Title: War Stories & Maple Hair Author: prufrock's love Summary: Mulder shares a story about Scully before a battle. Rating: R Category: Vignette, Post-colonization, MSR, Mulder POV. Everything else is up to the reader. Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue. Not intended for profit. Distribution: link to: http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/index.html War Stories & Maple Hair by prufrock's love "You tell us about your girl, Commander." Fifty eyes- brown, blue, gray, all green with youth- are instantly fixed on me as I look up from cleaning my weapon, rag in hand. The young Black man they call 'Shoe' is speaking, shoveling something that might once have been considered food into his mouth. I could see Scully's forehead wrinkling if she knew she'd just been referred to as a 'girl.' "Come on - you never talk about yourself, sir. Tonight's the night, Commander. Time to share with the troops." "That's 'cause I'm a boring old man, Shoe. Why don't you tell everyone about that Playboy bunny you've got waiting for you at home again? My favorite part is when you take the staples out of the centerfold before you tape up her picture." I'm hoping he'll back off without me having to directly order him. This is a favorite pastime around the campfire, but I don't need to be swapping stories with my men - it makes me seem like a human being instead of a commander. I can't show hesitation or fear or humanity. I only command. "Nah - we've heard Shoe talk about his imaginary girl a hundred times. Let's hear something different. Where's home for you, Commander?" Home. I remember home. I remember life before the war. Boots with dry socks and hotdogs at the ball park. Home was lazy sex on Sunday mornings and black Wonderbras. Rental cars and returning movies in my pajamas to beat the midnight deadline. Home was before. Before huge flying disks hung in the sky like ripe fruit, threatening to fall and stamp out humanity in an instant as if it were an ant in the wrong place at the wrong time in the orchard of space. "I haven't been home in a long time, Max. Maybe I don't remember." That's a lie. I remember every nuance. I remember when I was Agent Mulder and Scully's Mulder and anything else besides a 'Commander' fighting a losing war against a grey mist. "Everybody else has told, Commander - now it's your turn. Where's your home, sir?" My men are good men. Barely more than boys, actually, to my old eyes. Eighteen looks like twelve from forty-five. But every one of them would follow me into death, holding their weapons like children playing at war games. I guess I can spare a few words for their amusement, especially tonight. "Home? Home is..." I take a deep breath and let my mind see the image. "Home is a cabin we rented on a blue lake with a flock of ducks paddling around lazily before they headed south for the winter, like they had all the time in the world. We are the only people there and the quiet is - heavy; comforting like a thick blanket on a cold night. Only the placid lake lapping against the shore, flowing and retreating, the sounds of the ducks, and the rustling of the autumn leaves. The maple trees are changing colors and the leaves this week are exactly the same color as her hair..." "Her, sir?" Shoe asks. "Her, Shoe. You thought I was saving myself for you?" "I want to hear about 'her,' Commander. No more ducks," comes a voice from the floor. "This isn't a lounge act, Max. I don't take requests." "So she's a babe?" Shoe asks, raising his voice over whatever Max is saying. "She'd kick your ass, Private," I tell him, smiling. They're baiting me and I know it. But it's been so long since I saw Scully, since I smelled clean hair or touched soft skin. Since I saw her gentle smile or heard her heels clicking like a metronome on the marble floor, our lives in perfect syncopation. "SHE and I spend the week in that cabin on our honeymoon, hiding away from civilization. Her name is Scully, by the way- and I don't want to hear anyone moaning that in their sleep." One of my men asks the obligatory question, "What kind of name is 'Scully'?" "It's her last name. We were partners in the FBI before the war. And best friends for years before we ever even kissed." I can still feel those warm lips on mine- New Year's Eve 2000. And the world didn't end then. "What's she look like - besides the maple hair?" "Not like those plastic lingerie catalogue models you come up with, Max. She's... perfect. Hair like red gold in the summer sun and a body that fits right against your chest when you hold her, molding like it was cast there. Small hands that heal and caress with the same passion, and eyes like that placid blue lake- until she laughs. Then they spark and dance at you and make you so glad you're a man and she's a woman." "So what are you doing on the honeymoon, sir?" Trust Shoe to ask that. "We're playing checkers - what do you think we're doing?" I get twenty-five knowing grins. "We rent a convertible and go driving with the top down, the wind whipping that beautiful hair all over her face. She laughs as I drive through the forest - laughs because it's a beautiful day and we survived and finally found each other to share it. When we get back, I build a big fire in the fireplace and lay in bed with her watching it blaze, just listening to her breathe and marveling that she's laying in bed breathing with me." "That's it?" I didn't expect eighteen to understand. "That's all you're old enough to hear," I answer, smiling for the first time in recent memory. Okay - no more stalling, no more stories. "Time to move men. Suit up and let's lock and load." That was the extent of my pep talk; my men knew the drill and what was coming. There was no sense in lying to them. Gear is strapped on and weapons are checked and rechecked without comment, readying ourselves against the inevitable. "We're going to die tonight, aren't we, Commander?" a boy called 'Miller' whispers to me. He's new to this platoon, new to death constantly licking its chops in the shadows. "Death smiles on all of us, Miller. The best we can do is smile back and take a few Grey bastards with us." That was a 'yes.' My words seem to reassure him and he lowers his visor, ready to follow me without question. As we move into formation, I hear Shoe on my right: "Was she real, Commander. The Scully woman? Was she real or just one of the women we tell stories about?" "No, Shoe - Scully was real," I respond as I raise my weapon into position. "Those are the best kind, sir." He relays my "get ready" hand sign to the men. "Yes, they are." And my fingers move into the 'attack' signal. End.