's going to think you've lost your mind. But
you know it's the only way you're going to get back to sleep.

"I need some air," you say, holding out your hand to him. He takes it. You're
obviously not in distress, so he's not anxious, just curious. He still brings
his gun, however. You scoop your keys from the hall table, and lead him
outside.

Once you've gone around the back of the building and the yellow chair is in
sight, Mulder understands why you have come. You stand hand-in-hand, solemnly
examining the chair. It was only put out this morning, and the day was cool and
dry. They didn't put it *in* the dumpster, just next to it. It's in the same
condition as when you last saw it: an old yellow armchair with sagging springs
and faded upholstery.

Overcoming your natural reluctance to pull something "out of the garbage," you
drag the chair over to the edge of the lawn and sit down in it, swinging around
to drape your legs over one arm, and rest your back against the other. The
threadbare velveteen is still soft against your cheek. Mulder comes over and
perches on the little slice of seat left empty, turned the opposite way to face
you.

"Why is it Oma's chair?" he asks.

You close your eyes and sigh, remembering.

"It belonged to my grandmother, Mom's mother. She was German, so we called her
Oma, the German word for grandma. She was widowed young, and my mom was her
only child. When Oma grew too old and frail to live alone, we had to place her
in a nursing home, and this chair was the only piece of furniture we could fit
in her room. She had it a long time; my earliest memory is of sitting in her
lap in this chair. It's not nice enough to be considered an antique or
anything. Oma died a month before I graduated from the Academy. I told my
parents I wanted the chair for my own apartment. Mom didn't really understand
why I wanted such a beat up old thing, but I think Dad might have."

"I think I do, too," Mulder says quietly.

"Anyway, when you brought me home, I didn't notice right away it was missing,"
you continue, "Until I was going to sit down to read. That's where I always
sit. Or used to. I know I'm being silly, but I feel bad just throwing it away.
So much changed while I was gone. I guess the chair was one thing too
many."

Mulder stands up and holds out his hand to you. You think he's going to pull
you to your feet and lead you back inside, and you know he's right. It's just a
chair.

You rise and turn to go back in, but Mulder stands looking at the chair, his
head tipped to one side.

"What?" you ask.

"Think it would fit in my car?"

A tentative smile creeps across your face to match Mulder's grin.

"Why do you ask?"

"The thing is, Scully, I've been looking for a chair just like this. For my
apartment, you know. And this one matches my couch."

"Your couch is black leather."

"Yeah, I know. So can I have it?"

You reach out and take his hand, squeezing it.

"Mulder, you don't have to do this."

"I know I don't. I want to. I'll even let you sit on it when you come over."

The two of you manage to wedge the yellow chair into the trunk of Mulder's car.
When you go back inside, you fall into bed and go to sleep with no trouble.

~*End*~

In case you're interested, you can see Scully's new chair here:
http://www.rocking-chairs.com/11790.htm

With fabric #424:
http://www.rocking-chairs.com/fabrics.htm

Oddly enough, it looks just like *my* chair. ;)

I also had a yellow chair which was my grandmother's, and I was talked into
tossing it out when the glider came along. Sometimes I wish I hadn't.
 
 

### The End ###