What a man thinks when time stands still…
Location Unknown
October 2000
I'm floating. Or at least, it feels like I'm floating. I think I'm actually sleeping, but it's kinda hard to tell. If I am, I'm having one of those weird "I know I'm sleeping and dreaming" moments. And able to stay asleep, that's the thing. There's a term for that, but I don't remember what it is. They say you can learn how to do it — controlling what you dream about while staying asleep. Wouldn't that be interesting? What would you most want to dream about, Scully, if you could control your dreams?
Scully?
Oh, yeah, I'm asleep. She's not here. Why am I sleeping like this during the day? I think I went for a run early this morning. Did about three times my normal distance and then came back home to collapse on the couch. But I'm not on my couch now... What time is it? What day is it? Why am I not at work?
Jesus, where am I?
* * * * *
June 1998
The normally bustling cafe was quiet at this hour of the evening. Scully watched as staff members swept behind the counter and wiped down the benches in the booths. They were the only two patrons in the shop, nursing a couple of large cups of industrial strength coffee that had been made fresh just for them. Black. Not the way that either one of them generally preferred their poison but she noticed that he hadn't bothered to add anything to his cup. She quickly decided that black was probably most appropriate for the mood of the moment.
Mulder hadn't said much of anything since they left the Hoover Building. Even when she took over the driver's seat of his car, he didn't utter a word of protest. He also didn't express any preference when she asked him where he wanted to go. She finally decided that somewhere neutral for now was probably best, to allow them time to recover from the shock of the past few hours. She knew one thing: she couldn't imagine leaving him alone for the night just yet, if at all.
Even as she watched the staff perform their cleaning chores, Scully couldn't get the vision of the burnt office out of her mind. It was out there like some sort of virtual reality overlay, some holographic image that hung in front of everything she looked at. As she turned her attention across the table, she noticed that Mulder had dropped his head back against the headrest of their booth, his eyes closed. She knew that he was seeing it all over again, in full living color.
"Mulder?"
He opened his eyes and gradually focused them on her, lifting his head up slowly in the process.
"Yeah?" His voice — that voice that occasionally sent shivers up and down her spine — sounded miles away and stripped of feeling.
Now that she had his attention, though, she didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say, at least nothing that would make the moment any easier to cope with or make their immediate outlook any brighter.
He saw her difficulty and reacted accordingly, sitting up straight and forcing down a mouthful of coffee. Look alive, he thought to himself wearily. He observed her steady scrutiny and pitied her for having to put up with him.
"It's okay, Scully. I'm all right. I'm not about to go postal, if that's what you're thinking." He swallowed down another gulp of his coffee, his face reacting this time to the unfamiliar bitterness.
"I wasn't thinking that."
"No? I was, for a bit. This just seems like so much crap to me. I'm so sick and tired of being played that I surely must be stupid to keep coming back for more. I'm just doing everything they expect me to do. A big dumb puppet on somebody's string —" He paused abruptly to take a deep heaving breath, as though suddenly tormented by an especially vivid memory of what had happened. It caused him to squeeze his eyes shut momentarily as he tried to regain control over his battered emotional state. But no matter how hard he tried, it was just difficult to ignore the debilitating physical pain that he felt at the mere thought of what had just been done to his years of hard work and essential blood, sweat and tears.
He rubbed his hands over his face and then looked over at Scully as though he had just remembered that she was still in his presence.
"Hell, Scully, what are we doing here? I want to go home.... You need to go home. It's been a long tiring day, and we don't know what tomorrow'll bring..."
He seemed almost to be rambling, which was definitely not a behavior on his part that she had ever been privy to, even through everything that they had encountered over the years. She was more concerned than ever for his well-being.
"Do you want me to stay with you tonight?"
She saw his eyes refocus on her face again after he turned his gaze from the coffee shop door. Several beats passed before he answered.
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?"
"I don't think I can say why not." There was a sharp edge to his voice, a distinct change from his tone just seconds before. His expression had darkened, not with further pain and grief as she would have expected, but with annoyance and what seemed like repressed anger.
"Mulder —"
"Look, Scully, don't mother me, all right? I've had a blow, I'll get over it. I promise I won't shoot myself."
His hostility wasn't surprising, all in all, even without considering what had just happened. He had been difficult to reach all day, despite the fact that she had extended more than her usual amount of effort in trying. The events of the past few days had made her feel very vulnerable, and in her case, it really had nothing to do with the possibility of an impending move by the Bureau to close down the X-Files. As much as she hated to admit it, her nerves had been standing on end for a totally unrelated personal — and quite unprofessional, she thought — reason. To be totally truthful, being reassigned wouldn't be any big deal to her. She would move on to another assignment without much difficulty. How such a move might affect Mulder and their partnership, however, was more her concern.
He observed her as she sat back in silence. Probably wondering about the unnecessarily harsh tone of his words. Damn it all. He quickly fell into a self-loathing moment, angry at himself for being angry with her. For not the first time in his life, he was angry with her for caring enough to want to mother him but seemingly not enough to give in to loving him. The thing was, he didn't need or want any mothering right now. What he really needed was a good roll in the sack, especially after having been assaulted with confusing memories and emotions this week with the unexpected reappearance of Diana Fowley.
Still, he didn't have to be a jerk about it.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it."
The response came swiftly. Too swiftly, in fact, for his current state of mind.
"Don't be so goddamn understanding, Scully. Tell me when I'm being an asshole."
In spite of himself, it almost made him cringe to see that infamous look of defiance. The look that told him to keep his distance and respect her space. More often than not, he was totally capable of ignoring it, but on occasion, it would stop him in his tracks as he paused to wonder whether they would be doomed to perform this sad little ritual for the rest of their equally sad lives.
In any case, her eyes managed to express what her voice wouldn't. You're always being an asshole. At least, that was how he saw it.
The trouble was, at that precise moment, neither one of them was capable of understanding how closely matched their individual frustrations were. They were so deeply consumed by their own selfish pain that they were on completely different wavelengths, not hearing the agonized cries for attention from their respective halves. Instead, they continued to stare at one another with masochistic fascination until each could no longer bear to see the unmitigated sorrow in the other's eyes, and was forced to turn away.
* * * * *
December 1992
"Don't let that stop you, though. If you want to go, by all means do so."
Fox Mulder smiled at the earnest expression on his partner's face. She was making a valiant effort at masking a concern that she so obviously felt. On his part, it was touching and oddly embarrassing that she cared.
"You could go to show them how normal you really are." As soon as the words came out, she wished that she hadn't said them in that particular way. They had the potential to be misconstrued. However, one look into his eyes revealed to her that he had understood her meaning totally.
"As opposed to their assumptions about how freaky I really am...? Actually, Scully, sometimes this "spooky" reputation has its benefits. It lets me get away with not paying attention to certain social graces like FBI Christmas parties."
"So who actually shows up to these things? Am I going to know anyone there if I go?" "Oh, I'm sure there'll be familiar faces. Bring a date, have fun with it."
She lapsed into a brief moment of thoughtfulness, as though trying to decide who to bring. Out of the blue, he felt an inexplicable desire to be on that list, to be under consideration for a night out with Dana Scully. He had a sudden curiosity to know what type of men she preferred.
"So how goes the dating life these days? Haven't heard any calls for you from potential suitors in awhile."
"Don't you think that's a bit too personal of a question to ask?" She said it with a barest hint of a smile, ensuring that Mulder would pick up her rejoinder and run with it.
"It's only too personal if you choose not to answer it, Scully. And then I'll know not to ask it again, because I'm smart that way. On a serious note, I don't think that it's been particularly easy for you to be labeled 'Mrs. Spooky', so it might be a good idea for you to put in an appearance at the festivities. To keep in touch with the normal folks."
He appeared to be very earnest in not wanting her to be sullied by his supposed reputation. From Scully's point of view, the realization was as uplifting as it was sad.
"But the final word is that you're not going?"
"No, but I appreciate your concern. And anyway, I do generally get people coming down here to exchange holiday greetings, Scully, so it's not like I'm a total pariah. My door's open to them."
As she turned towards the said open door to make her way back upstairs, she could suddenly imagine the most common type who would come down here. Tall, buxom and packing mistletoe. She stopped just as she stepped out into the hallway, remembering something.
"To answer your question, Mulder — I haven't met anyone recently who's sufficiently interesting for me to date."
With that she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving him with a bemused expression on his face.
Three days later, it was her turn to sport the bemused expression when she noticed the tall, lanky form of her partner threading through the masses to approach her standing beside the punch bowl. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, I thought about it and it's our first Christmas together as partners. I didn't want anyone to think that I didn't feel lucky and appreciative of the fact that you've lasted this long with me." He stepped in close to her, forcing her to take a step backwards just so she could look up into his face before making her comment.
"Mulder — may I remind you that you don't care what others think?"
"Well, I do if it might affect what they think about you."
Scully opened her mouth to say something, but decided against it at the last second. She merely smiled at him in return and handed over the glass of punch that she had just poured for herself. "Thank you."
After filling another glass for herself, Scully led the way to a small table away from the center of the action. Once seated, Mulder seemed totally capable of relaxing in the moment, stretching his legs out as he leaned back fully.
"So Scully, I would guess that you're a totally Christmas-y person. Am I right?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well, even though you live by yourself, I'll bet you put up decorations, a tree... the whole shebang."
"Yes, I do. I suppose you don't?"
"Nah. I don't prefer to be reminded. Christmas is just a time when I think too much about what my life should be or could be, even though I'm all right with it the other three hundred and sixty-some odd days of the year. I'm not saying I enter into a great depression over the holidays; I just prefer not to treat it differently."
She wondered just what sort of Christmases he might have had after his sister was taken so many years ago.
"Do you go home for Christmas then?"
"No, not too often. My folks aren't really big on Christmas either. They usually celebrate with friends in a low key way."
"What about this year? Are you staying in town by yourself?"
Something about how she asked the question put Mulder on his guard, making him decide instantly to employ a little white lie.
"No, as a matter of fact, I'm heading up to see my mother this year."
"Oh? Where does your mother live?"
"Connecticut. Far enough away that I don't see her as much as I should and close enough that I don't have too many excuses not to go. So what are the plans for the grand Scully family Christmas?"
"My younger brother is playing host this year. We take turns. He's got kids so it's fun that way. Christmas is really more for children, after all."
"Hmm... I s'pose."
"Do you see any children in your future, Mulder?"
"As in being a father to them?"
"Yeah."
"I don't feel grown-up enough to have kids. Seriously, it's not something I've ever really thought about. I think I have too much baggage to be any good at it."
"Well, I don't think one ever really knows if one is 'good' at it until it happens. For me, it's just a scary thought, the idea of bringing kids into the world."
"Does that mean that motherhood is not in your future?"
"I've never had a real yearning, so I suppose it's a take it or leave it type of thing. I've always thought that I wouldn't have made this particular career choice if having a family was important to me."
Mulder straightened up and leaned forward against the table, sensing that the perfect opportunity had just arisen for him to ask a question that he had been wanting to ask for weeks. "Speaking of your career, Scully, are you up for more of this or are you just waiting to bail at the next available opportunity?"
She waited several seconds before answering, as though needing to choose the precise words. "I'm not going to bail."
The way she said it intimated that she had given it some thought in the past, but that the urge was no longer there.
"Why?"
"Why? You're asking me why I'm not leaving?"
"Yeah. You should know me by now, Scully; I never ask the easy questions. What keeps you here?" "I'm assuming you don't mean 'here' as in here at the Bureau."
"No, I mean 'here' as in here in the thankless X-Files division."
"First of all, I was assigned to this position, and it's not in my nature not to fulfill my obligations in that sense. But beyond that, I think it would be foolish of me to abandon a working relationship that has been quite ... rewarding." She paused and shifted in her seat, wondering just how much she was going to allow herself to say. "You make the work interesting, Mulder. You and I both know that I don't have the same passion for the subject matter, but I appreciate everything you do to enable my contributions to make a difference. It's not something that everyone in your position would have done for an outsider. So what I'm saying is that I value that sense of a true partnership. It wouldn't be easy to find elsewhere."
"That's... very gratifying, Scully. Thank you."
"You're welcome." Then hesitantly, she added, "Has this worked for you?"
"'This'?"
"You and I working together."
"You know how it pisses you off every time I take off on my own and don't tell you where I'm going? Well, the fact that I'm overcome with guilt for days afterwards must say something. Your friendship and support mean a lot to me, Scully. It's probably more than I deserve, Christmas or otherwise."
"Speaking of Christmas, be sure to take a look in your top left desk drawer be fore you go home tonight. I left you... a little something."
His interest was piqued. "Really?"
"Yeah, it's not much... just something to keep you sustained on your drive up to Connecticut." "Don't tell me you baked me cookies, Scully."
She didn't know whether to be amused or disheartened by the thought that he obviously did not attach any domestic talents such as baking to her repertoire.
"Okay, I won't tell —"
She stopped in mid-breath, seeing him reach across the table. When the action concluded with him giving her a friendly tap on her forearm, his touch seemed to resonate through her entire body in a way that she had never felt before.
"Well, you certainly have me at a disadvantage here since I don't have a gift for you. Could I interest you in a moment underneath some mistletoe? It'd give the party-goers something to talk about."
It was Fox Mulder at his flirtatious best, Scully thought idly. Best to respond in kind, and quickly. "Maybe we can leave that for next year, Mulder."
It was definitely more interesting when she participated in "the game". He leaned forward, both elbows planted on the table, hands clasped together with his chin resting against his thumbs. "Is that a promise?"
This time, she did not reply with words. But Mulder thought that the enigmatic smile on her face rivaled the one da Vinci painted on the Mona Lisa.
* * * * *
Spring 1999
The outfield was littered with white balls for as far as the eye could see. Poorboy had long since left after lining his pockets with the rest of Mulder's cash. It was really past time to turn out the lights and head on home. Except that it felt so comfortable to be huddled together on the batters' bench, staving off the night chill while staring into the black sky above them.
With her attention still directed overhead, Scully asked lightly, "So what happened today, Mulder, after you left me high and dry at the office?"
"Did I do that?"
"Yes you did. And not for the first time, I might add."
"Don't you just hate it when that happens?"
She turned her head down and looked over at him, guessing perfectly what expression she would see on his face. Scully took in his playful eyes and teasing grin and wondered how she could ever feel anything other than devotion to this strangely compelling man.
"Well... at least you're always very attentive and wanting to make good when you come back afterwards. That's a good thing, I guess."
"Well, if you think this is good, just think of how great it could be if only we...."
The look on his face remained playful and teasing, but there was also something else that she couldn't immediately identify.
"If only we, what?"
"Well, maybe that's a present for my birthday. Maybe."
He had managed to do it again, although this time he wasn't so sure if he didn't succeed at making himself blush just as much. It was an odd feeling sometimes. Dealing with the reality of their newly awakened relationship — although now officially out in the open between them — was nervewracking at times. Casual innuendo occasionally backfired, leaving him wondering when relief might finally come in the way of actual consummation.
"Anyway, about today..." He decided to change the subject before it got too hot to handle. "I met the strangest man who told me this fascinating story about love and baseball and aliens and it made me think of you."
"Oh? Which part of that made you think of me?"
"All of it."
"And it made you want to show me how to whack a few dozen baseballs into oblivion?"
"I assure you that what I was so very skillfully guiding you through was not 'whacking'. Love of the game, Scully; you have to have a love of the game."
"Baseball?"
"Yes, baseball."
"How do aliens fit in to this?"
"Well, in the story I was told, apparently the best ball players throughout history have been aliens."
"And you believe this?"
"No, of course not. But it was a wonderful story with a very deep meaning."
"I must say, Mulder, you usually do a better job of story-telling. I'm totally lost. What deep meaning are you talking about?"
"Well, you haven't asked me the final question yet."
"I don't follow. What question?"
"Well, you asked me about the baseball part of it, and about the aliens. Were you paying attention enough to remember the third component?"
"I thought 'love of the game' covered that. Okay, Mulder, tell me how love fits into this story." "He convinced me that love can change a man."
"Love of baseball, or love in general?"
"I think he meant love in general. That ability to give up control so that you can feel strong emotions for something... or someone."
"And that can change a person?"
"A man."
"What about a woman?" She managed to sound mildly indignant, the feminist in her rising to the surface.
"Women don't need to change. They're perfect as they are."
In the half-shadow, his absolutely serious expression fooled her for a second or two before tell-tale signs of a barely suppressed grin became apparent. Almost in unison, they broke into peals of unrestrained laughter that echoed across the field.
In the companionable silence that followed, she turned to him and took his hand in both of hers, rubbing it gently. Her eyes were still sparkling with amusement from the impromptu outburst they had both just enjoyed.
"Mulder?"
"Yeah, Scully?"
"Don't ever change."
* * * * *
Location Unknown
October 2000
"I can take a message to her."
"To whom?"
"You know. To your partner."
"How can you do that?"
"No need for you to know how, what's important is that I can."
"And why would you do this?"
"Because I want to help you."
"If you really wanted to help me, you'd get me the hell out of these goddamn binds." "I can't do that."
"Oh, but you can get a message to my partner who must be millions of miles away from here?"
"We're not millions of miles away, but that's beside the point. What you need to understand right now is that we all have choices to make in life. I'm offering you one right now. Do with it what you will."
After a long pause, he knew that he couldn't say no to this deal, no matter how it might play out. "What kind of message?"
"Anything you want to say. She'll hear it as though it came straight from you."
"How —"
"You have to stop wasting time asking how. Our window of opportunity is not exactly limitless." "I need to know how she is —"
"You cannot ask her anything. She will not have the ability to respond to your message. It must be a one-way communication."
This time, he refrained from asking why. Instead, he made another request.
"Can you take something to her?"
"What did you have in mind?"
"Well, I don't seem to own any clothes right now, but I remember wearing some at some point. I also had a necklace..."
"I have access to your belongings."
"Can you arrange for her to get that necklace?"
"Would it be of great meaning to you if I could?"
"Yes. Definitely."
"I think I can manage that."
He felt a relief that very nearly brought tears to his eyes. His voice was suddenly raspy as he whispered, "Thank you."
"Anytime you're ready.... you don't need to speak out loud. I'll let you know when your time's up." "You say she'll hear my words?"
"Yes. It won't be immediate and she won't be able to recall when exactly she heard them, but at some point, she will be convinced that what you say is a real memory to her."
He took a deep breath and considered for a second. Then he nodded at his unlikely benefactor, who subsequently closed his eyes and waited for his words. Before long, he sensed a tenuous link being formed, an unmistakable presence in his mind. It was distinct but strangely enough, not specifically invasive.
Fox Mulder closed his own eyes and began to "speak".
"Hey Scully... I want you to know that I'm all right. I'm alive... I don't know how much time I have to say what I want to say, but if I ever needed you to go by the book, it's now. Please don't take any stupid chances looking for me. I mean it. In fact, I'd rather you don't look for me at all. It's not safe. I haven't figured out what's happening yet, but I need you to know that I am coming back. If you can keep that faith — and I know you have faith — I'll find you. I promise you that...."
* * * * *
I'm losing myself. I don't know how else to describe it. I feel my mind sinking into some deep darkness that has pressed itself against my entire body. I no longer feel like I'm floating. It's more like I'm under water now. I can still breathe, but everything else is closing in on me. I feel like I'm slowly losing consciousness, but it's more than that and less than that at the same time. It's as though knowledge, memories, and awareness itself are slowly being stripped away from me. Painlessly. I'm regressing towards a blank slate. To a basic embryonic existence. With each moment that passes, I know and feel less than I did a second ago, and yet I can't really know what it is that I've lost, or how much. Soon I suspect I'll have difficulty forming a clear thought. This should be alarming to me, but it isn't. What does this mean?
I need help. That's it, I need help. I'll call for help. I remember enough to know that this is something that's almost normal for me. I get into these situations and I always manage to get saved. I just need to call someone.
I'm sleeping now. My brain is telling me that I'm very tired. I have no other thought than that of sleeping. As I slip away, the last sensation I feel is of water as it caresses my body and soothes away the last of my fear.
I'm gonna be all right....