TITLE: Field of Dreams AUTHOR: Jess < JessLB@aol.com > RATING: PG KEYWORDS: M/S UST CATEGORY: SVRA SPOILERS: ::cackles evilly:: You tell me. ARCHIVES: Yup. Let me know if you do put it up, though, okay? I like to visit. SUMMARY: A typical night at a familiar household, but is everything as it seems? DISCLAIMER: I honestly do not own these characters; I'm just borrowing them. No infringement is intended. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This entire piece is one long spoiler for an episode. My editor, Jan, has advised me that telling *which* episode would ruin the story, so therefore...you're on your own. Please let me know if you figured out - correctly - which episode it is before the end. I'd really like to know. More notes at end. ----------------------------- The little brick house sits primly on the curve of the cul-de-sac, complete with a two car garage and a barely visible swimming pool in the backyard. It's a two-story, with the upstairs curtains fluttering lightly in the cool spring air. There's a dog barking none too discreetly in the front yard, tied up to the front stoop. It's the perfect home, obviously bought with the intention of filling it with family, and it takes me a minute to fully realize that this is mine. Even after all these years, it's still a bit of a shock to find myself smiling warmly at my neighbors as I pull the dark blue minivan into our driveway. I fiddle with the garage door remote, tossing it aside to the passenger seat impatiently after a few minutes. I can feel the irritation already sliding through my bones. It's been a long day at work, and I know he'd never think to start dinner, or to clean up the living room. No, like all dutiful wives, that's been relegated to me. I gather up the remains of the McDonald' wrappers that linger from last Saturday's lunch and throw them unceremoniously into the trash at the end of the drive. I grab the mail while I'm down there, and its with heavy feet that I trudge back up to my house and stumble through the front door. "I'm here!" I call, waiting for the telltale sounds of our household. The thunder of feet on the stairs assures me I haven't long to wait. I'm attacked on both sides, papers are flung into my face, grubby hands tug at my new suit, there's the usual wailing of the youngest as her brother pushes her away from me and she falls to the ground. And through it all, he emerges from somewhere within the house, and my irritation at the garage, disgust for all the bills we've acquired, anger that he hasn't fixed the garage remote control like I asked him to three weeks ago, and weariness from the children all fade away at the sight of him. "Where the hell did you get that?" I ask, pressing my lips together in an effort not to laugh as I bend over to scoop up the red-faced mess of tears in the puddle at my feet. "Andrew, if you hit your sister again, you're going to your room, understood?" Mulder shrugs, grinning, gesturing with his spatula to the front of his apron. "What, 'world's greatest chef' doesn't do it for you anymore, Scully?" "Dad's cooking?" the curly-haired six year old asks dubiously, glancing at me in fear. His father puts his hands on hips and mock glares. "Is that a problem?" "EW!" screams the three year old in agreement, and my eardrum rings. "Sh, Lizzy, not in Mommy's ear," I tell her, settling her back down on the floor since her sobs have begun to fade. "I can cook," Mulder says sulkily, pouting. "You burned hot dogs in the microwave when Gramma came to visit," our son points out. Mulder passes a long look my way, but I shrug innocently as though to say, 'he's your kid, too.' "We can argue over Daddy's cooking later, sweetie," I say, interrupting Mulder before he can begin. "Why don't you take Lizzy into the living room and pop this --" I stealthily pull out a videotape, "-- into the VCR?" He grabs it from my hands, and I tousle his hair as they tear off. Moments later, the blaring theme song from Blue's Clues meets our ears, and my husband wriggles his eyebrows knowingly at me. "Call me brilliant, but I think you bought that tape with the intention of being a distraction to the kids." "Of course not," I say, tiptoeing to give him a quick kiss, but he immediately captures my lips and we stand in the hall for some time, simply losing ourselves in each other. "Mm. If you're really making dinner, I think this could be love." He leads me into the kitchen and settles me into a chair, rubbing my shoulders. I watch as he moves swiftly around the room, chopping this, dicing that. "Hard day?" he asks over his shoulder. "Remember that car accident two nights ago that was on the news?" "The three car pile-up," he nods. "Yeah. I had to autopsy four of the bodies. Plus Quantico wants me to teach some courses next week. I'm not," I add, seeing him about to interrupt. "I'm already not home enough." I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "What about you, how's Julie coming along?" He shakes his head. "I'm beginning to wonder why I wanted to practice. You know I've been with her for over six months now. Nothing's helping. I can't help her, Scully. But she'll probably commit suicide if we stop our sessions." I rise up at this, sensing his need for comfort, and wrap my arms around his waist, leaning my head on his back. "You're a wonderful psychologist, Mulder. Don't let this eat you up inside." He sighs and stills in my arms. For a moment, we stand that way, taking and giving strength from each other. I pull back and gently nudge him aside, turning on the faucet to wash my hands. It'll be like when we first got married, I think. When we used to attempt cooking just to get sidetracked and wander back into the kitchen hours... My thoughts fly from my head, and my face tightens in fear at the sight of the yellow, mustard-like goo dripping from the faucet. The rushing water, the kids' laughter from the other room, Mulder's voice asking if I'm okay - it all whirls around my head like a storm cloud, and it's with a horrible sinking feeling that I realize it's happening again, and I press my eyes shut in anticipation for the swell of nausea, and. *** I blink my eyes open and am immediately filled with the tight yearning to return to the darkness. It's a distant, vague feeling, but it's there, and I don't know why. The beeping sounds of the various machines surrounding me forces me to consciousness, and I suddenly sit up. A nurse enters the room just as I start scrambling wildly out of bed, and she rushes towards me, pushing me back down, murmuring words of comfort. I resist, finally succeeding in evading her grasp and I pad quickly out of the room and down the hall. Left of right. I choose at random, plowing through the door. My heart returns to its steady beat at the sight of him laying there, silent with sleep, surrounded by the same machines as I, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm I find startlingly soothing. I sink down into the chair next to him, watching as his eyes dart back and forth in REM sleep. I take his hand in mine, and that's when reality comes crashing down. There is no house. There are no children. No autopsies, no Julies, no minivans or houses on cul-de- sacs. There's just him and I, and the remains of our trip. It's the hand of my partner, not the hand of my husband. My head falls down lightly next to him on the bed, my hair tickling the sides of my face. After a few moments, I feel myself being gently tugged away towards sleep, and I surrender to the sensation, happy to escape this reality; I wonder dimly when these aftershocks will stop. The comfort in the familiarity of the warm, fuzzy place just before dreaming lulls me further into this new trip and I sigh, wishing for the first time that I'd never stepped foot in that field. the end. _________________ http://members.tripod.com/~SueBridehead_2/fanfic.html AUTHOR'S NOTES, con't: The four episodes that have sparked the great post-episode 'fics of this season must be Arcadia, The Unnatural, Biogenesis, and Field Trip. Coincidentally, they also happen to be some of my favorite episodes, too. So I chose the one that kept running through my head the longest, which happened to be Field Trip. This is my first attempt at a post-episode 'fic, so if I miss the mark, let me know and I'll stick to my normal MSR. [In case you didn't catch on, that was a blatant advertisement for feedback.]