TITLE: Blue Jean Blue
AUTHOR: Maggie McCain
DISTRIBUTION: Please ask before forwarding or archiving.
FEEDBACK: Send it to MaggieMac525@aol.com, and I will be so 
          happy I'll do the dance of joy.
SPOILERS: None
RATING: G
CLASSIFICATION: V, UST 
SUMMARY: Thoughts wander when meetings run long.
DISCLAIMER: "The X-Files" and all its characters and 
            situations are owned by CC, 1013, and Fox. 
            No infringement is intended.
 
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks are due to cofax, for de-schmooping, 
               and Paula, for the crayons. Dedicated to 
               Missy, because I depressed her and she 
               helped me anyway. 


                 Blue Jean Blue
                By Maggie McCain

It's a difficult decision to make.

There are a million different shades to choose from, enough 
to fill a case of Crayola boxes. Royal blue? Too purple. 
Navy blue? Too dark, although the name has a certain 
appropriateness. Midnight blue is too black; slate blue is 
too gray. 

I remember this game that Samantha and I used to play. She 
had the good box of crayons-- the really big one with the 
built-in sharpener, the one that all the kids wanted. She 
was always careful with her crayons; I can't remember her 
ever breaking one. Anyway, she would color something, and 
try to make me guess what color she had used. I can still 
see her, hands on her hips and one tooth missing. 

"Guess this one, Fox!" she would say. I'd sigh and glance 
at her paper. 

"It's green."

"Huh-uh," she'd say, confident in her seven-year-old 
superiority. "It's *blue*-green."

"I thought you said the last one was blue-green."

"Nope, that was green-blue."

I think I memorized the name of every one of those crayons. 
Amazing the things that turn out to be useful in life.

I do a mental run-through of the blues I know, seeking the 
one name that will feel right to me. Seal blue, teal blue, 
aqua, cobalt, periwinkle. Sky blue, mist blue, baby blue, 
cerulean blue.

Ouch. Bad memories. Definitely not cerulean.

"Agent Mulder?"

I start a bit, yanking my thoughts out of the past and back 
into the conference room. "Yes, sir?"

"You were shaking your head. Do you disagree with Agent 
Johnston's analysis?"

The part of my brain that was paying attention to the 
meeting backpedals frantically. Johnston, Johnston... ah. 
Computerized expense report filing.

"No, sir, I think his analysis is very insightful."

Scully lifts an eyebrow from across the table, and it's all 
I can do not to grin at her. She knows quite well I wasn't 
listening to Mike Johnston, who is now defending his report 
to Fenley from White-Collar Crimes. I scribble something in 
my notes and nod thoughtfully as I let my mind drift again.

Delft blue? Ice blue? Cornflower? Close, but... not quite.

Actually, it's more the color of blue jeans. Not the kind 
that are coming back into style now, so stiff with indigo 
dye that you leave smudges everywhere the first three times 
you wear them: that color is too rigid. And not any of 
those designer fancy blues you used to see in the 80s; it's 
a more natural shade than that.

I think it's the exact color of everyone's favorite jeans. 
Every American has a pair, the ones that are older than 
your career, the ones that your mom has tried to throw away 
at least twice. Those are the jeans that have been washed 
so many times they have a nap like baby velvet, the ones 
that hug your legs as if they love you.

Those jeans are the textile equivalent to comfort food. The 
cuffs are frayed, the seams are frayed, there are tiny 
holes next to the rivets, and the back pocket has a faded 
patch in the shape of your wallet. 

Those jeans speak of comfort and baseball, bowl games and 
lazy Saturdays when the only obligation you have is the 
Knicks game at seven. They're better loungewear than 
pajamas, better activewear than Umbros. They are the 
ultimate in versatility. 

They are a perfect fit.

There are newer clothes, fancier clothes, prettier clothes, 
costlier clothes. But there are never any clothes that are 
as well loved as those jeans.

Scully notices my preoccupation, and shoots me a look from 
across the conference table that somehow combines affection 
and annoyance. As it hits me, I can almost hear it thwack 
like that line drive I took on the shin in Little League 
the summer I was nine.

I realize that I'm not thinking about denim anymore.

I look down at my meeting notes, and just below a notation 
on the new FBI template for inter-departmental memos is a 
list of all my rejected blues. If she sees it, I'll just 
say I'm trying to decide on a new color to paint my 
bathroom wall. I'm not fool enough to tell her what I was 
really doing.

I'm no poet. But if I were, I'd try to capture all the 
things that make her Scully, to wrap them in eloquent 
words. I would show the world my partner, with her smile 
that undoes me, her arms that uphold me, her voice that 
uplifts me, and her eyes, that perfect blue jean blue.

END (01/01)

Maggie's fanfic: http://www.prism.gatech.edu/~vaps6kw/