TITLE: It's Been Awhile (2/3)
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.
RATING: PG-13. A couple of bad words-nothing you haven't
heard on the playground before.
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.

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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