Homebrewed
by bellefleur

Email: bellefleur1013@yahoo.com
Rating: PG

Disclaimer: These characters are mine now. Chris Carter has 
created his own AU versions, and he and FOX can keep them. 
My Mulder and Scully never broke up and never will.

Summary: A lazy Saturday morning at home gives Scully time 
to contemplate what could have been.

Notes: Set circa 2018, give or take a few years. This story 
assumes that seasons 10 and 11 never happened, as we all 
should. I don't know how closely this story fits the floor 
plan of the UH in season 11, or IWTB. Just go with it.


*****
*****

Scully gave up on trying to sleep in any longer. Mulder's 
snoring only seemed to get worse with each passing year. 
When she was tired enough, she could tune it out, even let 
it lull her to sleep. But when she couldn't sleep, the 
vibrations traveling through the mattress and resonating in 
her pillow just made her irritable.

Quietly, she slipped into her robe and pattered downstairs 
in her bare feet. It wasn't until her feet hit the cold 
tiles of the kitchen floor that she second-guessed her 
choice. Mulder's worn loafers near the back door were the 
closest option, so she slipped them on and scooted around 
the kitchen to keep her feet inside the oversized shoes.

The coffeemaker set on a timer that Mulder had bought last 
Christmas (actually, he gave it to her the week before 
Christmas, and when she asked the occasion, he said, 
"because it was Tuesday") had been a wise purchase, and she 
gratefully poured herself a cup of the fresh brew. With a 
steaming mug in one hand, she snatched up her cell phone 
with the other, and she headed for the living room. Setting 
down both items on the end table, she settled into the 
couch and grabbed the afghan off the back to drape over her 
legs. The poor blanket had seen better days, but it held a 
lot of memories, and some of those alone were enough to 
keep Scully warm.

Picking up her phone again, Scully began to scroll through 
her email and check the news for this Saturday morning. The 
rhythm of sawing wood drifted down the stairs and 
distracted her. On good days, Mulder's quirks were 
endearing. On bad days, they were downright annoying. Since 
this day had just begun, she wasn't sure which it qualified 
as yet, but her lack of extra sleep seemed to be leaning 
toward annoyance.

Her musing brought to mind an exchange that she'd once 
overheard on a plane. One woman was complaining to another 
about her husband, who sat next to them, snoring away. Then 
the second woman shared how her own husband had almost died 
from a heart attack the year before. "I'd rather listen to 
his snoring," she said, "than not have him there at all."

That little memory sent a brief flash of shame through 
Scully, as she realized how much she should be grateful 
for. She knew what that woman meant. Scully would certainly 
rather put up with the annoyance of Mulder's snoring, and 
his clutter, and his tilting at windmills, than not have 
him in her life at all. There had been enough close calls-
more than close calls-for her to realize how lucky she was 
to still have him. But life had been quieter in recent 
years. Apparently she had grown comfortable in their 
security, causing her to take for granted what they had.

What would her life be like without him? It was hard to 
even imagine, after so many years. But Scully let herself 
indulge in this little what-if. Would she still be with the 
FBI at this point, instead of returning to medicine? Mulder 
had joked about her becoming the director someday, and 
while she seriously doubted that would have happened, it's 
possible she would have moved up the ranks, to assistant 
director or higher. But would her eyes have been opened to 
the corruption at those levels? Skinner had been able to 
walk the line for so many years, but Scully doubted that 
she could have played the same game. Sure, she understood 
the military mentality that she had grown up with, but she 
also rebelled against it. Could she have stayed in the FBI 
for all those years and still believe in the ideal of 
justice?

Or would she have grown bored by this time? There was no 
question that Mulder kept her life interesting. Even now, 
he never ceased to surprise her with spontaneous excursions 
and random theories. She suspected that sometimes he spent 
time dredging up new conspiracy theories just to get a 
reaction out of her. He enjoyed telling her a good story, 
and she played her part, nay-saying and poking holes, "for 
the sake of this argument," but it was a verbal dance they 
both enjoyed. He wasn't always wise, but he was still 
wickedly smart, and she loved watching his mind work.

Over the years, they had settled into their own version of 
domesticity, which was more than she had ever expected from 
her workaholic, always-on-the-go partner. It wasn't until 
they'd been living together for years that he admitted to 
her his secret: when they were partners, the reason he 
always came up with cases on the weekend was for an excuse 
to spend more time with her. She wasn't surprised by this 
revelation; she had suspected as much. And she usually went 
along with him, for the same reason.

Scully was jostled from her daydreams by a different sound 
from upstairs: the rattling of the pipes. Apparently Mulder 
was up now and had moved into the shower. This old house 
could use some work and had enough quirks of its own, but 
it had become their home. No matter how many times they 
debated the idea of finding a place closer to her hospital, 
less of a fixer-upper, she was never able to convince 
herself to give up this place. It was rough around the 
edges and worn in spots, but so were they. The aged 
woodwork suited their mismatched furniture. The kitchen was 
a few decades out of date, old enough to be retro, making 
it in vogue again. The creaky stairs matched their creaky 
joints as they both began to feel their age and the 
consequences of all the punishment their bodies had taken 
chasing after monsters. There was the spot in the roof that 
they had patched together when it started to leak, and the 
bathroom wall that they had painted together when the 
wallpaper began to peel. The house was unremarkable to look 
at, but it was home.

"Good morning," Mulder rasped behind her. He leaned down to 
give her a quick kiss on the cheek, and then he snagged her 
coffee cup as he stood back up. She didn't mind. The coffee 
was starting to grow tepid. His frown told her he realized 
as much, and he handed the mug back to her.

"Uh, uh. That one's yours now. You owe me a fresh cup."

He grumbled, good-naturedly, and she smiled as she watched 
him walk into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, and she 
knew that when he returned with her coffee it would be with 
breakfast too. She closed her eyes, sunk more deeply into 
the cushions, and listened to him rattle around in the 
kitchen.

No, life without Mulder wouldn't have been the same. An 
image popped into her mind of Donna Reed from It's a 
Wonderful Life, when she was depicted as a mousy librarian 
in her life without George Bailey. Scully smiled at the 
thought. Maybe that's not quite what she would have become, 
but something similar. A workaholic doctor who didn't get 
out much, or a cloistered researcher or pathologist. Mulder 
had never offered to lasso the moon for her, but she 
wouldn't put it past him to book them a ride on a rocket 
and take her to the moon himself.

"What are you enjoying so much?" This time Mulder kissed 
her on the lips, and he placed a steaming mug of coffee in 
her hand after she opened her eyes. The aroma of coffee 
mixed with the smell of bread toasting, and her stomach 
rumbled.

"Just thinking of what could have been." She sat up a 
little more and took a careful sip from the mug. Still hot, 
but not enough to burn her tongue.

"And that makes you happy?" Mulder frowned as he perched on 
the cushion near her feet and squeezed her toes through the 
blanket and his loafers.

"No. I'm just musing on how different my life could have 
been, and how I'm glad it didn't turn out that way."

The toaster popped, and Mulder headed back to the kitchen. 
"You mean, you could have lived in a nice house in an 
upscale neighborhood, with some guy named Prescott and two-
point-five dogs?"

She looked over at him as he pulled the butter out of the 
fridge. "What, in the Falls at Arcadia? Not on your life."

"It suited you." His back was to her as he buttered the 
toast, so she couldn't read his face.

"It suited the Stepford Wives," she called back.

He turned and grinned at her. "Don't forget the tulpa."

"How could I," she mumbled. Mulder's garbage monster, or so 
he claimed.

Scully waited until he returned with a plate of toast and 
orange slices, and his own steaming mug. He handed her the 
plate, to take what she wanted. He lifted her feet to make 
room for him and then sat back in the couch, settling her 
feet in his lap.

Scully took a piece of toast and put the plate down on her 
legs, where they could both reach it. She poked him with 
her toes to make sure she had his attention. "I don't want 
a pretentious house in a planned neighborhood with a trophy 
husband-."

"And two-point-five dogs," Mulder added.

She rolled her eyes. "And two-point-five dogs. What I want, 
Mulder, is what I have right here."

There was more to it than that, they both knew. There were 
things missing from this house, from their lives, that they 
would never be complete without. But all things considered, 
what they had right now was enough, and she knew he 
understood that.

He took a sip of his coffee. She could tell he was 
swallowing down his emotions along with it. Or maybe he 
just wasn't sure how to respond.

Mulder cleared his throat and squeezed her foot. "What I 
want is right here too."

She decided to lighten the mood for him. "Mulder, you would 
lasso the moon for me if I asked you to, wouldn't you?"

"For you, Scully? I would lasso the whole solar system."


******
******

And then they lived contentedly ever after.