Title: Giving Thanks 
 by Vickie Moseley
 Summary: Just a little Thanksgiving Story.
 Rating: PG
 Spoiler: FTF, mere mentions of The Beginning and Triangle
 Category: V, A, UST (safe for all)
 Disclaimer: On the Twelve Days of X files, my true love gave to
 me, a legal document stating that I refuse to infringe on any
 copyrights.
 Archive: Yes
 Dedication: To my kids, who did another _bang up_ Thanksgiving
 Dinner. Thank you, sweethearts!
 Comments to me:  

Giving Thanks
 by Vickie Moseley
 vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com 

Airport Ramada Limited
 Denver, Colorado
 November 26, 1998
 10:13 pm 

Dana Scully juggled the tray, trying to keep all the items from
 sloshing together. She stood before the door with a puzzled
 expression. She called out "Mulder" as loud as she dared. It was
 after 10 pm, and the motel seemed either largely deserted or the
 guests were asleep. Finally, in desperation, she kicked the door a
 couple of times with her foot. 

After a moment of shuffling, the door opened. Before she had a
 chance to enter, her partner had already gone back to his 'lair' in
 the far corner, hunched over a yellow legal pad at what resembled a
 table-turned-desk. 

"Mulder," she said after setting out the dishes on the low dresser
 and turning down the blaring television. "Come on. Time to eat." 

"Not hungry," came the growl from the darkened corner. 

"Come on, I got good stuff here. Turkey, stuffing, I think it might
 be cornbread. I know you like oysters, but this far inland . . ." 

"Scully, please, I'm trying to think over here." 

She sat down on the edge of the bed and frowned. "Mulder, the
 only reason the doctor let you out of the hospital was because you
 promised to rest and _eat_ something." 

He turned in his chair to shoot her a cool look. Pulling himself up
 to a standing position, he limped over to the dresser, looked over
 the selections, and grabbed a roll. Waving it like a trophy, he then
 limped back to the chair in the corner and nibbled on it while he
 wrote. 

"That's it! This time I'm calling the paramedics," she roared,
 jumping to her feet to reach for the phone resting on the bedside
 table. Distance was against her, and he got there first, yanking the
 plug from the wall. They stood there, glaring at each other for a
 full five minutes. 

"Mulder, you haven't eaten in three days. You're exhausted. You
 haven't slept . . ." 

"I slept at the hospital," he said over her continued narration. 

"and the doctor said that even though it was a mild concussion, you
 should still take it _very_ easy. And your leg should be elevated or
 it's going to swell." 

He sat down in tired defeat. It had been a hellish week. On Sunday
 night, they were interrupted from their respective quiet weekends to
 come to the office. There, AD Kersh had abruptly ordered them to
 catch a flight for Denver, where a serial killer was giving the local
 Bureau office the slip. Scully had objected, and been shot down for
 her attempt. Mulder had taken it stoically. He was more used to
 the really shitty assignments, he told her on the plane. 

He'd completed the profile at 3 in the morning on Tuesday. On
 Wednesday night, they had laid a trap for the killer. But their prey
 was a step ahead. The trap backfired and one agent and one
 member of the local PD were dead. Mulder had been injured,
 receiving a blow to the head that left him unconscious for 4 hours
 and 14 stitches in his right leg. On Thursday morning, against
 medical advice, he'd checked out of the hospital and had been
 working on his revised profile every since. 

>From his chair, he took a good look at the dishes laid out on the
 dresser and a perplexed look came to his face. "Scully, that looks
 like . . ." To Scully's amusement, it was like watching a light bulb
 go on in his head. His eyes opened to the size of saucers, his jaw
 dropped an inch. "It's Thanksgiving," he said sadly. "Scully, geez,
 I'm sorry. You should have said something earlier! You should be
 home, your mom was having a big dinner at her place, wasn't she?" 

Scully would have felt more triumphant if her partner hadn't
 decided to take the opportunity to wallow in some more gold
 plated guilt. "Mulder, I called Mom last night, from the hospital.
 At the time, I knew I wasn't going to be home today, but I thought
 I'd be sitting there, waiting for you to wake up. Anyway, don't
 worry about it, Mom knows it comes with the territory." 

"Your brother Bill won't be happy," Mulder noted with a frown. 

"Bill can suck eggs," Scully responded with a smile. "Now, will
 you eat something?" Not waiting for him to answer, she quickly
 filled a china plate with a little bit of everything the kitchen had left
 over and served it to her partner with a white linen napkin. She
 reached into her handbag and produced two soda cans. "Would
 you prefer white wine with your dinner, sir," she grinned, popping
 the top of the 7-Up and pouring it into a glass of ice. 

"I'd prefer 'red' actually," he said as he wiggled his eyebrows and
 nodded toward her own Coke. 

"Uh-uh, if you won't sleep, the least I can do is keep you away
 from caffeine," she shook her head and poured her Coke into a
 glass. 

"Uh, Scully, I don't think I can, er, eat all of this," Mulder said with
 a worried expression. 

Her heart went out to him, but she stood firm. "Mulder, just take it
 slow. We'll eat a little, talk a little. Before you know it, you'll be
 member of the clean plate club," she grinned. 

"Did your mom have that? A 'clean plate club'?" Mulder asked,
 spearing a forkful of stuffing. 

"To an extent. She never forced food on us. Now they've finally
 figured out that forcing a child to eat everything on their plates is a
 contributing factor in obesity. But Mom had a rule. If you put it
 on your plate, you had to eat it. And most of the time, when she
 introduced us to new foods, it was fun, so we didn't balk at them.
 When Dad was at sea, we'd have 'international' nights." At his
 curious look, she continued. 

"She found the idea in a _Redbook_ or _Better Homes and
 Gardens_ I think. Anyway, Saturday night, every other week, we'd
 'sample' a new cuisine. Japanese, Thai, Malaysian, Tex-mex before
 it was the rage. Remember, we were in base housing and it was
 easy to find new recipes among the other families. It got so
 popular, we'd ask to invite our friends over on those nights." 

Mulder smiled at his partner's story. "We did something sort of
 like that. When we'd go on vacation, instead of eating all fast food,
 Mom would get the local phone book and find a 'different'
 restaurant. Sometimes it was just home cooking, other times it was
 pretty exotic. Since we were already in an adventurous mood, we
 didn't mind experimenting." He smiled to himself at a half hidden
 memory. 

"What was your favorite Thanksgiving food?" she asked, getting up
 to get some more cranberry sauce. 

He chewed on his smile. "You'll make fun of me," he said with a
 feigned pout. 

"Mulder! You know me better than that. I'll only make fun of you
 if you truly deserve it," she teased with a grin. "Come on, out with
 it. I have ways of gaining that information, you know." 

"I wish you'd never met my mother," he sighed. "OK. Squash." 

She dropped her roll and stared at him. "Squash?" 

He nodded, and picked up his fork again. "Squash. Buttered
 squash. I would eat two or three helpings of it every year." 

"But Mulder . . . squash is actually _good_ for you," Scully
 muttered breathlessly. "I mean, the potatoes, swimming in fat
 heavy gravy, sure. Or the sugar laden cranberries, you bet, but
 _squash_! I'm, I'm . . . speechless!" 

"Yeah, well, I outgrew it," he said dismissively. "So, Ms Perfect,
 what was your favorite food. As. A. Child." Unconsciously, he got
 up and dished out more food onto his plate. 

"Pumpkin pie, no contest. And whipped cream. Not that non-dairy
 crap, either. The real McCoy, heavy cream and sugar and my
 Mom's beaters set on high speed. I could eat my weight in it," she
 sighed dreamily. 

"You know, you can make squash pie and it tastes just like
 pumpkin," he grinned widely at her. 

"Heretic," she threw back and then hid her laugh behind her napkin.
 "OK, best Thanksgiving ever. How old were you?" 

He thought about it for a moment. "I was eight. My Grandma
 Mulder had Thanksgiving at her place. She lived in West Tisbury,
 the house my Dad moved to after the divorce. Sam was four and
 and old enough to eat at the big table, so I didn't get stuck at a
 'kid' table to keep her company. We ate on English china and
 drank out of crystal and I never thought I'd seen so much food in
 my life. And Grandma made me my _own_ squash. A little green
 butternut squash that she baked special and served just to me." 

Scully was overcome with the tenderness of his memory. "She
 must have been a special lady, your Grandmother." 

He nodded, lost in another time. "She was. She always made me
 feel . . . loved." 

"My Mom's parents were gone before I was born and my
 Grandmother Scully died when I was five. I don't remember her.
 But my Grandpa Jim, he was always there. I remember, one
 Thanksgiving, I was in my residency and I couldn't get the evening
 off to go home for dinner. He brought dinner to me. Sat in the
 resident's lounge and ate with me. Brought me two pieces of
 pumpkin pie." She grew quiet and sighed. "He died the next
 spring." 

"Worst Thanksgiving," Mulder called out. 

Scully shook her head. "Mulder, let's not play this game . . ." 

"Come on, Scully. Don't worry, I'm not getting morose. I won't
 let us fall," he promised. 

She looked at him with suspicion, but drew in a deep breath.
 "Worst Thanksgiving ever. The one I never saw." She put her
 now empty plate back on the dresser. "And I already know your's
 Mulder, so you don't have to . . ." 

"The same one," he said, loud enough for her to hear over her own
 voice. 

"Mulder," she said, low and warning. 

"I'm serious here, Scully. I know you think it's the Thanksgiving
 after Sam's abduction, but we were all still thinking she would
 come home and to tell you the truth, I don't remember it. But the
 year you were gone . . ." His voice was tight and low and Scully
 busied herself with the empty dishes rather than look at him. 

"I'm glad you reminded me it was Thanksgiving, Scully," he said
 quietly, coming up behind her and giving her a hug before dropping
 his empty plate on the tray. "I would have hated not
 acknowledging the day." 

"Mulder, we're on a horrible case, you were injured last night,
 we're stuck in another nondescript motel eating restaurant leftovers
 for dinner, this hardly feels like a 'traditional Thanksgiving," Scully
 protested, but leaned back to wrap his arms around her again. 

"I almost lost you this year, Scully. Twice. But I didn't. I'd say I
 have a lot to be thankful for." He leaned his head down and kissed
 the top of her head. 

It was her turn. "The Bureau could have separated us twice this
 year. Transfered me to Salt Lake City, or worse. And you could
 have died in Antarctica, or when you decided to go swimming in
 the Bermuda Triangle," she pinched his arm for spite. "Or last
 night." She turned around and hugged him tightly. "I have a lot to
 be thankful for, too." 

Mulder was relishing the feel of her arms around him, but he
 couldn't stifle a huge yawn. 

She smiled at him, hugged him again, then led him over to the bed.
 "Shoes off," she ordered and helped him comply. "Lie back," she
 added and shoved him down onto the bed. 

"Are you coming on to me, Agent Scully?" he chuckled. 

She looked at him tenderly. "Not tonight. Tonight you need sleep.
 I"m leaving the door open, in case you need me." He nodded and
 rolled over on to his side. She stood there, waiting for him to fall
 asleep before tiptoeing to the connecting door. 

"Scully," he called out. 

She stopped in midstep. "Yeah, Mulder?" 

"Next year, find some squash, OK?" 

She smiled and shook her head. "I'll do my best." As she flicked
 off the light, she could hear him snoring softly. She crawled into
 bed and was soon fast asleep. 

the end. 

Vickie 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

Season's Greetings
 Peace and Joy 

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