Scully ordered another margarita. Her mother couldn't start dinner without her, not today. Smiling, she anticipated the evening. The crisp, delicate skin of the roast chicken, the sage and onion stuffing -- she could smell it now. She could hear the chatter of her nephew and the admonitions of her sister-in-law. She could see her mother carrying out the cake, her face glowing in the warm light of the candles. Angel food, with sticky pink and white icing roses. Ten candles, the family standard for people too old to have one for each year.
Her drink arrived and she paid for it. Pulling out the tacky pink umbrella, Scully twirled it around, then brought the glass to her lips and touched her tongue to the salty rim.
She smiled again as she remembered the morning in the office: flowers and a balloon arriving from some friends in another department, Mulder looking stricken and rushing out to buy her a Spice Girls coffee mug and some half price Valentine's chocolate. It was the most useful gift he'd ever given her. She took a drink, sour and sweet mingling with the salt in her mouth. A birthday girl drink. The umbrella still whirled between her fingers, back and forth, back and forth.
Ten candles. Congratulations, Dana, you stayed alive another year. No mean accomplishment. Close your eyes, blow out the candles, make a wish.
She wished for happiness, for peace, for a week off to take a vacation. For her landlord to fix her dripping tap. For the mud stains to come off of her new suit. For those she had lost to be there when she opened her eyes. For absolution.
Absolution -- from the bartender, from God, from anyone. Cheating death was a lot like cheating on Sister Mary Margaret's algebra test in eighth grade. Guilt that no amount of confession, punishment, or penance could completely wash away. Failure would have been less mortifying.
Jack in the line of duty, Pendrell in the wrong place at the wrong time. Many others too, but today was for these men. Happy birthday, Dana Scully. Lest we forget.
Again she saw her mother's face, her warm smile, heard her singing as she set the cake in front of Scully and handed her the knife. Scully saw herself gripping the handle, knuckles white.
Let the candles burn this year. She needed the light.
Was she late? Her watch was large on her small-boned wrist and she ran one finger over the crystal before reading the time. Charlie would be waiting out front by now. She picked up the paper umbrella from her first drink and held them both, green and pink, blinking and wishing her eyes weren't so dry. Smoothing them carefully closed, she tucked them away in her purse. She paused a minute, looking through the room at the laughing, talking people.
Then Scully finished her drink, said a prayer for the dead, and walked out of the bar.
FINIS
hate it