#this is what happens when I’m deprived of my daily mug soup

[the-cosmic-yeet]

@liebelesbe you are so right, I misremembered the brand name 😔

shoutout to my heavy duty mug. my microwave-safe mug which has witnessed many a-mug cakes. my late night coffee companion. my instant noodles holder. my knoll soup container. my steadfast companion through all trials and tribulations. though you are chipped and worn, you shall never leave my side.

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

Au Cafe Pequod, Chapter Three

Previous Chapters: One | Two

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENE, FRANCE LATE DECEMBER 1943

The cafe, Mulder finds during the week between Christmas and New Year's, is an entirely different place by daylight. Aside from being brighter and warmer, it's also more crowded. He's surprised by how many of the daytime patrons are locals, and when he asks Scully about it (in a quick, stolen moment as she's bustling between tables), she explains that most of the townspeople prefer not to go out in the evening at all. Spender wasn't joking about the punishment for breaking curfew being harsh. It's just not worth the risk to be out too close to curfew, should something come up to prevent getting home in time.

Mulder is also surprised that so many of the townspeople can afford the luxury of daily coffee and pastries, but it takes him less than a day to notice that Scully is not taking payment from most of them. From spending so many evenings here, Mulder already knows she's doing a decent business off of the soldiers that pack the place every night, and his heart swells with admiration and affection when he realizes that Scully is, in fact, running a de facto soup kitchen, using money from the occupying force to alleviate the suffering of the very people the Germans are trying to starve.

She is, without a doubt, the most amazing woman he has ever known, and if he was at all unsure about his feelings before, being suddenly deprived of their nightly conversations has made everything quite clear to him.

He is absolutely and irretrievably in love with her.

Since being placed on nighttime guard duty by Spender, five days ago, Mulder has developed a new routine. He is relieved from his post at five o'clock every morning and returns to his tent to sleep for the shortest possible time he needs to remain functional. Somewhere between nine and ten in the morning, he wakes, washes, and heads straight for Cafe Pequod. He remains there for the entire day, eating all his meals there (and insisting on paying- he has threatened to return to camp for his meals if she keeps returning his money), and stealing any opportunity to talk to Scully. By six in the evening, he is back at his post, doing his best not to dwell too much on how much he would rather be elsewhere.

Today, Mulder is sitting at the table closest to the register. When Scully isn't taking orders, delivering food, or in the kitchen, she's most likely to be at the counter, so this affords the most chances to talk to her. They can't say much, not with so many people around them, but just the sound of her voice is enough to keep him going as he waits out the rest of the week. He will need to be at his post tonight and tomorrow, but on Friday night, he'll be free to do as he wishes.

Of course, Friday night also happens to be New Year's Eve, and he doesn't even know if Cafe Pequod will be open, but if Mulder gets the chance today, he's going to ask Scully to celebrate New Year's with him. He doesn't care what they do or where they go; he only knows he wants to be with her.

Scully has just finished entering a soldier's money into the register, and Mulder is about to ask her if the cafe will be open on New Year's, when a man approaches the counter. He's dressed as though he's just finished a day in the fields, and Scully smiles warmly at him in welcome.

"Mademoiselle Scully, I'm wondering if I could order another of your lovely pies?"

"Yes, of course," says Scully. She retrieves a notepad and pencil from beside the register. "What kind would you like?"

"Apple, I think," says the man.

"How many people are you looking to feed, and when will you need it by?"

"It's for four people," responds the man, looking unaccountably nervous, "and I'll need it on the fourth of January." Scully appears lost in thought for a moment, contemplating what she's written on her notepad. After a moment, she nods decisively.

"I think I should be able to do that," she says. "Come and pick up your order on the third." The man thanks her, and leaves. Mulder watches closely, but he doesn't see any money change hands. He raises his eyebrows at Scully, who looks up at him as she puts her notepad away.

"So the pies weren't just a Christmas thing?" he asks. She shrugs.

"They were so popular that my mother and I decided to continue," she explains. She bustles off to the kitchen before Mulder can say anything else, returning a moment later with a tray of sandwiches to take out to a table. The cafe is busier today than Mulder has ever seen it, and when Scully returns with an armload of dirty plates, she's looking distinctly harried. "I'm nearly out of clean dishes, but it's too busy to go in the back and wash any," she sighs. "I don't know how much longer I can go without hiring a dishwasher."

Mulder doesn't stop to think about what he's doing, about whether or not Scully will be offended. He stands, picks up his empty coffee mug, and without asking permission, strides around the counter, heading for the kitchen. When Scully rushes in after him, sputtering in confusion and surprise, he is already standing at the overflowing sink, sorting dishes by type, preparing to wash them.

"Mulder, what on earth do you think you're doing?" she demands.

"I think that's pretty self-explanatory, Scully," he responds calmly, plugging the sink and turning on the faucet. "I'm lending a hand. Free of charge, I promise."

"That's not your job, Mulder," she protests. "I don't need you to do it for me."

"Of course you don't," he says, adding soap to the water. "That doesn't mean I don't want to do it for you." Scully puts her hands on her hips. She opens her mouth to argue, but is interrupted by the insistent ringing of the bell by the register. Someone is waiting to place an order. "Go ahead," Mulder says, turning off the water and taking down a plate from the stack, beginning to wash it. "I don't mind, Scully. I promise. Go take care of your customers." Scully hesitates a moment longer... but finally, the corners of her mouth turn up in a reluctant smile.

"I'd better not tell my mother about this," she says. "She's already impressed enough with you breaking someone's nose in my defense. If she finds out you can do housework as well, she'll be marching us both to the church and escorting us down the aisle herself." Mulder laughs, his heart stuttering in his chest at the thought.

"I'm all too happy to defend lovely ladies from boorish oafs and dirty dishes alike," he says, smiling at her. She crosses the little kitchen, stretches up on tiptoe, and kisses Mulder on his cheek, before turning and going back out to the register to answer the bell. Mulder stands at the sink, washing one dish after another, his cheek burning where her lips touched him. He can hear her talking to a customer- what sounds like another pie order, cherry this time. Mulder wonders when she finds the time for baking all of these pies, between running the cafe and helping her mother with the farm.

Scully returns after a few minutes. She takes up a position at his left elbow and begins to dry the dishes he's washed, stacking them on the counter as she finishes. She doesn't speak for awhile, but when Mulder glances down at her, a small smile is playing across her lips. He's about to ask her about New Year's, but she speaks before he can begin.

"Will you still be on guard duty Friday night?" she asks.

"No, Thursday will be the last night," he says, sighing with relief. "I'll be a free man on Friday. Which reminds me-"

"Would you like to have dinner with me?" The bowl Mulder is washing slips from his hands and splashes into the sink, dousing them both in soapy water. Scully jumps back with a cry of surprise.

"I'm so sorry!" he apologizes, horrified, but she's laughing. She wipes her face with the towel she's been using to dry the dishes, then stretches up to pat his face dry, as well.

"No harm done," she says, grinning and returning to her task, as he retrieves the (thankfully unbroken) bowl from the water and continues to wash it.

"You want to have dinner with me?" he asks. "On New Year's Eve?"

"I'll be closing the cafe at six," she says. "I thought you could come by at eight. Would that be all right?" She looks up at him anxiously, as though there's any way he could possibly refuse.

"I would love to, Scully," he says, and the smile that lights up her face is pure magic. For a moment, he thinks of trying to kiss her again, but there's the bell, heartless in its interruptions, and with a wistful smile, Scully is gone again.

New Year's Eve, Mulder promises himself. If the magic of the New Year can't make something happen, he doesn't know what can.

---------

When Mulder trudges back to his tent at five in the morning on December thirty-first, the sky above him is packed with steel-gray clouds, and the smoky bite in the air announces coming snow. It's begun to fall by the time he's crawling into his cot, and when he wakes, some six hours later, the ground is covered in several inches of powdery white. He washes himself as best he can in the freezing tent, keeping close to the potbelly stove at its center, and shaves, managing to avoid nicking himself in spite of his shivering hands. He steps outside his tent to find some lunch (in the camp, for once- Scully has told him she'll see him at eight and not before), and runs smack into Hauptmann Skinner. Mulder snaps to a salute, which Skinner brushes off.

"Finished your night rotation, Mulder?" he asks, shifting the rucksack he carries to his other shoulder.

"Yes, Sir," says Mulder. "Last night was my last night." Skinner nods. He glances carefully up and down the rows of tents.

"Are either of your tent mates in there?" he asks, gesturing behind Mulder.

"No, Sir," he says. "Both on morning guard." Skinner indicates to Mulder that they should go inside. Skinner sits down in the spot Mulder vacated moments earlier, on the chair by the stove, and Mulder sits on the edge of his cot. Skinner studies him shrewdly, as though deciding what to say, and Mulder says nothing, waiting.

"I would advise you, Obersoldat Mulder," says Skinner, "to be careful about how you're seen with your friend." Mulder feigns confusion, more to annoy Skinner than anything else. He genuinely likes the man, but he can't resist pushing his buttons, just a little bit.

"My friend, Sir?" he asks blankly, and Skinner glares at him.

"You know who I mean," snaps Skinner. "She likes you, you like her, and that's all well and good, but flaunting whatever's going on between the two of you will lead to trouble."

"Nothing's going on, Sir," Mulder protests. Technically, it's not a lie; he'd very much like for something to be going on, but between watchful mothers, bells, and son-of-a-bitch colonels, they've gone nowhere at all. "We sit together, we talk, that's it."

"Yes, and then you have dinner with her mother and let your commander catch you trying to kiss her," says Skinner, rolling his eyes. "What I'm saying, Mulder, is that you need to be careful. There are many men in this army- and Oberst Spender is most certainly one of them- who would see behaving like that with a Frenchwoman as an act of disloyalty." Mulder glowers at him.

"Half the men in this camp have done much more than talk with women in every town we've visited, Sir," he says, thinking furiously of the soldiers who offer food and money to the mothers of hungry children in exchange for their bodies.

"It's not the same and you know it," says Skinner.

"Are you saying that's somehow better?"

"No, of course I'm not," says Skinner. "And I'm not telling you to stop seeing her, Mulder. I'm just saying... be careful. You don't want to give them ammunition to use against you." Mulder continues to glare. "And at the very least, you don't want to make things difficult for her, do you?"

"No, Sir," admits Mulder grudgingly.

"You're going over there tonight, I'm assuming?" asks Skinner. Mulder just stares at him, not answering. "Oh, come on, Mulder, I just said I'm not going to tell you to stop seeing her. Now are you going there tonight, or not?" Mulder nods. "All right, then. You got anything to bring her?"

"No, Sir," says Mulder. He'd meant to try and get his hands on another bottle of wine, but there hadn't been time. Skinner rolls his eyes, mumbling something that sounds very much like "Amateur," and reaches for his rucksack, which is on the ground by his feet. He draws out a bottle of champagne.

"Bring her this, then," he says, passing it to Mulder. "Can't celebrate New Year's without champagne, right?" Mulder takes the bottle, eyes wide.

"Sir, I can't-"

"Yes, you can." Skinner waves off his protests. "Spender gave me three bottles. Consider this my apology for not being able to overrule your nighttime guard duty this week."

"He wouldn't like you giving one to me, Sir," says Mulder. Skinner stands to leave.

"Exactly," he says. "Happy New Year, Mulder."

----------

With Skinner's warning fresh in his mind, knowing the tavern on the high street will be full of officers, Mulder takes a more circuitous route to Cafe Pequod. The streets are dark and empty, the residents of Oradour-Sur-Glane celebrating the turn of the year quietly, in their own homes. He wonders how many of them are drinking toasts to this being the year the occupation is over, the year Germany is sent packing and the French people get what's left of their country back. Mulder knows the rumors: the Allies are advancing through Italy, the Russians are fighting ferociously in the East, and British and American bombing raids are pounding Germany daily. And sooner or later, the Allies will cross the Channel and attack from the west. It's inevitable.

By this time next year, it could all be over.

Mulder ducks his head against worrying where he'll be next year, choosing instead to think of the evening ahead. Scully hasn't said anything about what they'll be doing. He assumes they'll be sitting in the cafe like always, and she hasn't mentioned anyone else being invited, though he supposes it would make sense for her mother to be there, at least. And though he feels slightly sad at the idea of sweet Mrs. Scully spending tonight alone, he's really hoping this will be a dinner for two.

Approaching the cafe, he can see light glowing behind the plate glass windows, and as he gets closer, he can see Scully, standing just inside the door, out of the cold, waiting for him.

Mulder's breath catches in his throat at the sight of her.

Until now, the only things he's seen Scully wearing are long skirts, utilitarian ones with many pockets, and simple blouses. Her hair is nearly always tucked under a kerchief, and her feet are always encased in hard-wearing, low-heeled boots. Tonight, she's wearing a dress of royal blue satin, the bodice fitted to her every curve, pulling in at her narrow waist and flaring out into a skirt that ends just below her knees. The cap sleeves and scooped neckline show off her slender arms and expose her collarbone. Her hair is in a sleek, shiny wave, and she wears black high heels.

He's never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

Scully smiles expectantly at him, and he realizes he's stopped walking in the middle of the street- is, in fact, standing there with his mouth hanging open, doubtless looking like a complete idiot. He wills his feet to keep moving, and soon, she's opening the door of the cafe to welcome him inside. Up close, he can see she's wearing makeup: her eyes are smoky, her lips a fine red pout. He knows he should compliment her, offer something flattering that will bring a gentle blush to those white cheeks, and he opens his mouth, prepared to wax poetic with comparisons to Venus and Helen of Troy.

"Wow," is what comes out. And instead of her blushing, he's the one whose face is suddenly an embarrassing shade of scarlet. Scully grins at him, taking his hand and drawing him inside, shutting and locking the door behind him. He remembers the bottle of champagne hidden in his coat, and brings it out. Her face lights up.

"Where did you manage to find this?" she asks, delighted. "I wanted to get us some, but it was impossible."

"It was a gift from Hauptmann Skinner," says Mulder. "He instructed me to share it with you."

"Oh, were you going to drink it on your own otherwise?" Scully asks.

"No! Of course not, I-" He breaks off when he sees she's smiling coyly at him. Taking the bottle, she leads him across the empty cafe. He expects her to go to their usual table, and he's surprised when she passes right by it, heading for the kitchen.

"I thought we could eat upstairs," she says. "This being a special occasion and all." He has not been up to her apartment since the evening she sewed up his forehead and kept watch over him all night. It would keep them out of sight of the windows, to be sure- he's taken Skinner's warning to heart, even if it rankles- but he can almost hear his mother's voice whispering in his ear about propriety.

"You're sure that's all right?" he asks her.

"Yes, of course," she says, unblushingly. "Though, if my mother asks, we ate downstairs in full view of the windows, okay?" Mulder grins.

"Understood. She's not coming this evening, then?" Scully laughs.

"Maman? I don't think she's stayed up later than nine o'clock at night since she was a teenager. Her only exception is midnight mass on Christmas Eve, and even then, she dozes off against my arm."

Upstairs, Scully's cozy apartment is full of tantalizing smells. Her table is set for two, complete with candles, and various dishes are spread out between the place settings. She's made gigot d'agneau pleureur, lamb cooked slowly over potatoes, and there is fresh bread, vegetables swimming in butter, and another of her wonderful pies for dessert. It's the best meal Mulder has had since before the war. They take their time eating, savoring the rich foods, enjoying Skinner's champagne, and talking twice as much as any night in the past, making up for a week of rushed words in passing. Scully tells him stories of living in Paris and studying medicine, of how all the female students would band together against the men, most of whom seemed to think the idea of a woman being a doctor completely ludicrous.

Mulder, in turn, tells her about Oxford, about trying to keep up with classes in a language he had trouble understanding at first. He tells her about letting freedom from his parents go to his head, about juvenile pranks gone awry, about discovering his passion for psychology, learning that his ability to empathize so thoroughly with others could actually help people. He even tells a few stories from his childhood, rare, closely-guarded gems about him and Samantha growing up together in Berlin. He knows she won't ask him to tell her more, especially not tonight, and so he feels safer talking about Samantha than he ever has before.

Their meal finished, Scully refills their champagne flutes and leads him into the little parlor, seating herself on the same sofa he spent the night on, weeks ago. Mulder hesitates to sit beside her, wary of being too forward, but she smiles invitingly up at him, and he knows it's all right. He sinks down into the cushions. Scully looks at him thoughtfully, as though she wants to say something, but isn't sure how to begin.

"Is something wrong?" he asks her.

"No, of course not," she says. "I'm just...." She bites her lower lip thoughtfully. "I want to suggest something, but I'm not sure how you'll take it. Nothing like that!" She catches sight of his raised eyebrows and wide eyes. "No, I... well, I know you're not in the army by your own choice, and I know from what you've told me that you have no real love for Hitler... but...." She looks across the room, towards a radio sitting on a side table. "Mulder, what are your thoughts on music and dancing?" He smiles.

"I'm quite fond of both," he says.

"I know there are kinds of music that Hitler has forbidden," she says. "Am I safe in assuming you think as much of that as you do of the rest of his policies?"

"Very safe," he says. She bites her lip again, and then smiles.

"All right, then," she says, and she stands, crossing the room. She turns on the radio, manipulating the dial carefully, passing static and propaganda and stations playing endless folk tunes, until she catches something quite different. Mulder's eyebrows lift in surprised pleasure as she turns back to him, Artie Shaw's "Begin the Beguine" rolling gently from the radio's speakers. "I don't know where they're broadcasting from, and sometimes they'll go quiet for days at a time," she says, "but this station plays the most wonderful music." She crosses back to him, but instead of returning to the sofa, she places her champagne flute on an end table and holds out her hand to him.

"Mulder, will you dance with me?" A wide smile breaks out across his face. He puts down his own glass and stands, taking her hand.

"Scully, there's nothing I'd like more." He slides his arm around her waist, and she lays hers about his shoulders- the heels give her the height she needs to reach- and they begin to move together. It's an in-between sort of song, not quite fast and not quite slow, and while Mulder can't hold Scully quite as closely as he'd like to, he's still nearer to her than he's been in days, and it's heaven on earth. She's wearing perfume tonight, something she's never done before, and this close, the scent is intoxicating. Between that, her proximity, and the champagne, his entire head is fuzzy. He prays for this wonderful miracle of a radio station to stay on the air, terrified tonight will be one of the nights Scully mentioned that it goes quiet, no doubt to hide from Nazi raiding parties attempting to shut down unsanctioned broadcasts.

But tonight, for once, luck is on his side, because not only does the music continue to play, but the next song is a slow one. Mulder has heard Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade" once or twice before and found it lovely, but now, with Scully standing in front of him, the sweet, lilting melody seems a gift directly from above. Scully looks up at him, and before he can wonder whether or not she'd be all right with dancing a bit closer, she's moving into him, wrapping her arm more tightly around his neck and laying her head tenderly on his chest. He lets out a great, shuddering breath and tightens his hold on her, resting his cheek against her silky hair.

If this is to be the high point of his life, standing in this tiny room holding this tiny woman against him, breathing in her sweet scent and feeling her heart beating against his, Mulder thinks he might be able to live with that. He has never felt this way about anyone, and somehow, though she's never said it, he knows she feels the same. If they had met in any other circumstance, he thinks it perfectly likely he would already have dropped to his knee and asked her to be his... but that's not possible, not now, and so Mulder is content, for the time being, to live in these stolen moments of perfection, hoping that maybe, one day, there can be more. And tonight, New Year's Eve, seems the perfect time to hope for that. It's a time of new beginnings, and why shouldn't Mulder, whose life has been one disaster after another until now, be allowed to hope for a new beginning of his own? Why can't Scully be that for him?

"Mulder, look," she says softly, lifting her head from his chest and pointing at the clock on her mantlepiece. The minute hand is poised to strike midnight, and as they watch it does, the little clock chiming out the hour, the change from one year to the next. When Mulder looks back down at Scully, he discovers she's looking up at him, almost expectantly. Her blue eyes are full of promise, and before anything else can happen to stop them, Mulder wraps his arms around her, leans down, and presses his lips to hers.

He had intended it to be gentle, but Scully is braver than him, bolder, and she surges against him, twining both arms around his neck and winding her fingers into his hair. Her lips part beneath his and her tongue slips out, seeking entrance, which he gladly grants. He runs his own along her lips, her teeth, pulling her tightly against him with one hand at her back and one in her hair, messing up her sleek tresses. She doesn't seem to mind.

They are still kissing long after the clock finishes chiming.

When they finally come up for air, their faces are flushed, their eyes wide and dark. Mulder looks down, taking a moment to compose himself, before he meets her eyes again.

"Happy New Year, Scully," he says. She smiles softly.

"Happy New Year, Mulder."

--------

When Mulder walks back to the camp, some time later, it's begun to snow again, the wind whipping between the buildings and driving sharp flakes into his face. He doesn't notice at all.

He's never felt so warm in his life.

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