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"WHAT!?...Sir."
"I said, I want you to talk to someone, Agent Scully."
No. Those are not words the AD normally directs at me. Those are
for Mulder. Not me. Not now. Not ever. FORGET IT.
"Sir, can I ask why you think I need to talk to
someone?" I try to keep my tone professional, try
desperately to keep the growing intonation of insubordination out
of my voice.
"Agent Scully..." Skinner hesitates. At least he has
the decency to look uncomfortable about this. "It's come to
my attention that you and Agent Mulder have been having
some..." he pauses again, stares resolutely at his hands
which are clasped securely together on his desk, "that you
two have been having some..." Come on, Sir, spit it out.
"Difficulties."
Difficulties? DIFFICULTIES! "I don't know what you mean,
Sir."
He sighs, and I see that look on his face. It's a particular look
which I don't believe I've ever seen him use when talking to me
by myself. Not only is he using words usually reserved for
Mulder, but he's also making 'Mulder-you're-lying' faces at me.
"I think you know what I mean, Agent Scully. I'm not going
to spell it out for you, I respect you too much for that, but I
cannot have the agents under me refusing to talk to one another.
It's unprofessional, unacceptable and I especially don't expect
to see it from you and Agent Mulder."
I feel the heat rise to my cheeks, reflecting both humiliation
and my suppressed fury.
"Sir, may I ask if this same invitation is being extended to
Agent Mulder?"
"When Agent Mulder gets out of the hospital I'll be speaking
to him too."
Ooh, I'd love to be a fly on the wall when Skinner drops this
bombshell in Mulder's lap. The thought almost makes me smile.
Instead, I clasp my hands tightly together on my lap in much the
same way Skinner has his resting on his desk. My fingernails dig
into the back of my hands as I fight to maintain control over my
temper.
"I've made an appointment for you to see Karen Kossoff at
8.30 tomorrow morning."
Really? Well, we'll see about that. How many sick days do I have
owing to me? Because I can feel one hell of a headache building
and by tomorrow morning I'm sure it will be a full blown
migraine. The only place I intend to be at 8.30 tomorrow is in
bed!
"Thank you, sir. Will that be all?"
Skinner heaves another deep sigh, drops his head momentarily to
his chest then snaps it up, looking me right in the eye. I watch
him clench his teeth. The little muscle that always indicates his
discontent--usually with Mulder--jumps and twitches along his
jawline. He blows a gusty puff of air from his lips then says,
"that will be all, Agent."
I rise from my chair and leave Skinner's office without another
word.
*************************
SCULLY’S APARTMENT
7.06 PM
"Can you believe it? He had the nerve to suggest *I* talk to
someone. As if this is my fault!"
I shift the receiver to my left ear, securing it in place with my
shoulder. With my free hand I yank the freezer door open,
cringing as the hinges give a little under the force.
"Dana, I'm sure your boss only has your best interests in
mind."
"My best interests? You know, Ellen, if he had my best
interests in mind he'd send me to the firing range with a life
size model of Mulder as the target." I'm fuming now and the
fact that the Ben and Jerry's is wedged at the back of the
freezer behind two packets of frozen vegetables, a half loaf of
bread and three Lean Cuisine meals is only making it worse. I
burrow my hand under the peas, over the bread and...Shit! scrape
the back of my knuckles on some unidentified frozen object before
finally hitting the jackpot. I free the carton of ice cream from
its hiding place and slam the freezer door shut, sending a
variety of refrigerator magnets into a vibrating frenzy.
Damn it.
"What exactly is happening with you and your partner that
has your boss so wound up, Dana?"
"He ditched me."
"Mulder ditched you?"
"Yes. Again. And you know what? Every time he does it he
nearly gets himself killed. He has absolutely no consideration of
how his actions affect me. He usually winds up in the hospital
fighting for his life and I'm left to pick up the pieces. To
explain to Skinner what the hell he was doing, to track him down,
find him and somehow save him before the consequences of his
actions put an end to his pursuit for the truth once and for
all."
I take a breath, sighing loudly into the telephone receiver.
"How many times am I supposed to sit by his bedside while he
teeters on the brink of death? Then, when he does finally
recover, just smile, forgive him and pretend it's all okay?"
"Dana, I'll tell you a little story. Last year Trent ran
away from home. My first reaction when I discovered him gone was
to panic. He was missing for about an hour. During that time my
emotions see-sawed between fear and anger. I was angry at him for
what he was putting me through. And I was scared to death because
I kept imagining that something awful had happened to him.
Anyway, he eventually turned up safe and sound. When I found him
all I remember feeling was relief. Of course later, although I'd
calmed down, I was still upset with him for putting me through
the heartache." Ellen pauses before continuing. "Dana,
what I'm trying to say, is that when you love someone, it's
natural for you to feel angry when they do something that causes
you to worry about them, to fear the worst."
Love someone? Has she lost her mind?
"I don't *love* Mulder!" I protest, stunned at the
implication.
"No?"
"No. Where on earth would you get that idea from?" I
pry the lid off the ice cream carton with my spoon, exercising
all the finesse of a road worker using a crowbar to free the lid
off a manhole.
"I...sorry, Dana, I guess I was mistaken. It's just that
you...the way you talk about him...well, I naturally
assumed..."
"He's my partner, and, yes, I care about him, but I don't
*love* him."
"Fine, whatever you say."
"In fact if he wasn't already in the hospital I would be
happy to put him there myself." My words immediately
boomerang back at me, hitting me solidly with the guilt and shame
I deserve. I *know* it's not true, I *hate* seeing Mulder in the
hospital.
"He's in the hosital now? I thought he was released a few
days ago?"
"He was. But, as usual, he refused to rest, to take proper
care of himself. His wounds got infected, so he's back in."
"Sorry to hear that. How is he?"
"I don't know. I haven't been in to see him."
"You...Dana?"
"I've been busy. There's been paperwork to catch up on
and...and...I haven't had time." I hate the whiney defensive
tone that's crept into my voice.
"Oh Dana, you're going to have to lose this attitude before
your appointment with the counsellor tomorrow. If you go in there
with only negative things to say, then you're the one who's going
to look bad."
"Who says I'm going?" I stab at the hard mass of ice
cream with my spoon, thinking a pneumatic drill would probably be
more effective than my feeble utensil which is now looking as if
it's just done a hard session with Uri Geller.
A loud silence stretches on from the other end of the phone line.
"Okay already, I'm going, I'm going." Finally, the
spoon has a modicum of success and makes a dent in the ice cream.
I manage to gouge out a tiny morsel and pop it in my mouth.
"Good. Well, we better work on your list then."
"What list?" I ask, trying not to spit the hard-earned
dessert all over the receiver.
"I want you to think of ten things you like about,
Mulder."
"Ten things I like about him! I can give you a list of
twenty ways I'd like to *hurt* him." I can't believe the
words that are coming out of my mouth. Every last one of them is
totally untrue, but I just can't seem to stop myself from saying
them.
"Dana, that kind of thinking will definitely do nothing to
endear yourself to the counsellor."
I sigh to myself, then push the bent spoon back into the now
slightly softer ice cream and take comfort in a large scoop of
cookies and cream, squishing the little bits of chocolate Oreo
between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. The perfect sedative
after a particularly stressful Mulder moment.
"Come on, there must be *something* positive you can say
about him."
Something positive. Well, he's taught me how to lie to my
superiors, to escape from black hawk helicopters, how to treat
gunshot wounds in the field, how to take on the government in a
dozen different ways...and lose every time. He's even got my boss
making appointments for me to seek counselling. Yeah, I'm really
in the mood for thinking warm, fuzzy thoughts about my partner.
"Dana, come on, it can't be that difficult. There has to be
*something* you like about him. You've been together for nearly
three years." I can see Ellen has no intention of letting up
on this. So, I tap the spoon against the side of the ice cream
carton and wrack my brains for something positive to say about
Mulder.
All right. "His feet are kinda cute in a clunky, overgrown
Afghan-pup sort of way," I say quickly.
"His *feet*? Dana, you have been out of circulation for way
too long. Let's think about this..." Ellen goes silent while
she ponders a way for me to find something good about my partner.
I take another spoonful of ice cream and go through that
squishing exercise again.
"Okay, Dana, lets start at the top rather than the bottom.
What about his hair?"
His hair? Oh. Oh yeah. His hair. I picture him sitting at his
desk in the basement first thing in the morning. Freshly showered
and shaved. His hair catching the overhead light: shiny, silken,
soft. I think about the way it kind of cow-licks at the front,
splays out slightly at the side. Not like it did when I first met
him. Then the bangs were longer, swept precariously to the side,
the same old errant lock stubbornly falling across his brow. I
picture it sweaty after a long run, mussed from a restless sleep.
Oh, yeah, I do like his hair.
"Well, Dana?"
"His hair's okay I guess."
"All right, what else do you like?"
His eyes. The many different shades of brown, hazel and green. I
think about the way they turn dark and serious when he's
postulating one of his paranormal theories. And then become a
smoky grey when he's sad, or worried, or suffering the pain of
another's troubles. I could lose myself in his eyes when they
look like that. But then there are the times when he's amused and
the dark brown is flecked with green and golden lights. It's hard
to concentrate on anything else when his eyes dance and sparkle
as he quietly chuckles at one of his own jokes.
"He has great eyes." I realise my tone has become
wistful. I quickly scoop another spoonful of ice cream into my
mouth.
"You're doing really good, Dana. That's two, what else?
"Well, he has a nice mouth."
"What do you mean by nice?"
His bottom lip is full and sensuous and so damn sexy. When he
pouts like a petulant two year old I'm putty in his hands. Oh,
and the way that mouth of his can free a sunflower seed from its
husk...
"Dana?"
"Hang on a second I'm thinking."
...a sunflower seed from its husk, biting down with just enough
pressure to crack the shell, tongue working its way between
kernel and husk, flipping the seed out of its covering and
swirling it around his mouth before swallowing it, sending his
Adams apple bobbing as the tiny morsel slides down his throat.
Then pffft, the husk goes hell west and crooked as it is shot
from his lips. How many times have I lost my train of thought
watching Mulder manouvre that damn little seed around in his
mouth?
"Dana, what do you mean by nice?"
"I mean his mouth is a nice shape for a guy."
I hear Ellen sigh again.
"All right, all right maybe nice is an understatement. His
mouth is...it's...it's...*really* nice."
Ellen's exasperated sigh puffs through the receiver before she
continues, "Anything else?"
An image of Mulder bending over, searching for a file from a
cabinet, flashes into my mind. The fine-tailored cut of his
Armani suit pants, clinging--but not too tightly--across his
perfect ass. And then I'm reminded of another image. Casual
Mulder. And 'The Jean Factor'. Of course there's also the 'grey
t-shirt, the black polo, the blue shirt, the leather jacket, the
white t-shirt--all very exciting factors in their own right. But,
'The Jean Factor' wins hands down. Denim is a whole different
ballgame to wool. Denim hugs. Fits snug and tight in all the
right places. I do like to walk behind him when he's wearing
jeans. That's not to say the front view is something to be
ignored. Black satin boxers, green contour-clinging cotton
boxers, and all of them more than adequately filled. Ever since
the time I had to undress him after he suffered from smoke
inhalation and I discovered what he wore under those well-hung
pants, well...I just can't look below his waist without seeing
his underwear superimposed over whatever he happens to be dressed
in at the time. It's very disturbing. And boy, has it been hard
to remain clinically detached in subsequent situations when I
have been required to remove Mulder's outer clothing. Many a time
in the office I've inadvertantly allowed my eyes to stray south
of his belt buckle and ended up having to excuse myself to cool
off in the bathroom.
"Dana, I'm finding these long pauses very discouraging. Is
there anything else you like?"
"Yeah," I say thoughtfully, "he dresses
well."
"Really?"
"And he has a cute ass."
"Very good, that's two in one go. I'm very pleased you've
been able to acknowledge so many positive things about Mulder's
physical attributes. But, you really need to come up with
something you like about *him*. Not just his body, but his
personality."
Mulder's personality? For some reason, my immediate thought is to
recall our first meeting in his basement office. I'm not sure
what I expected to find. I'd heard all the 'spooky' stories, the
larger-than-life tales of his profiling skills. I guess I
expected some kind of eccentric nutcase. Not the heart-stopping
good looks that just about took my knees out from under me. And
I'd never seen a man look *that* good in glasses before. I adored
him on sight. That is until he opened his mouth. Cynical,
sarcastic, so-far-up-himself-he-can't-see-the-light-of-day. Those
are just a few things that came to mind within the first minute
of meeting him. Five minutes later I was totally enthralled.
Intelligent, brilliant...weird--yes, weird was in there--but most
of all, I sensed an air of respect. The fact that he took the
time to read my thesis impressed me straight away. Right from the
very start, he asked my opinion and listened, really listened. He
didn't necessary agree, and there was a certain amount of
amusement on his part as I shot down his theory with science, but
he seemed to respect me. And that was something new, something I
had never experienced from my male peers before.
"Well, he's always respected me. My opinion, my
science," I tell Ellen.
"Good."
"He has a sense of humor." I love his off the cuff
remarks, his corny innuendos, his quick-witted repartee. Even if
I don't always show it.
"Humor is a good thing in a relationship. It can help
relieve stress, can diffuse potentially volatile
situations." Ellen sends her sagely advice down the
telephone line.
"Hmm, I've heard that." I dig my spoon around the
bottom of the ice cream carton looking for the last remnants of
Oreo cookie.
"Dana, you've always seemed to have such a solid
partnership. What do you think makes it that way?" Ellen's
starting to sound like a counsellor herself.
I think about her question for a minute. I don't think I've ever
tried to analyze our partnership before. What would I consider
the foundation of our success to be? Actually that's easy. I
really don't have to think about it at all. Trust. We trust each
other. Equally. I know beyond all doubt that Mulder trusts me,
and I know for sure that I trust him. It's one of the most
important things I like about him...Then suddenly a light bulb
clicks on in my mind. And a whole lot of things start to fall
into place. He trusts me enough to know I'll take care of things
while he's gone. He trusts me enough to know I will arrange the
paperwork, head Skinner off at the pass.
And most of all he knows I will move heaven and earth to find
him, to bring him home
safe. Just like I know he would do the same for me. *Has* done
for me. Jack Willis, Donnie Pfaster, Duane Barry. And I know
Mulder tries to protect me. Not in a stifling,
you-can't-do-this-because-you're-a-woman sort of way, but more
subtly. I mentally flinch as the answer leaps up and slaps me in
the face. He protects me by ditching me. In some misguided
attempt to keep me from the danger he inevitably has no second
thought about placing himself in, he leaves me behind for my own
good.
I feel the ice in my heart start to thaw. Dribbling its freezing
runoff deep into the pit of my stomach . A lump forms in my
throat, a lump too big and too painful to swallow around.
"Dana, are you still there?"
Ellen's voice cuts through my thoughts. Imposing itself on my
sudden attack of guilt.
"Dana?"
"I...I'm sorry, Ellen, I have to go. I...um...I left
something on the stove." I hit the end button on my phone
and lay it gently on the coffee table, staring at it, dumbfounded
at how stupid I've been. How unforgiving. And how much I have
probably hurt my partner. My best friend.
I stumble from the living room, into the bathroom and come face
to face with my reflection in the mirror. I lean heavily on the
basin, staring at the horrified look of realisation that has
settled on my features.
I splash some water on my face and gently towel it off, still
watching myself in the mirror. I hesitate a moment, the towel
stilled against my cheeks, covering my mouth so only my eyes and
nose are visible. I see fear looking back at me, and I know
exactly what it is I'm fearing. As I come to a decision, I pray
it's not too late. Pray that any damage I've caused to our
partnership will not be permanent. The towel is tossed onto the
edge of the bath and I jog into the living room, scooping up my
car keys from the side board as I head out the front door.
*************************
GEORGETOWN MEDICAL CENTRE
WASHINGTON, DC
Outside Mulder's hospital room, I hesitate and wonder what the
hell I'm going to say to him. In my haste to get here I hadn't
considered that maybe I wouldn't be welcome. That maybe Mulder
has been feeling the same way I have and won't want to see me.
Nerves tug at my stomach, drawing the moisture from my mouth,
sending it straight to the palms of my hands.
No. This is my fault and I need to face up to what I've done. I
have to mend the hurt I've caused. Taking a deep breath, I grip
the door handle and let myself in.
My eyes fall immediately on the sleeping form of my partner. I
stand just inside the doorway, watching the slow, even, rise and
fall of his chest as he sleeps. There is no noisy beeping from a
heart monitor, no intimidating leads attached to machinery, no
nasal cannula or oxygen mask. A simple IV pumps the mandatory
antibiotics into his blood stream, fighting the latest assault on
his system.
I love to watch while Mulder sleeps. It's one of the few times
when he looks completely at peace. As if nothing is worrying or
upsetting him. Long, dark eyelashes rest gently against his
cheeks. Eyelashes that most women would kill for. His face is
smooth, no tell-tale pain lines drawn about his eyes, furrowing
his brow. He looks so young. I catch a glimpse of how he might
have grown up had he been spared the trauma of Samantha's
disappearance. In sleep, I see a man who is relaxed, confident,
self-assured--at peace with himself and the world.
My stomach clenches in a painful knot as I consider that he may
not forgive me. I take another step inside, moving quietly
towards his bed, not wanting to wake him. And knowing damn well
that all I'm doing is delaying the time until I will have to face
up to the consequences of my actions. For now though, I am
content to just stand here, basking in the fact that Mulder is
alive and well. Maybe not 100% healthy yet, but a whole lot
better than he could have been, than I feared he was, just a few
short days ago when I was informed of the explosion.
I tip-toe all the way across the room and carefully pull the lone
plastic hospital-issue chair closer to his bed and settle myself
into it. I fear that my movements will wake him before I have a
chance to compose myself. But I needn't have worried, Mulder
remains still and silent. The kind of stillness usually
associated with drug induced slumber. I sigh heavily under my
breath and reach for the limp hand lying on top of the sheet.
A hand unnaturally warm with fever.
I slide my right hand under his and rest my left on top, absently
drawing little circles across his knuckles, occasionally
diverting to take in the fine, dark hairs along the back of his
fingers. Mulder's hands could belong to a surgeon. Clean, soft
and smooth. But he uses them like an artist. I often wonder if
Mulder would still be able to talk if he lost the use of his
hands. I love the way he gesticulates as he tries to make me
understand the validity of one of his theories. And the way he
pulls at his bottom lip or chews on his thumbnail while deep in
thought. Runs his fingers through his hair in an act of
frustration, rests them at the small of my back, caresses my
cheek, squeezes my shoulder in reassurance, pulls me to him and
enfolds me in an embrace, offering comfort and support.
I lift the hand clasped between mine to my lips, feeling the heat
radiate off his skin. I'm sorry, partner. I'm sorry for not
understanding, for not seeing the reason behind your actions--but
you scared the hell out of me.
A soft groan pulls me from my contemplation. I hold my breath as
I watch Mulder's eyelids flicker, a pained look crosses his face
as his tongue licks ineffectually at dry lips. I lean towards the
nightstand and pour some water into a plastic cup.
"MMrrrm...Scully." His eyebrows rise, then plummet as
he works at figuring out what I'm doing here, more than likely
also trying to work out where 'here' is. His eyes rove around the
room, eventually settling on my face. He tries again,
"Scully?"
I lay his hand, still clasped in one of mine, back on the sheet,
and smile at him. "Hey."
"Wha..." He stops and swallows hard, wincing.
I hold the cup of water to his lips. "Small sips,
Mulder." He keeps his eyes locked with mine as he drinks
from the cup. When he lays his head back against the pillows I
put the cup back on the night stand.
"What are you doing here, Scully?" His voice is dry and
raspy. Confusion mixes with the pained expression on his face.
"I..." How do I answer him? Perspiration floods the
palm of my hands again, the heat from Mulder's skin compounding
my discomfort. I stare down at the blue cotton sheet, unable to
meet his gaze. Mulder slides his hand free of mine. A surge of
panic rushes through me. My worst fears are realised. He doesn't
want me here. The knot in my stomach tightens. Oh God, he can't
even stand me touching him.
Then something brushes against my cheek and pushes my hair from
my face. I lift my head slowly and look at my partner as the
warmth from his fingertip trails along my jaw, then back up to my
cheek to repeat the action. All the while he is watching me.
Holding my gaze with smoky grey eyes. I feel the tears welling
behind my own eyes, the painful lump growing in my throat.
"Mulder...I...I'm." He places his index finger across
my lips.
"Shh, Scully. I know. Me too." Then he smiles. And so
do I. But not before a lone tear escapes and drops soundlessly
onto the sheet. Mulder snakes his arm around my neck and pulls me
down so my head is resting on his chest. I hear the thud of his
heart through his hospital gown, beating a steady rhythm. A
strong, comforting rhythm.
I'm not sure how long we stay like this. Neither of us speak, but
the silence is companionable. The knot in my stomach loosens and
I realise then that we're going to be okay.
There is a soft rap on the door, so quiet that at first I'm not
sure I really heard it. Then the door is slowly pushed open. I
would lift my head except Mulder seems to have fallen asleep
again, the dead weight of his arm draped across my shoulders,
holding me securely in place.
Someone walks into the room. My first thought is that the night
nurse has come to tell me I have to leave. My breath catches
slightly as I recognise the person standing before me. Skinner.
It must take him a second to get his bearings, but when he does
he stops abruptly and stares at me, eyes flicking quickly to
Mulder's face before falling back on mine.
I wonder what we must look like. What Skinner must be thinking. I
try and ease myself out from under Mulder's arm, feeling
extremely awkward and vulnerable.
Skinner holds his hand up, halting me. He glances at Mulder
again. Back at me. Then he quickly swipes at his mouth. But he's
too late. Amusement dances in his eyes and I catch the tail end
of a smile before he is able to cover it. And that damned muscle
in his jaw is bouncing and jumping like an out of control
ping-pong ball.
Suddenly, Skinner becomes very engrossed with his shoes. Right
before he takes a breath, working at getting himself under
control.
"Agent Scully."
"Sir." There is something very disconcerting about
talking to your boss while your head rests on your partner's
chest, trapped under his arm.
"I...um...just brought this for Agent Mulder." Skinner
takes a few more steps into the room and places a book on the
nightstand beside Mulder's bed. Regardless of Skinner's good
intentions about not wanting to disturb Mulder by having me stay
right where I am, I just can't stand it any longer. I ease my
head out from under Mulder's arm and sit up straight in my chair,
roughly combing my hair back into place with my fingers.
"Will you see that he get's it?" Skinner says.
"Tell him I called in to see how he's doing."
"Yes Sir, I will."
"Good." Skinner seems almost as awkward about this as I
am. He turns and takes a couple of steps towards the door before
pausing and turning to face me. "Oh, and Agent Scully, about
tomorrow morning. Why don't you take a few hours. I have a
feeling you won't get much sleep tonight. I'll make a phone call
when I get home and cancel that appointment we talked
about."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you."
Skinner nods quickly then leaves, taking the tension with him. I
breathe a sigh of relief and drop back against the hard plastic
chair. I feel a smile start to creep across my face. Assistant
Director Skinner, you old softie.
"What...appointment, Scully?"
Dammit. I thought he was sleeping.
I sit forward on the seat, scooping Mulder's hand in my left,
then brushing my right one against his hot, dry forehead. Fever
still not broken, I note to myself.
"Nothing, Mulder. Don't worry about it."
"You sure? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Everything's all right. Now go back to
sleep."
"Mmm. 'kay. You'd...tell me...if there...was a
problem...right?"
"Shhh. There's no problem. And yes, I'd tell you." I
lay my hand on his forehead again, soothing him.
"Good." He heaves a deep sigh and then quiets down. I
watch his breathing even out as he slips back into oblivion.
I smile to myself, and think: 'only ten things?' Mulder, I could
write a book about all the things I love about you, all the
things I admire and respect. But I don't need to write them down.
Every day we're together I'm reminded why I care about you, why
you are the most important person in my life. And why it hurts so
much when faced with the possiblity of losing you.
I settle in for another bedside vigil, making a note to myself to
call Ellen, both to apologise for my abrupt end to our
convesation and to thank her for bringing me to my senses.
Another knock on the door and I see a large recliner chair being
pushed through the opening, followed by the night nurse.
"Here you go, Agent Scully. I have your regular chair for
you." I stand and help her drag it beside the bed, happy to
exile the plastic one to the far corner of the room.
"Thanks, Judie."
"You know where the extra blankets are kept. Just call if
you need anything. We were getting worried about you." She
nods towards Mulder. "He's been here over 24 hours and we
hadn't seen hide nor hair of you."
"Yeah. I know. Something came up, but I'm here now." I
rub my hand along Mulder's arm.
"I'm glad. He was asking for you when his fever
spiked." She smiles gently at me. "Remember, just call
if you need anything."
"Thank you. I will."
I sink into the soft, pliable cushions of the recliner, and pick
up the book Skinner brought for Mulder. "Men are from Mars,
Women are from Venus." I stare at the paperback in disbelief
before the irony of it all hits me. Is this a hint? To Mulder? To
both of us? Did Skinner bring this in because, deep down, he knew
I couldn't stay away when Mulder was in the hospital, and he knew
I would inevitably get my hands on it? I clamp my hand over my
mouth and stifle the hilarious chuckle that threatens to errupt
into a loud fit of laughter. This is too much. I turn the book
over in my hands, studying the cover.
'Once upon a time Martians and Venusians met, fell in love and
had happy relationships together because they respected and
accepted their differences. Then they came to Earth and amnesia
set in: they forgot they were from different planets.'
Hmmm. I begin to see an analogy developing here.
I wonder if Skinner really expected Mulder to read it? I decide I
better do some research, just in case Mulder does read the book
and I'm required to argue on behalf of all the women in the
world. So I open the first chapter and begin to read.
'Imagine that men are from Mars and women are from Venus....'
THE END
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
AUTHOR'S NOTE: One day I was thinking about
all the things I love about Mulder and started wondering how
Scully could work with Mulder and *not* notice what I notice. For
the convenience of turning my lustful thoughts into a story, I
borrowed the timespan between the explosion at the end of 731 and
Mulder returning to work after coming out of the hospital. I
realise I've just touched the tip of the iceberg here so please
feel free to email me and let me know what you like about Mulder.
I'd love to hear from you.
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DISCLAIMER: I
borrowed the excerpts/quotes at the end from the book 'Men are
from Mars, Women are from Venus'. By John Gray.
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