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“Can I make you a drink, Mulder?”
Mulder smiled at Tara. Bill Jr. and Scully were out in the garden and all three Scully children (Matthew, William, and Tara and Bill Jr.’s new baby, Melissa) were fast asleep for their afternoon nap. A California summer vacation was just what Will, just over a year old, had been needing. Not to mention, it was a welcome change of pace for his mom and dad.
“That’d be lovely.”
“If you wanna hang out outside with Bill and Dana, I’ll bring you one.”
A few minutes later Tara came out with a trey of reddish brown drinks, handing Mulder one.
“Yum!” Said Bill Jr. “I love red beer.”
“Red beer?” Laughed Tara. “You know they’re called micheladas.”
Mulder took a long pull of his, and found the combination of tomato juice and beer strangely compelling. There was just the slightest tinge of something sour underneath it that made it all the tastier.
“This is delicious, Tara,” said Scully, while Mulder agreed.
“What’s in a miche— what was it?”
“A michelada, Fox,” she corrected.
“Right. What’s in it?”
“Well, beer. Worchester sauce. Soy sauce. Lime juice.”
“And tomato juice?” Prompted Scully.
“No, it’s Clamato.”
“What’s Clamato?” Asked Mulder, taking another big drink.
“Tomato juice mixed with clam broth.”
Mulder struggled to keep his mouth shut, forcing his throat to keep swallowing the giant mouthful of clam juice he had on board.
“Oh no,” whispered Scully.
“It’s okay,” said Mulder upon swallowing, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.
“What’s wrong?” Asked Tara, looking back and forth between Mulder and Scully in alarm.
“Mulder… doesn’t do shellfish.”
“Oh my god! Is he allergic?” Asked Bill Jr., shockingly concerned about the welfare of his much hated brother-in-law.
“No. Just Jewish,” said Scully, almost apologetically.
“We don’t eat…. shellfish…” said Mulder, fighting to push the image of creepy crawly sea bugs squirming around in his stomach to the side so he didn’t throw up in the rose bushes.
“But, Mulder,” scoffed Bill Jr. “You had a BLT for lunch!”
Scully elbowed him.
“That doesn’t mean I eat shellfish!”
“What are you supposed to do when you eat shellfish, Mulder?”
“I don’t know. It hasn’t happened before! I think I need to go to the bathroom.”
In the piece and quiet of the bathroom, Mulder gathered himself, putting a cloth to the back of his neck and hearing Scully reassure her family that he wasn’t going to die and that misunderstandings like this happened all the time.
He chuckled a little at the luck he had in knowing her.