TITLE: It's Been Awhile (1/3) AUTHOR: FabulousMonster EMAIL ADDRESS: fabulousmonster@hotmail.com DISCLAIMER: I do not own the X-Files characters. They are the property of Ten-Thirteen, Chris Carter and Co. and FOX. However, I do own the ones that you have never seen in the X-Files before. They are my own creation. DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Gossamer, Xemplary, yes. Anywhere else, just let me know. SPOILER WARNING: Up to and including Season 8 CLASSIFICATION: Mulder POV, MSR, A SUMMARY: Welcome back, Agent Mulder. Nowhere Man. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story is comprised of a series of snapshots of Mulder's life during Season 8. I have tried to flesh out the physical and emotional trauma of his 're- birth' while staying within the context established by 1013. Staind's 'It's Been Awhile' has been playing incessantly throughout the writing of this story. My husband is threatening divorce. Please see additional Author's Notes at the end. All thanks to my betas Duke, MSK, and Keleka who provide me with straightforward and insightful comments, and keep me honest. Feedback is always appreciated! XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX It's Been Awhile--Part 1 "Why did you keep my apartment, Scully?" "It was a crime scene, Mulder." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX A gentle hand weaving through my hair awakes me. "Mulder, it's me." Of course it is. Who else would it be? "What time is it?" The voice I hear is rusty and weak. "Time," she laughs quietly. "It's six months, 14 days, and 27 minutes past the hour." My eyes aren't open--I can't manage that much activity yet--but I know she is crying. "So, the Alien Bounty Hunter took me for joyride." My lips are dry and I try to lick them. Cool water is brought to my mouth. "What do you remember?" Disconnected images flash across my closed lids. I can't piece them together. My head begins to throb. "Don't worry, we can talk later. Get some sleep." The stroking of my hair begins again. A wave of uneasiness washes over me. It feels as though small beetles are embedding in my skull. I think I pull away from her touch as sleep claims me. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "So, it looks like you've been busy while I've been gone." She smiles shyly at my observation. "Can I get you anything? Are you comfortable?" She busies herself around the room, straightening my bed sheets and rearranging the flowers. Her activities irritate me. Ignoring my question irritates me. I am disturbed by my irritation. I try again. "How did this happen? I thought it hadn't worked." Dear God, has she tried with someone else? Or has the chip in her neck, her field trip with CGB Spender, or her illness in Bellefleur played any part in her condition? I taste the bile in my mouth. My irritation turns to dread. "Everything's fine, Mulder. The baby's fine." She brings me a magazine and turns on the TV. "But Scully..." "Everything's *fine*, Mulder." She looks at me pointedly. I get the message loud and clear: no more questions. To emphasize the fact that everything is fine, fine, never better, she smiles tightly and squeezes my wrist. The gesture is meant to reassure me, and I think, maybe her. My skin crawls at her touch. I look into her eyes. I see the fear. No, everything is not fine. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I am in the hospital for over a week before I am allowed out of bed for a walk--actually a shuffle with a walker--down the hall. Turning a corner, I see Scully and another man talking. I can only see him in profile, but I recognize the square jaw, ex-military hair, and squinty resolve immediately: FBI. He is gazing down at her, and she up at him. With a flash of insight, I know I am not meant to hear this conversation. "You gotta tell him," I hear him say in an odd New York- Stone Mountain accent. She sighs. "I don't know. I don't know if it's the time. He's just getting his bearings." He frowns. "He's gonna find out." "Maybe I should wait a little longer." His frown deepens. "Hey, I thought ya always tol' me that he was big on the Truth. No time like the present, if ya ask me." She matches his frown. She didn't ask him. Not really. There is an awkward pause. He shifts gears, moving infinitesimally closer to her. "You look like hell." I feel my hackles rise. If I could get my legs to work, I'd run down the hall and kick his ass. From Scully's expression, I see she's going to beat me to it. "Well, it's not about me right now," she informs him coldly. "Asshole," her expression completes the sentence. "It's all about you right now--and the baby." They are locked in a silent duel. I am amazed when Scully breaks the gaze. He touches her briefly on the arm. "He'd want you thinking that way, too." He strides away. She looks after him and sighs. She places her hands behind the small of her back, closes her eyes, and rolls her neck, trying to stretch out the kinks. He's right: she looks like hell. I hate him for recognizing in two minutes what I've missed for over a week. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Mulder, I've got something to tell you." We are sitting outside on the hospital lawn. The sun is a benediction on my face. I open one eye. When she's finished, she looks at me intently, a mixture of fear and uncertainty etched across her face. I know she's expecting me to wax poetic on life and death and heaven and hell. A little Nietzsche; a little Kierkegaard; maybe even a bit of Ayn Rand thrown in for fun. More than anything though, she needs me to say something profound. "Did you play 'I Did It My Way' at my funeral?" I zigged when she expected me to zag. I forget that she's been out of practice for over six months. Her eyes swim with tears, but she laughs quietly. "Yes, Mulder, we played 'I Did It My Way.'" "The Chairman of the Board or The King's version?" "Elvis, of course. My mother was surprised. Frohike cried." "What did you do?" Time stops momentarily. The sun on my face suddenly becomes unbearably hot. She laughs again, but now there is no humor. Her eyes lock with mine. 'How can you ask me that?' Her question echoes in my head. And she hasn't said a word. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I am eating green Jell-O when the door to my hospital room bursts open. "I have some people who want to talk to you!" the young priest exclaims. He is cafe au lait, curly black hair, Backstreet-Boy-handsome. I choke on my Jell-O. "Do you know who you are? What you mean?" He thinks he is talking to Lazarus. Visions of Pope-dom dance in his eyes. For once in my--second--life, I am without words. How do I answer him? Panic overwhelms me. "Father!" Scully stands at the door. We pay attention. "Father, you're mistaken. Agent Mulder wasn't dead--he was simply missing." "But, I heard...the rumor in the hospital is..." She places her hand on his arm. "I know, but they're just rumors." She smiles up at him. 'Trust me,' her eyes say. 'I am God's child.' He stands in the middle of the room, befuddled and embarrassed. He looks over at me, but the Jell-O is suddenly commanding my attention. I feel a gentle hand come to rest on my head. I look up at him over my bowl, now equally embarrassed. He smiles at me. "Well, I'm glad--God--is glad you are safe. Bless you, Agent Mulder. The Lord always watches over His own." He leaves. My eyes lock with Scully's. "You're going to Hell for that, Scully," I joke weakly. The joke falls flat. Her face is frozen; her eyes haunted. "I've already been there." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Skinner comes to visit me. "Walter!" I exclaim, genuinely pleased to see him. He sits at my bedside, squirming uncomfortably. He is sweating profusely, something I haven't seen before. I become fascinated by a bead of sweat that is traveling from the top of his head towards his nose. He is saying something, but my concentration is on the sweat bead. I begin to mentally count down the time it will take until it reaches his nose. "Mulder, I have to explain why..." Ten, nine, eight. The bead begins its descent down his forehead. "You have to understand, I had to protect..." Six, five, four. The bead has reached the bridge of his nose. "You'd been gone...Krycek...Scully's life...the baby's..." The bead begins to trickle down his nose. Two, one. I interrupt him in mid-sentence. "Walter, why are you sweating so much?" I really want to know. He looks at me incredulously. I see the familiar spark of Skinner anger. "I don't know Mulder, maybe it's because I've never spoken to a fucking corpse before!" Genuine emotion. Honesty. Sweet relief after days of people tiptoeing around me. I laugh. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I hate looking at myself in the mirror. Frankly, I hate my entire body: its pale, scarred gauntness reminds me too much of where-of what--I was only recently. Basic hygiene is torture. The sound of water striking porcelain; the heat, humidity, and closed space of a shower; water like nettles raining down against my skin... I experiment with not shaving for a couple of days, but the itchiness and a disapproving Scully eyebrow eliminate that option. It's getting worse. Any touch, any incidental contact overpowers me. I don't tell anyone. The only fear greater than my phobia is remaining in the hospital. I am desperate to reclaim my life, to plant my feet in the real world once again. I tell myself that the X-Files and Scully need me. The truth is *I* need to be needed again. There must be a place for me in this brave new world. There must be a reason for what has happened to me. Even the agnostic in me can't accept that God can be *that* sadistic a son-of-a-bitch. Using all my training as a psychologist, I blind people to my condition. The doctors, nurses, and hospital personnel are putty in my hands. And Scully... She so desperately wants me to be the Mulder of Old again that she only sees what she wants to see. Ignorance is bliss; love is blind. She tells me I am making a remarkable recovery, and of course, I agree. But, I am falling apart molecule by molecule, and no one knows. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Well, maybe someone does know. Dr. Tuyet-Nga Nguyen-"call me Mai"-is sitting across from me in my hospital room. She is the last step in my road to freedom. If she signs off on my psychiatric review, I will be released from the hospital. She peers at me from over half-moon tortoise-shell glasses. "I haf' some concerns abou' your assessment, Mistah Muldah," she informs me in her charmingly fractured English. A graduate of Ho Chi Minh City University of Medicine and Pharmacy, and the Centre Hospitalier Sainte Anne, Vietnamese and French are her languages of choice. In my attempt to convince her to accelerate my release, I have tried to win her over with my Oxford Conversational French 101. "Ce qui est votre diagnostic, docteur?" She smiles at my incorrect pronunciation. She doesn't indulge the pretense. "I do nah belief you are recovring emotionlly as quickly as you are physiclly. You are wethdrahn an' distan' from those aroun' you. She rolls her chair closer to me. I know somet'ing about torture...rape, Mistah Muldah." I know it takes time, t'erapy to make t'ings well again." I see Vietnamese 'Re-education' Prison Camps in her face. I see the Alien Bounty Hunter tethering me with steel wires through my skin. 'Don't think, don't think,' my brain screams. "I don't have the time to rot away in some hospital." She stiffens at my outburst. I am making her case for her. I try again. "Let me come to see you on an out-patient basis. We can work together..." She interrupts me. "Mistah Muldah, why do I t'ink I will nevah see you again if I sign dis release?" "I don't agree," I protest. "Admittedly, I am struggling a bit to make sense of all this," I flash her my most dazzling smile. "But I believe I am coping with it as well as can be expected." She peers at me again. "Really?" Very deliberately, she places her hand directly over mine. I see it coming, I know what she is trying to do... And I flinch. Her hawk-like gaze is replaced with one of sympathy. As she moves to withdraw her hand, I grip it tightly. "Please Mai, don't delay my release. I need to get out." I cringe inwardly at the desperation in my voice, but continue. "I need to reclaim my life, and I can only do that back at my job, back with the people I know--back with Scully." She opens her folder. "Ah, yes, Dr. Scully. She very much wants you to be release. She belief you are betta off ah home." She sighs softly. "Howevah, I am nah sure how objectif she is." "Scully knows me better than anyone. You should listen to her." "Dr. Scully use to know you. I am nah sure she knows you now." What can I say to this? XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "You've been released, Mulder!" Scully is positively beaming with pleasure at this turn of events. I try to disguise my surprise. "That's great news, Scully." I wonder why I suddenly cannot muster any enthusiasm. "Great news," I repeat dully. Scully notices my hesitancy, and gently rubs my arm. I turn away so she cannot see my distaste at the contact. "It's going to be okay, Mulder," she says softly. "You'll feel better when you're home." I turn back to her and nod. But I don't even know where 'home' is anymore. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ...continued in Part 2 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX It's Been Awhile--Part 2 "Why did you keep my apartment, Scully? "I couldn't give it--give you--up yet." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I stand in my apartment--*my* apartment. Frozen in time. Except it's clean. Except Scully is six months pregnant. Except a molly is dead. Except I am--was--dead. I struggle to straddle the familiar and the unfamiliar. In the here and now, I am not. Welcome home, Agent Mulder. Nowhere Man. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Maybe I'll feel more like myself if I go back to work. There's a new desk in my office, my nameplate is in a desk drawer, and a Fit Pregnancy magazine is sitting next to the coffee machine. Oh yeah, I feel much better. I read and re-read the case files generated during my absence. A liquid-metal man. A guy who can see through walls. 'Butt Genie' written on a post-it-note in Agent Doggett's scrawl is attached to a file. What a funny guy. I can't put my finger on it, but there is something wrong. "Why did Agent Doggett write up most of these cases?" She looks at me surprised. "How do you know that he wrote the reports? We both signed them." "I know your writing style. You didn't write up any of these cases." She sighs. "I didn't realize that it mattered." "We always used to alternate." She pauses and then gathers up some notes. "Well, Mulder, you're wrong." She moves over to my desk and roots through the files until she finds what she is looking for. She tosses a file in my direction. "He didn't write up all the cases." She leaves. I glance down at the file. File X-0928. Fox William Mulder. I put it back in the pile without looking at it. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Agent John Doggett is staring at me. A vision of Agent John Doggett doubled-over after a punch to his solar plexus pleases me, and I smile. "What's so funny, Muldah?" he asks, with a hint of annoyance. I understand his question. Hiding in the Statistics Center ceiling to escape armed military troops and scrambling back in the dead of night to a frantic Scully's apartment are not laughing matters. What's even less funny is the familiarity--reserved as it may be--between him and Scully. When he excuses himself to go to the bathroom, he doesn't have to ask her where it is. As she listens to my account of the evening's events-- punctuated by Doggett's, "It wasn't quite that way" commentary--she brings him an ice pack for the angry bruise on his forehead. Churlishly, I reply, "Nothing's funny, Agent Doggett, except your reaction to tonight. If you understand the X- Files, if you live it and breathe it like I have for eight years, you'd understand that what happened was to be expected." I catch Scully's eye: "At least, the X-Files that I knew." She flushes at my rebuke, but says nothing. Doggett, however, has plenty to say: "You're an arrogant son-of-a- bitch, Muldah. I save your life tonight..." "You almost cost me my life tonight!" "Bullshit!" "Enough!" Scully is standing between us. "Go home, Agent Doggett." He glares at her. "Please," she adds quietly. I see the entreaty in her eyes. He sees it too, nods, and grabs his jacket. Their silent communication unnerves me. "Don't play with the big boys if you're afraid of a bloody nose!" I fire at him as he walks out the door. He turns abruptly as if to say something, thinks better of it, and then leaves, but not before throwing me a 'fuck you, buddy' look. Right back at ya, Agent Doggett. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX The dream is always the same. "Pay attention, Agent Mulder," the Alien Bounty Hunter whispers. "Listen to what I say." I place my hands over my ears like some truculent child. "There is danger, Agent Mulder. You must act quickly. The baby must not come to term. End the baby's life and reclaim your own." "No!" I cry out. "End the baby's life and you can..." The visage and voice become those of Frohike. "Be the friend you've always wanted to be." Frohike morphs into Skinner. "Live up to your potential in your profession." "Be the man I raised you to be." My father. And finally, horrifically, sensually, Scully. "Be the man that I desire." I wake up with a raging erection, drenched in a cold sweat. I cannot talk to Scully about this. Any physical contact-- difficult several weeks ago--is now virtually impossible. I rebuff her hesitant advances. I am afraid of the baby and how it came to be. I certainly cannot be a father to it right now. I am not sure I can ever be. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I grasp desperately at some sense of the routine, even the mundane. The irony does not escape me. "Hey, Scully, is that greasy little pizza place still around the corner?" "Yes, although why it hasn't been closed down is beyond me." "Get your coat, I'm buying." What a joke--my recent disappearing act has left me with no access to any funds except what Scully gives me. She smiles. "Okay, let me pick up my mail and then we'll go." I continue to flick through the TV channels as she goes downstairs. A few minutes later, I hear the door open. Focused on the end of a Wizards game, I don't notice that Scully hasn't come back into her living room until Strickland misses a basket at the buzzer. "Hey, Scully, get a move on! The cheese is congealing even as we speak." No answer. "Scully?" I walk down the small hallway. The bathroom door is slightly ajar. I peek in and am surprised to see her sitting on the edge of the tub, staring forlornly at a piece of paper. I take a step back, and my movement catches her attention. She quickly stands up, rubbing her eyes. The piece of paper is crumpled and tossed into the wastebasket. She runs the water and splashes some on her face before turning to face me. She smiles tremulously. "I'm ready, Mulder. Let's go." "Scully, what's wrong?" "Nothing, Mulder. It's nothing." Yeah, right. I push past her to the wastebasket and pull out the piece of paper. "I don't think you should do that," she warns quietly. The document is a statement of account. Brown-Wynne Funeral Homes. Raleigh, North Carolina. Account paid in full. I clear my throat. "You must have an excellent credit rating, Scully." She begins to sob then, slumping against the tub, hand clasped tightly over her mouth. If I had any question, any thought that her life didn't change the night I was abducted, the scene before me obliterates it. My nameplate in the desk drawer? I am shamed by my misinterpretation of its significance. If I were the man I used to be, I would fold her into my arms, whispering words of support and love. I would gently tease her about her hormones running amok, and we would begin to heal together. But I am not the man I used to be. The Alien Bounty Hunter has taken my resolve, my strength, my heart, my tears. I do not know myself anymore, who I am, or who I am to become. So, as Scully continues to cry, I stand before her unable to move. Overwhelmed with revulsion at the thought of any physical contact, my arms remain locked at my side. And I wonder about the pizza. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Jimmy, set them up again!" I yell to the firing range supervisor. "C'mon, Mulder, you already qualified a couple of weeks ago. Let me close up for the night!" He saunters down to my station. "To hell with that, Jimmy! I've got to get comfortable with my weapon again. I've been out of practice for too long." He looks at me curiously. "So what--now you want to be John Wayne?" I don't keep the exasperation out of my voice. "Jimmy-" "Okay, okay, one more time, Mulder. Then I'm shutting up the shop. I got a wife and kids." "Jimmy, you have a cat and a TV dinner waiting for you at home." He snorts with laughter. "One more time, Mulder." I load the magazine into the SIG. Jimmy sets the target and dims the lights to mimic nighttime shooting. I take aim and fire. Blam. For Kersh and his sycophantic condescension. 'You're welcome to come back, Agent Mulder, but there's a new agent running the X-Files.' Blam, blam. For the new agent. Blam. For the lawyers, bankers, and the overall bureaucratic nightmare I find myself in as I try to reclaim my name and my property. Blam, blam, blam. For the horrible visions that torment me during the day and invade my dreams at night. Blam, blam. For my inability to combat my physical contact phobia. What I desire most, I cannot have. Blam, blam, blam. For my landlord who thinks that Scully's retention and upkeep of my apartment was 'creepy.' Blam, blam. For the sidelong glances I get from the other agents at the FBI. I am the joke-of-the-day: Q: What's the difference between life and death and Agent Mulder. A: About six months. Blam. For how Scully and I cannot talk about the only thing that should matter between us. The clip is empty. I tear off my ear protection, sweating profusely. Jimmy examines the target closely. "Explain to me how you get worse the more you practice?" Welcome to my brave new world, Jimmy. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "You lied to me," I inform her as we drive through the rain-soaked streets of Washington. Actually, Scully is driving. The good people of the Virginia DMV are not convinced that I really exist yet, so a license is out of the question. Her hands tighten on the wheel. "What do you mean?" "You told me that you never remembered anything about your abduction. That's a lie." She looks at me wide-eyed. "How can you say that? Realization dawns on her. "Are you remembering?" Oh no, this discussion is not about me. "Why didn't you tell me?" I continue petulantly. Her knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. "I didn't lie to you. I didn't remember--at first." "At first--so at some point, you did remember." "Nothing really concrete. My memory--what it was-- was more in the form of dreams. And when I began to piece some images together..." She hesitates. "What?" "You weren't ready to hear them." We drive in silence for several minutes. "Are you remembering, Mulder?" I won't--can't--answer her. And then softly: "Tell me about your dreams, Mulder." We have arrived at my building. "You're not ready to hear them." I make sure the door slams good and hard when I get out of the car. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX It's guys' night out. Cheese steaks, beer, bravado, and bullshit. "Check this out, Mulder." I glance over Frohike's shoulder. He reads from an article on the internet: "'The government and Microsoft today announced the creation of the Partnership for Critical Infrastructure Security.' Read between the lines, Mulder: this will give Microsoft the legal right to create software programs that monitor communications between every man, woman, and child in America." "That's illegal without a warrant." "It is," agrees Langly, "But the fat cats at the FCC are so bugged out about national security that they are looking the other way. And the Judiciary Sub-committee on Terrorism, Technology, and Government Information is tying up its investigation in red tape. The Senate will probably get its final report by the time Frohike gets a date." "Hey, punk-ass!" "I can see the headline now," Byers chimes in. 'Microsoft 1 Freedom 0.'" I chuckle. "When Bill Gates makes your social security disappear, give me a call." Langly snorts at my derision. Just like old times. "Mulder, we have something to give you." Byers hands me a small piece of paper. "It's a check," I say, confused. "We feel we owe it you, especially after what you did," Frohike says. I still don't get it. Frohike continues. "After you had--after your estate was finalized--Scully came to us. She had a check with her. She said that as part of your estate, you had left Lone Gunmen Enterprises some money." Byers smiles gently. "Of course, when we saw the amount..." I glance at the check again. The amount is significant, but not overwhelming. "We were very appreciative. It was gratifying to all of us--" he nods to Frohike and Langly, "- -that you thought so much of our work." "But that was then. Everything has changed now that you're back," says Langly. "And we can't in good conscience keep the money," Byers continues." "It's all yours, buddy!" Frohike clasps me by the shoulder. I choke back a cry. "With interest," Langly grins. I need the money, but I need Frohike's hand off my shoulder even more. "Keep it guys." I shrug it off subtly. "Consider me a silent partner. I've always wanted to be a dot-com mogul. It beats being a patron saint." They protest, but I'm already out the door. I call her from my cell phone. She doesn't answer, but I leave a message: "Scully, it's me. I just left the Gunmen. They told me about the money." I grip the phone tighter. Why is this so hard? Why is everything so hard right now? "I just wanted to thank you--" My eyes suddenly blur and I rub them furiously. "--the estate of Fox Mulder would like to thank you. It turns out I was a better friend in death than in life." There is nothing more to say. After my mother's death, I revised my will. Everything--*everything*--was left to Scully. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX The dream has changed. I see Scully, but not as I know her now. Instead, she is Scully of the Bad Time: Duane Barry, truth-as- fear, and aching loneliness. Her hair is longer but lackluster; her complexion sallow; her face and body unnaturally bloated. She is in a rowboat on a lake; I am standing on the shore. I see her mouth moving, but I cannot hear her. I try to cross the lake to reach her, but it is too deep and I cannot swim. I struggle back to shore; when I turn to face her again, she is gone. I move from the shore to the tree line. Scully--Antarctica- back-from-the-dead-Scully--awaits me. "I told you you weren't ready to hear my dreams," she rasps through frostbitten lips. She was--is--right. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ...continued in Part 3 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX It's Been Awhile--Part 3 "Why did you keep my apartment, Scully? "Somehow I knew you'd be back." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I am underfoot, overbearing, and driving Scully crazy. "Mulder, go for a run!" she says in exasperation, tossing me a pair of my old running shoes from her closet. A run. I haven't been for a run since... I pull on the shoes. "Where should I go?" "I don't know--run to J. Edgar Hoover's grave and back for all I care, but get out of here!" I return an hour and a half later, dripping sweat and gasping for breath. She regards me with amusement. "Feel better?" Wait. Is that a lung I hear collapsing? "Yeah, I feel great," I rasp. But I do feel better, more alive than I have in weeks. She smiles again. "Well, go take a quick shower. I made some of Captain Bill's four-alarm chili." Cold flames of fear lick at my heart. Her casual invitation hints at a degree of intimacy that has not existed between us since my return. And showering--any form of personal hygiene--continues to be torture for me. Sponge baths or a hand-held showerhead has been the order of the day, accompanied by the inevitable heart palpitations and vertigo. I can't let Scully see me this way. Weak. Frightened. Emasculated. "Are you all right, Mulder?" she asks, her brow furrowing. "Yeah, I'm fine. I think I should just go home." The frown between her eyes deepens. "Don't be silly,I *made* chili. My Dad would be insulted if you didn't sample his wares," she grins. "No, no," I stammer. "I should go--I'm not feeling too well." Big mistake. Scully moves into doctor-mode, placing her hand against my forehead. I stumble away from her. Her concern is now palpable. "Mulder..." "Look, Scully, don't worry. It's just a little problem I'm having right now." "Problem?" My flight-fight instinct is overwhelming, but she's not going to let me leave without an explanation. I stammer out an excuse, joking about a 'water phobia' and how I won't make the Olympic Synchronized Swimming Team this year while trying to keep the details to a minimum. "How long has this been happening?" she asks quietly. I'm suddenly very tired of lying. "Since I got back." "Back to Washington?" "No, *back*..." There is such an expression of sadness in her eyes that I cannot continue. We stand looking at each other, and then she turns on her heel and walks down the hallway. I hear the water running. The blood pounds in my head. Didn't she hear what I said? I pace about the living room. The water continues to run. Is she mocking me? My ailment? I feel my resentment grow. Hell will freeze over before I chase after her, I resolve. The water finally stops. She doesn't return. Standing in the middle of room, feeling abandoned and abused, I contemplate walking out the door, and out of her life forever. But I can't. Instead, bristling with anger, I burst into the bathroom. "Goddamn it, Scully, I thought I told you!--What the hell happened to you?" I am stunned by what I see: Scully perched on the edge of the tub in nothing but her maternity bra and panties. Her back is slightly turned, giving me a quick glimpse of a jagged scar snaking between her shoulder blades and one at the base of her spine. Without thinking, I cross the tile floor and put my hand on her back just below her neck. "Who did this to you?" I want to tear about the place, ripping off doors and overturning tables to find the culprit. She doesn't answer for a moment. Instead, she leans into the pressure of my hand against her back. She might as well of doused me with ice water. I spiral away from my rage and back to the here and now, and pull my hand away. I glance at it, half-expecting to see the flesh peeled away from the bone. She pretends not to notice. "I was hurt trying to help...I was hurt because of my own foolishness." "'Foolish' is not a word I would use to describe you." "'Dishonest' isn't a word I would use to describe you." The room is quiet expect for the dripping of the tap. I fixate on it, watching the droplets crash slow motion into the water. She is oblivious. "But I guess that's what you've been the past month. With the Gunmen, Skinner, me. And yourself." Drip. Drip. I can't hear what she is saying over the din of the water and move to leave. Her voice comes to me again, hushed and anguished. "That's it Mulder, keep running." She is still sitting on the edge of the tub. I've seen that look of clinical detachment. I am a bug under her microscope. A corpse to be autopsied. Drip. Drip. In one step, I reach over her shoulder to tighten the tap. Straightening, I loom over her. She doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. "I haven't been dishonest with you--with anyone," I inform her through clenched teeth. "I've been protecting you..." "Protecting me--like you did with your brain tumor?" she interrupts softly. The tap is dripping again despite my efforts to turn it off. She stands up, forcing me to take a step back. "No more 'protecting', no more lying, Mulder. It's time for the Truth." In one smooth motion she strips off her bra and panties and stands before me. Naked. Vulnerable. Swollen. Damaged. Wondrous. She steps into the tub. Breasts and belly gently bob in the water. If I were the Mulder of Old, I'd do my best Captain Nemo imitation and join her for a round of Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. Instead, my arms are behind me, my fingers leaving imprints in the porcelain of the sink. She takes a sea sponge and begins to bathe water over her neck and shoulders. The scar between her shoulder blades turns an angry purple as her skin warms in the bath. "You know, when I was first returned, I couldn't sleep with the lights off for almost two months." Her tone is light, almost conversational, as if she were discussing the items on a grocery list. "When we were out on a case together, I was afraid you'd burst into my room with one of your 3:00 AM brainstorms and discover my secret." "The light bothers me--I was always under some sort of spotlight..." I stop, embarrassed by my sudden revelation. She continues as though she doesn't hear me. "Later, we'd be in a city or town, and I'd get such a feeling of deja vu, like I'd been there before." Her tempo increases. "And I'd know I hadn't, and then I'd wonder if I might have been there during my abduction." The pace is now frenetic. "And I was sure it meant that They were going to 'call' me again, and I would disappear and you wouldn't find me..." She stops, takes a deep breath, and sponges some water on her neck. "I was afraid all the time." Drip. Drip. "How did you get over it?" Please Scully, give me the key to get my life back. She looks at me intently. "I talked to Karen Kosseff and she helped me. She told me to set small, manageable goals for myself each day like: 'Don't sleep with all the lights on--just keep a nightlight on. Give yourself some 'wins' each day. It won't change your life overnight, but each day will get a little better, a little easier.' She was right." Her smile warms me. "Besides, chasing you all over the country kept me so busy that after awhile I forgot to be afraid anymore." I don't want to be afraid anymore. She regards me thoughtfully. "Why don't we start with a goal for you? She doesn't wait for an answer. "Get in the tub, Mulder." Her voice is whiskey swirling in a glass. Too big a goal. My head begins to spin. "C'mon, Mulder. You can do this." She holds her hand out to me. Shaking, I begin to strip off my clothes. I catch my 'panic-face' reflection in the bathroom mirror. A sudden thought makes me pause: my injuries, while healing, are still pronounced. The scars on my chest and back, the bruising around my groin... I am still painfully thin. Damaged. Ugly. I turn slowly to face her. "I'd forgotten how beautiful you are," she says tenderly. Just breathe, Mulder. And get in the tub. I expect the water to be hot, awakening demons I have battled for too long. Instead, it is cool against my skin. I draw my knees up to my chest, my back to Scully. She sponges my shoulders and neck, and I will myself not to leap out of the water. Her touch is efficient. It is not meant to titillate, but to provide comfort. I feel my muscles begin to relax. While she bathes me, she tells me about how her mother is determined to give her a baby shower; how Bill Jr., on temporary assignment to the Pentagon, set up a crib for her after several hours of sweat and several bottles of beer; how the Gunmen--Langly excluded--argued about who would attend Lamaze class with her; how Kersh's face turned into a prune when she announced she was pregnant; how Skinner's face glowed. "If I give Bill a bottle of Scotch, do you think I can get him to put up some bookshelves for me?" I inquire, and she laughs with delight. It feels wonderful to laugh with her again. We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. She continues to bathe me, and I discover I have moved closer to make it easier for her. Her belly juts into my back. She begins to soap my hair. "Tell me about the baby, Scully." She stops her activity. "Mulder..." "Tell me about the baby, Scully," I repeat. "I really need to know, to understand." "The baby is fine, Mulder. Healthy. Normal." "But how do you know? How can you be sure?" "I've had every possible test run, and checked and re- checked all the results. I have a doctor who I trust--and I have faith." "Faith?" I can't see her face, but I know she is smiling. "Faith, Mulder. Father McCue says 'faith is believing in the unbelievable.'" She rests her forehead against my back. "You're my living proof." I cover my face with my hands. I am exhausted. It's too much. And not enough. But it's a start. Small, manageable goals. Her fingers move gently through my hair as she rinses it. This time, I do not pull away. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Dr. Nguyen?" "Yes?" "It's Fox Mulder." "Mistah Muldah! I hav'n heard from you since you release." "I know. I apologize. I'd like to come see you." "Are you really ready?" "Yes. Yes I am." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX I find the doll in a box marked 'TM Bedroom.' I can't remember who packed it. She is missing some hair and the dress is yellow with age. Samantha used to call her 'Grubby Grilda' and toss her aside to play with her 'Newborn Thumbelina.' My mother wanted nothing to do with her after Samantha disappeared. She deserves a better future. We all do. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX There is a new agent working on the X-Files. I should sell tickets. We trudge back from the crime scene, picking our way through the mud and thistles. I have played this scene out too many times before. In the past, I was able to divorce myself from the misery of such a tableau. Now, as I struggle to gain a foothold in my emotional life, it is not so easy. After all, even I am not blind to the man's torment. I pick up the pace, hoping to put some distance between his pain and my fragile psyche. The new agent is muttering to herself. "Dammit, John, if you'd just be truthful with yourself, maybe we could help you." "*We've* done all we can, Agent Reyes. You can't help someone who won't help himself." She stops abruptly. "That's a cold thing to say, Agent Mulder. Do you always give up on a case when a witness isn't co-operative?" "He's not a witness, Agent Reyes. He has no knowledge of the crime. And this tenuous connection that you are trying to make between the body and the death of his son..." She regards me curiously. "Maybe this is hitting too close to home for you." Man, she doesn't gives up. "My assessment is in no way compromised by my personal circumstances, Agent Reyes. You are simply seeing things that aren't there." I move past her, sliding in the mud. She calls after me. "Must be quite a change for you--the shoe being on the other foot." I almost fall on my ass before I reach the car. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "How are you feeling, Scully?" I try not to look as scared as I sound. "I'm okay, Mulder," she replies groggily. "The baby?" "A little scare--I'll have to stay off my feet for awhile, but the baby's fine." Tentatively, I place my hand on her belly. I feel a flutter under my touch. "Just like a butterfly," I say in wonderment, and she beams. "My butterfly baby," she intones drowsily. I leave my hand on her abdomen. I am making progress. "How's the case you're working on with Agent Doggett?" I don't want to talk about Doggett--I want to concentrate on the movement underneath my hand. Reluctantly, I answer: "I'm not sure--well, I am sure he doesn't want my help." "Don't give up on him, Mulder. He's worth the effort." A stab of jealousy. Maybe I'm not making progress after all. "He's hanging around the hospital right now like a ghoul, and the nurse tells me he's been disturbing you." "He hasn't been disturbing me, Mulder." Her eyelids begin to droop. "He's just being a good partner." She sighs softly. "Actually, he's been a better partner to me than I have to him." "I find that hard to believe." A soft snore is the only response I receive. Late that night, I go back to the office and pull out the files again. This time I read between the lines. She's right: he was a better partner. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX We sit across from each other in the hospital waiting room. The fluorescent lights buzz angrily. "How's Agent Reyes?" "She's okay. She took a nasty smack in the head, but she'll be okay. The doctah wants to keep her overnight for observation." "Standard procedure." "Yeah. How's Agent Scully doin'?" "The doctor says she'll probably release her tomorrow." We stare impassively at each other. "What are you still doing here, Agent Doggett?" "Look Muldah, I made sure Monica was okay, and then I wanted to check on Scully. Whether you wanna face it or not, she's still my partner." "You sure that's all you're doing-just checking on Scully?" "What the hell does that mean?" "Did you ever come across a case file on an Emily Sims?" "Wha--? Emily Sims? What's that gotta do with anythin'?" "Emily Sims," I repeat. "Do you know the case I'm talking about?" His eyes narrow. "Yeah, I know the case." "Did you and Agent Scully ever talk about it?" "Why would we?" "Because you share a similar past--both losing children--" "I told you to leave it alone, Muldah! Goddamn it, some things are personal! I respected Agent Scully's privacy..." "Did you know that she had visions of Emily after she died?" He gulps for air as if I just hit him in the gut. "There was nothin' about that in the file." "We--I--kept it out. I respected Agent Scully's privacy, too." "Why're ya tellin' me this?" he chokes. I stand up wearily. "Agent Reyes believes that her vision is the key to this case." I smile crookedly. "She can be very persuasive." He opens his mouth to protest, but I cut him off: "Maybe there's another reason why you need to see Agent Scully." I hear the sadness in Scully's voice: 'He was a better partner to me than I was to him.' "I think she might need to see you, too." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX The session is not going well. "Mistah Muldah, you are very quiet today. Is somt'ing wrong?" "No." I get up and pace about the small office. "My fear of physical contact seems to be dissipating. I was able to stand in a shower the other day without hyperventilating. I'm feeling better..." "How is Dr. Scully?" she interrupts. I smile. "She's fine." "An' your job?" "I am a joke to my peers, an annoyance to my superiors- everything is perfectly normal," I sigh. "Hmm," she responds. "What?" "I ha' nevah heard you describe your job as normal." I examine one of her diplomas as I have done countless times during our sessions. "You know, I always used to be the 'big dog' at the X-Files." "'Big dog?'" she asks, puzzled. "Yes, 'big dog'--you know, the one in charge, the one with the answers." She laughs gleefully. "'Big dog'--I will ha' to remember that for my narcissistic-aggressive patients. You Americans ha' such wonderful expressions!" She looks at me closely. "An' you are no longer the 'big dog'?" "No, there are other agents in the office who are running things. If anything, they look to Scully for guidance." "How does that make you feel?" How does that make me feel? I sit down across from her. "I'm not sure. A year ago, I would have fought anyone who tried to interfere, to take away the X-Files. I don't seem to be fighting that much anymore." "Perhap there are other t'ings that ha' capture your interest?" she suggests. "I've dedicated my life to the X-Files." "Your *first* life," she corrects. What is she saying? "Are you saying I should leave the X- Files?" "I would nevah presume to sugges' such a t'ing." She taps me gently on the chest. "Only you' heart can tell you that." The Alien Bounty Hunter cut into my chest, pulled out my heart, and showed it to me. "'Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart,'" I murmur. "N'Sync?" she asks, her eyes crinkling with mirth. We laugh together. "Don' be afraid of the future, Mistah Muldah," she says after a moment. "'You will find it or it will find you.'" "Jimmy Hoffa?" She smiles. "My father." My thoughts turn to Scully and the baby. I think the future just found me. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Let me talk to Kersh!" Doggett bellows over the din of the helicopter blades. "I'll tell him that I asked for you on this case--that I specifically requested that you accompany me to the oil rig." "He won't buy it, Agent Doggett!" I shout back. "When we get back to the mainland, my career as an FBI agent will be over!" I can see he is frustrated and angry by the turn of events. He doesn't give a damn about me, but the baby and Scully should have a man in their lives who can support them. "The X-Files are everything to ya." "Actually, there's only one X-File I'm interested in now." He looks at me questioningly. I meet his gaze. "But I don't think I can protect her through the FBI anymore." He considers my words. "What will ya do?" "I'm joining Miss Cleo's Psychic Hotline. Thought it would be right up my alley." He looks at me incredulously, and then begins to laugh. He clasps me briefly on the shoulder. "You're a piece of work, Muldah, I gotta give ya that!" Right back at ya, Agent Doggett. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX We sit beside each other on her couch, not quite touching. "What would you have told the baby about me if I hadn't come back?" I ask casually. "But you are back--you'll have plenty of time to introduce yourself." "Scully..." She thinks for a moment. "I would have told the baby that you were brave and principled and creative and honest. That even when you were surrounded by ugliness or evil, you never lost sight of the good. That you accepted people for who they were." I reach over and capture a lock of her hair. I make a moustache of it under my nose. "Nice." She moves a bit closer to facilitate my access. She smiles slightly, but her expression is thoughtful. "I would have told him--or her--that you were single-minded, and that in your pursuit of what you thought was right, you occasionally alienated people." "Occasionally?" I tease. "And that sometimes you lost sight of the fact that you could lose the battle and still win the war." I let her hair slip from my hand. She tilts her head. Her eyes are shining. "But the day I walked into your office for the first time was the day my life changed forever, and that I wouldn't change a fluke worm, a late-night stakeout, or a greasy room-service cheeseburger for anything." "Don't tell the kid about the cheeseburger--it'll scare him." She holds my hand in hers. "And that you would have given anything--anything--to be part of his life if you could." "He wouldn't have understood as he grew up. Kids never understand when someone who loves them leaves them." I say somberly. She looks at me, her expression unfathomable. "Really?" I think of my own father and how our paths separated and then came together. "Well, maybe not." She is quiet for a moment. "Mulder, I never want to have this type of conversation with our child." *Our* child. For the first time since my return, she has clearly voiced what I have avoided. Time to stop running, Mulder. "You won't." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX My future just drove away in a cloud of garage dust and a squeal of tires. 'Be safe, I love you, I'll be with you soon,' I send to her on whatever interstellar plane we share. "We gotta get you outta here, it's not safe," growls Doggett. I look at him uncomprehendingly. "C'mon Mulder, let's go," Skinner chimes in. They are worried about me. "I'm not the one you need to be worried about," I tell both of them. "You're in just as much danger as Agent Scully," stresses Doggett. "I can take care of myself." "Muldah..." Doggett snarls. "Don't worry, Agent Doggett. I've got him." Skinner moves behind me and touches me on the elbow. I glance over my shoulder. Trusting my life, my future to others are foreign concepts to me. I am unnerved by the idea. "When did you become my nurse maid?" "About nine months ago in a forest in Bellefleur, Oregon." Oh. "And Mulder-" "Yeah?" "Don't wander away this time." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX My son--*my son*--was born today. He is fuzzy-haired, wrinkled as a prune, and splotchy. The jury is still out on the nose. He is beautiful. Scully is pale and her voice weak, but she grips my arm fiercely. "Tell me, Mulder--tell me the Truth. Is he okay?" she asks, her voice breaking. I place my hand over hers. "He's fine, Scully. He's wonderful." Her eyes search my face for any sign of deception. Trembling fingers touch my lips, my cheeks. "You're crying," she says through her own tears. Three months ago, I thought the Alien Bounty Hunter stole my resolve, my strength, my heart, my tears. I look down at Scully and my son. I've got them back. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX We introduce our son to his grandmother. "He's absolutely exquisite!" Mrs. Scully exclaims, holding him tenderly. "What is his name?" "William," Scully responds, "After..." "After his Grandpa Scully," I interject. Both women look at me wordlessly and then begin to cry. Like mother, like daughter. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX My life continues to unfold in ways I never imagined. I find myself attending a private Mass surrounded by friends and family. "It would mean so much to me, Mulder," Scully says, and after my experiences over the past three months, who am I to deny her? The Lord moves in mysterious ways. Scully invites everyone--a heartfelt 'thank you' for their support. They are all here, an unlikely gaggle of allies: Mrs. Scully, Skinner, Frohike, Langly, Byers, and Dr. Nguyen. Doggett and Monica hang back a bit, uncertain of their role. I know the feeling. I catch Monica's eye and smile, and she takes Doggett by the elbow and leads him closer to the group. We kneel as Father McCue takes his place before the altar. He smiles benevolently. I don't pretend to understand everything, but I follow Scully's lead, cradling William against my chest. "Lord have mercy on us," chants Father McCue. "Christ have mercy on us," everyone responds as I glance up at the beautiful stained glass in the sanctuary. I feel Scully's gaze upon me. I turn to look at her, and my breath catches at the glow in her eyes, on her face. At least once in a lifetime, a man should have the privilege of seeing such an expression on the face of the woman he loves. "Lift up your hearts," says Father McCue. "We have them lifted up to the Lord." The silence is pierced by the first clear call of the bell. William stirs in my arms. I look at him and then at the collection of heads bowed before me. "Thank you," I mouth to Scully. Her eyes glimmer in the candlelight. Twice more the liquid peals of the bell call us. Father McCue uncovers the chalice. "The mystery of faith: which for you and for many will be shed unto the remission of sins." He splits the Host in half over the chalice, and then breaks off a particle. "World without end." Scully shifts slightly towards me. "I love you," she says silently. The priest covers the chalice, genuflects, bows low and says: "Lamb of God, Who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us. Lamb of God, Who takes away the sins of the world, grant us peace." Scully and I look at each other, then at William. I hug him tightly. "Amen," we say in unison. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX "Scully, I'm giving up my apartment." "It's about time, Mulder." XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ADDITIONAL AUTHOR'S NOTES: >From Part 1: Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, and Ayn Rand are all philosophers. Nietzsche originated the phrase "God is dead"; Kierkegaard equated the immortality of men to those of insects; and Ayn Rand of 'Atlas Shrugged' fame rejected any notion of the supernatural, preferring to rest a man's fate on the judgment of his own mind and willingness to stand alone against tradition and popular opinion. "Ce qui est votre diagnostic, docteur?" translates to "What is your diagnosis, doctor?" >From Part 2: The Washington Wizards is a professional basketball team. Rod Strickland was a point guard for them last year. Brown-Wynne Funeral Homes is an actual funeral parlor in Raleigh, North Carolina. It specializes in Jewish and Christian funerals. The Partnership for Critical Infrastructure Security created between Microsoft and the US government really exists. >From Part 3: Newborn Thumbelina is a doll from the Sixties. I still have mine. Narcissistic-aggressive people can be described as overbearing achievers, or A-type personalities. 'Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart,' is a quote from Confucius. Jimmy Hoffa was the leader of the Teamsters Union from 1957 to 1971. Alleged to have ties to organized crime, he was convicted of fraud and jury tampering, and served four years in prison. In 1975, while trying to regain power in the union, Hoffa disappeared. It is assumed that the Mafia killed him. His body was never found. For our Euro-friends, Miss Cleo's Psychic Hotline is a 24- hour telemarketing venture accessible in North America. Last year, estimated revenue was over $400 million US. The hotline is being sued by various government agencies for fraud. The Mass in the last scene is a highly condensed summation. I am not Catholic; my information comes from various web sites. The Title: It's Been Awhile, by Staind (lyrics) It's been awhile Since I could hold my head high It's been awhile Since I first saw you It's been awhile Since I could stand on my own two feet again It's been awhile Since I could call you But everything I can't remember As fucked up as it all may seem The consequences that I've rendered I've stretched myself beyond my means It's been awhile Since I could say that I wasn't addicted It's been awhile Since I could say I love myself as well It's been awhile Since I've gone and fucked things up Just like I always do But all that shit seems to disappear when I'm with you But everything I can't remember As fucked up as it my seem The consequences that I've rendered, I've gone and fucked up things again. Why must I feel this way? Just make this go away Just one more peaceful day It's been awhile Since I could look at myself straight It's been awhile Since I said I'm sorry It's been awhile Since I've seen the way The candle lights your face But I can still remember Just the way you taste But everything I can't remember As fucked up as it all may seem to be I know it's me I cannot blame this on my father He did the best he could for me It's been awhile Since I could hold my head up high And it's been awhile Since I said I'm sorry I will miss the X-Files. Thank you CC for nine wonderful years of entertainment, and inspiring me to write again. If you would like to read some more of my X-Files fanfic, please check out Fran58's excellent site: http://www.fran58.net/authorspgs/fabmon/fabmon.htm Thanks for reading!