TITLE: Above Minnesota AUTHOR: Cecily Sasserbaum EMAIL ADDRESS: cecilysass@yahoo.com DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Nope. Somebody else's. DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere, just let me know. SPOILER WARNING: Theef RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: S, R KEYWORDS: Post-Ep (Theef), MSR, Scully POV SUMMARY: After the events of Theef, Mulder and Scully take a San Francisco-Washington DC flight home. It's all about conversation, kids. FEEDBACK: I certainly adore it. Please be aware that it is an option open to you. :) *** It was odd, but she was comforted by her ability to determine her own location from above. Her forehead was pressed against the window of the plane. She noted the glass was slightly cool. The outside air, of course. The patchwork of grays and browns beneath her, visible through the layer of fleecy cloud, was Minnesota. Farmlands, most likely, covered in feet of winter snow. In the distance was a cluster of buildings: sharp metal teeth trapped in jagged shadows, with one or two reflecting the sun with a startling brilliance. Minneapolis. St. Paul. She remembered their airports. I am an expert at the topography of the United States, she realized suddenly. Such a strange but reassuring skill to have developed! She knew the whole country intimately, but from a great distance. Detachment at its most explicit. "What do you see out there that's so interesting, Scully?" Mulder said suddenly, and she turned to look at him. He hadn't said anything the whole flight, reading some book he'd bought in the San Francisco airport. "Berkeley in the Sixties," she had noted with some amusement. Did Mulder, in his heart of hearts, harbor secret yearnings for the life of a radical? "I see Minnesota," she said. "It's Minneapolis/St. Paul down there. Do you see, Mulder?" He stared at her, trying to determine what she was thinking, and finally gave her a slow, small smile. "Well, Scully, that's not so interesting after all." "There is a value to appreciating the little things, Mulder." "Then tell Minneapolis I like their airport." Scully rolled her eyes, her lips flinching a little into a smile. She turned back to the window, and found her eyes searching, somehow, for the airport below. Had she always picked up so easily on Mulder's cues, she wondered? Or was this the development of too much time? And then, she was suddenly shoved backwards by a small hand. A small child with a dirty face had thrust himself over herself and Mulder, trying to peek out the window, wriggling over their laps to see past them. "Outside!" he shrieked. "Outside!" "Hey, buddy, we're sitting here," Mulder said, glancing at Scully. The child thrust his shoe into Mulder's thigh, propelling himself over Scully to press his hands to the window. "I think you need to find another window," Mulder said, more loudly. "Spencer, come back and sit down this instant," his mother said, half-heartedly. She was sitting the next row over, somewhat weary and smeared. "Don't make Mommy have to come over and get you." Spencer seemed to have no interest in leaving their laps at all. He pressed his nose up to the window, kneeling deeply into Scully. "Ooooh," he said. "It's so far." "It's Minnesota," Scully told him, helpfully, trying not to wince. He stared at her, seeming to notice her underneath him for the first time. "Minnesota," he announced to her, "sucks." "Not as much as Texas," responded Mulder. "It's all relative," added Scully. But Spencer looked at them both with a kind of contempt. "You suck, too," he said, sticking out his tongue. Then he laughed, and proceeded to wriggle off their laps. "I'm sorry," the woman smiled, grabbing the boy from the aisle. She proceeded to fasten his seat belt with grim gusto. "He's gangbusters." "How old is he?" Scully asked her. Strange that she could speak this odd language of motherhood. The easy casual banter parents use. She wondered if Mulder ever was fascinated by such things. "He's five years old," the woman said. "He's all wound up because we're going to meet his father in DC." "And? And?" Spencer said, bouncing in his seat belt, looking up at her. "And -- we'll get to go to the Air and Space Museum," smiled the woman. She looked up at Mulder and Scully. "He likes planes." "He's a real angel," said Mulder, sweetly. He picked up his book again. But Scully couldn't suppress odd stabs of curiosity: it was like a hunger. "You're from DC?" "No, we live in California. Near Fresno," smiled the woman. She seemed anxious for normal conversation. Not so difficult to imagine, Scully thought. "His father went to DC on business, and we're meeting him there." "I'm sure you'll have a good time," Scully said, trying again to smile at Spencer, aware of Mulder's curious eyes on her. "There's so much to see in DC, Spencer. The White House, the Capitol building, the Washington Monument ..." And corrupt government officials, and covered up conspiracies, and mysterious men in black, she couldn't help but to add internally. Mulder, in the crossfire of conversation, shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "I'm sure we'll have a blast. We don't get to leave Fresno too often," the woman said, smiling broadly, fishing around in a large purse. "Do you have children?" "Oh, we're not married; we're business partners," answered Scully quickly, by rote. "I knew that, sweetie," the woman looked up at her, amused. "The suits, of course, tipped me off. I meant you personally." "Oh," Scully said. "No, I don't." Again, Mulder shifted, pretended to read about the free speech movement. The woman gave her a brilliant smile. "Well, you're young yet, honey. Are you married?" "No," Scully said. "Cracker, please--" called Spencer, loudly. "My sister's not married yet, either," the woman said, producing a cracker from her purse for Spencer. "She's all stressed out about it, getting older, all that. But you never know. I met my husband one day, and one year to that day later we were married. It could happen to you, too. You never know when." "I suppose it could," Scully said, a wan smile on her face, trying to overlook the woman's more obnoxious qualities. "I work so much -- it's kind of hard for me to imagine. How long have you been married?" "Six years," the woman said. "Strange how it's so long. It seems like just yesterday. We met at the post office, of all places, if you can believe it. That was '92, and we were married by December 1993." "That is short," Scully said. "It still feels okay? Being married? It doesn't get too ... claustrophobic?" It was a strange, probably too personal question. She was suddenly very self-conscious. Was Mulder still listening? Maybe he could interpret, somehow, why she was suddenly so interested in this woman's life. "Oh yeah," the woman said, popping her gum a little. "It's bliss." "Mama --" called Spencer, bouncing within the restraints of his seat belt. "It's a weird thing, though, you know, because there are moments where you're like, who *is* this man? There are still things that surprise you, that you learn something new about him --" "He still keeps you guessing," Mulder suggested, not looking up from his book. "Exactly!" the woman said. "That's it exactly." Spencer chose that moment to press the flight attendant call button. "Spencer..." the woman grimaced. She leaned over to get him, and spilled the contents of her purse into the aisle. It effectively ended the conversation. Spencer began screaming. "Shhh," the woman said. She turned to Scully."Excuse me, will you?" Scully smiled, and turned back to look out the window again, trying to ignore the shrill cries across the aisle. It fascinated her, the banality of it all. Little boys who liked planes. Gum-chewing mothers who assumed every woman wanted to be married. Stale crackers stowed away in purses. It's the little things that count, she thought again. "You running for office, g-woman?" Mulder said to her, very softly. "Why do you say that?" she mumurred. "Pretty talkative, weren't you?" "What, now I can't make conversation with people on planes? I'm only supposed to talk to you?" "Asking strangers whether they have happy marriages, Scully?" "I'm fascinated," she answered softly, "by the dynamics of long term relationships." "So long as you're not feeling claustrophobic," he said. She wasn't sure what to say to that. So she said nothing. "Mulder," she said, softly, after a beat. "Are you going to organize a sit-in in the Hoover Building?" She rapped her fingers on the cover of his book, sitting in his lap. "No," he said. "I might fantasize about free love, though, while I sit in Beltway traffic." "I see," she said. "That was more predictable than I thought." "Scully," he said. "Are you beginning to believe in the existence of supernatural phenomena?" She looked at him, startled. "I was just wondering," he said, his voice straining to stay light. "Since you seemed to take voodoo dolls in stride, and ..." He didn't finish. It was, of course, possible he was just being flippant, but there was a kind of tension around his eyes, around his lips, that made her think otherwise. "I still don't believe in phenomena that contradict science, no," she answered, softly. "But I'm starting to accept, I think, that there are many scientific occurences that scientists themselves know nothing about yet." Mulder was silent. "Occurences that *I* know nothing about," she added, flatly. "Like long term relationships?" he said. "Oh," she said, smiling slightly, looking away from him, "I know *something* about those." "This is going to surprise you, Scully," Mulder said, "but I actually have been struck, lately, by how much there is that I could be wrong about. How many things there are that really are outside my realm of knowledge and experience." "Oh no, say it isn't so, Mulder," Scully said, deadpan. "You couldn't possibly be doubting your omniscience." "No, it's true," he said."I may not be the boy genius we all thought I was." "I've known that all along, of course." "Have you?" She was struck by the note of genuine curiousity in his voice. "Sometimes I don't know what you think about me, Scully. If you consider me some kind of idiot savant, or just plain idiot, or..." "Just plain idiot," she said, in her best big sister voice. "Stop fishing for compliments, Mulder." "That ... *is* a compliment, isn't it, Scully?" She felt her face warm into a smile back at him, and was overwhelmed for a few seconds by the intensity of her feelings for him. When had it evolved to this, she wondered? Had she always felt this rush of warmth, of amusement and fondness? Had she always been so preoccupied by the swell of his lips, by the brightness in his eyes? "You're a genius," she said, simply. "You must know that. And that's why, I think, I've come to change my point of view somewhat." "I've changed my point of view, too, Scully, although you'd never notice it." "Oh?" "Sure. I happen to think I work with a genius, too," he said, smiling. "Well, pats on the back all around," Scully said wryly. "Eventually, after years of working together, I suppose we'll agree on everything. What do you think that will be like?" She whistled. "A miracle." "Terrible," he offered. "A terrible miracle," she amended. "We met in '92, too," he said. "Do you remember?" "Of course I do," she answered. She had been wondering if he, too, had seen the parallel, between the strangers' marriage and their partnership, or if that were just her peculiar habit. "If we'd hopped in the sack then, we could have a little monster of our own right now," he noted. "Causing us to tear our hair." "We have plenty of monsters, Mulder," she said, evenly. "We have plenty of children, too," he said, "but not the human kind." "I don't know what you mean," she said. "The theoretical kind," he said. "The intellectual kind. The insemination of one world view with another." She paused, turning for a moment to consider the countryside beneath them. "That's a romantic way to look at it, Mulder," she said, dryly. "Are you looking for romance, Scully?" "Maybe," she said. "I'm looking for meaning. Meaning in our work, and --" "And what?" he said. "Meaning between you and me," she finished. "Some kind of personal resolution." "Personal resolution," he said. "An understanding." "Yes," she said. "Before we ... go our separate ways in life, you mean? Before we leave the X-files, you want resolution?" "Are we leaving the X-files, Mulder?" "That's really what I'm wondering," he said. "You're changing your mind about things you've been sure about for so many years. You're wanting resolution between us. Do I sense the end of the road here, g-woman?" "I have long suspected, Mulder, that the kind of resolution we'll have won't mean parting ways at all. That our relationship ultimately will have an entirely different meaning," she said. "And what meaning is that, exactly, Scully?" She stared, for a moment, at his eyes. At the tension around them. She couldn't quite answer. "Where are we now?" he said, slowly, after a beat. She looked out the window, silent for a moment. "Over Michigan, I think," she answered. "We're making an arc. A giant arc back." She paused, pursed her lips. It was much too late now, in the dance between them, for her to bottle up statements, to keep things locked away, but he was not being clear. But she couldn't quite say any more. "You look out the window more than I do, I guess, Scully," he said. "I know the entire nation's motels, its airports, its morgues," Scully said, slowly. "And I how the United States looks from a distance. From thousands and thousands of feet." He looked up at her, blinking slowly, his expression inscrutable. Then, something seemed to light in his eyes. "And you're looking to ... land the plane, Scully?" She widened her eyes, looking back at him. Was he ...? "This is ... a metaphor, isn't it, Mulder?" "Scully," he said, patiently, "you're not suppose to point out metaphors." "All right then," she answered, maintaining eye contact. "Yes, I think it's about time to land the plane." "See the terrain up close?" Mulder said, lightly. "That's what you mean?" "That's right," she said. "Because it's nice scenery from thousands of feet, but you're ultimately somewhat isolated, aren't you, Scully? And you imagine there might be something very interesting down there, up close ..." "All right," she said. "That's far enough, with the metaphor." "I'm initiating the landing sequence," Mulder said, "after a long time being in a holding pattern." "Mulder." "And I'd like to stay on earth for a while," he finished. "See the whole state of Minnesota. Up close and personal." "Michigan," she corrected. "There's a lot of space," he said. "So I don't think I'll get claustrophobic. What about you?" "I haven't gotten claustrophobic yet," she said, softly. She smiled a little. "I suppose it's all that guessing I still have to do, most of the time." He slipped his fingers in between hers, and smiled, staring into the back of the seat in front of him. "Are you sure, Scully?" Mulder said, his voice lower, suddenly. "It doesn't seem too irresponsible? Too dangerous?" Without looking at him, she lifted his hand, and pressed her lips to it, with surprising tenderness, really. She kept his knuckles pressed to her lips for a moment, before gently lowering it back on to the arm rest. "That was cryptic," Mulder said softly, staring at her blankly for a moment, "but very nice, Scully." "I'd hate to be too straightforward at this point, Mulder." "Why ruin a well-established, seven-year old pattern of dysfunction and innuendo?" he said. "Exactly. Then we have an understanding," Scully smiled. "I think so," Mulder nodded slowly. "I think that after years of cold showers we're finally going to knock boots, aren't we, g-woman?" Scully couldn't help it: she laughed. "Or else we're going to take a trip to Minneapolis," Mulder said. "I admit, I'm leaning towards the former," Scully said. "But I'll let you make the final call." "Really?" He sat up straighter, and crinkled his brow."You're serious, Scully?" "Absolutely. Keep me guessing." Mulder turned to stare at her, looking for all the world as amazed as a little boy seeing the earth from an airplane for the first time. "Keep in mind you said that, g-woman," he said, slowly, lightly. But there was an odd intensity to his expression: an uneven bright shard of glass in his eyes. His hand squeezed more tightly around hers. And she felt an accompanying sense of exhilaration, like swooping downward from a great distance. Then, still gripping one of her hands, he picked up his book again. A strange time to resume reading, she thought to herself, but then, predictability really never had been his strong suit. That was comforting in and of itself. He began lightly crinkling each page as he read. A nervous habit. A little quirk. As familiar as the part in her hair. They didn't speak again until they felt the wheels of the plane hit the runway beneath them.