Title - Are You My Mulder?
Author - Invisivellum
E-Mail - Invisivellum@hotmail.com
Rating - R for language
Category - VH UST ELLEMENOPEE and maybe a tiny bit of A
Spoilers - Everything up to and including US Season 6 so far;
particularly for "Dreamland I" AND "Dreamland II." If you
read it, you'll be spoiled, but good.
Keywords - Mulder/Scully UST, Scully POV
Summary - Morris Fletcher is back where he belongs....and so is Mulder.
Distribution: Not yet, please. I have a feeling it's going to
be completely obsolete in a few days.
Disclaimer: The characters depicted in this piece of fiction do
not belong to me. They belong to Chris Carter and
1013 Productions. No money was made from the production
or distribution of this story.
Feedback: Yes, oui, si, da, ja, uh-huh. Feed the Seymour.
Author's notes at the end. Let's get on with it, before Dreamland II
airs and spoils my fun.
***
Are You My Mulder?
by Amy Seymour
The touch of his hand on the small of my back makes me flinch.
I can't help it. I walk a little faster to get away from him, pulling
the car keys out of my pocket as I go. I don't know what just happened
here. I don't know what my partner is thinking.
I don't even know if this is really my partner standing beside me,
watching me jab at the lock on the car door. I will never know. I can
never be certain of him again.
That's not true.
I /do/ know. It's insane, it makes no sense, and I have no proof --
There it is. That's it.
/I have no proof./
I wrench the door open and glare at him. He moves to stand in the space
between the door and the driver's seat.
"I'm driving," I state firmly.
"Scully, wait. Talk to me."
He's going to try to feel me out.
I guess it's better than Morris-Mulder trying to feel me up.
God, what am I thinking? There was never a "Morris-Mulder." This whole
crazy thing has been some sort of mass delusion. That was /Mulder/. A
strange and decidedly unpleasant side of Mulder, who patted my ass and
told me to get my "panties on straight," but it was still Mulder.
No, that's not true, either.
The man who lived in Mulder's body for the past two days is not the man
I've known for five years.
Mulder smoking? Mulder smoking /Morleys/, for God's sake!?
What is it about me that makes me so blind to such a glaring indicator
as that? Is my mind so closed? Am I that dedicated to my science, to
my proofs, that I can't recognize---
Recognize what? An evil government operative in the guise of my
partner?
Well, how about an alien-hybrid in the guise of my partner? Or
a circus sideshow freak in the guise of my partner? Where will it end?
My brain is hopping from side to side in my head, trying to figure out
which side it wants to land upon. I grind the heel of my hand into my
temple, ignoring Mulder's amused, quizzical expression.
I'm /sure/ that the man barring my way, giddy with delight and the
thrill of it all, is not Morris Fletcher. Right?
Doctor Scully elbows Intuitive Scully out of the way. I need /some/ kind
of proof, damn it.
I groan aloud.
My partner's eyes are still fixed on me, waiting for me to climb on
board; Non-stop service to Mulderland. I know he's setting me up, but
I decide to ride it out anyway, to see where he's going to go with it.
"What?" My impatience comes out in my grating tone but he ignores it.
"I said I would bring you proof of what happened to me--"
"You can't provide the kind of proof I need, Mulder. It's gone. Get in
the car."
"How do you know you're not getting in the car with Morris Fletcher?" he
says, eerily echoing a thought that has already crossed my mind. I want
to scoff, I really do. But I hesitate just a heartbeat too long and he
sees his opening.
"It's me, Scully. It's really me!" He can't keep the high note of
excitement out of his voice. "I can prove it to you."
"No, you can't," I say decisively. This is so stupid. "It doesn't
matter."
Subjective evidence that he is indeed my partner comes in the
realization that he intuitively recognizes the war raging in my head. He
knows that I need proof -- or some attempt at it -- that he is who he
says he is.
Even though -- I tell myself -- I don't really believe that he was ever
any other.
But if I don't believe that he was ever "gone," why do I need proof that
he's "back?"
My mind is whirling. I think about writing a report on our little
sojourn in Nevada and inwardly cringe. If I admit that I want proof of
his identity, that means I admit that his body was once inhabited by
Morris Fletcher's consciousness.
I'm not prepared to do that.
My partner, however, has prepared for this. I can see it in his eyes.
He has given it some thought. He lowers his voice so the other agents
can't hear and he moves in for the kill.
"You thought you had abduction marks on your lower back and you came
into my hotel room and took all your clothes off -- but it was only
mosquito bites. Then we stayed up all night talking. That was the first
night we ever spent together." The intimate tone of his voice is
unmistakable.
I stare at him, agape. I thought he might give me some more
yogurt-style proofs. I don't want proofs of this nature. I want to
blow off some steam. Maybe I just want to argue.
"You don't have to do this--"
He waves his hand dismissively at me, "And the last night we spent
together, /when I was myself/, was last Saturday. You made some kind of
chicken thing for dinner and we drank wine and we talked but I didn't
kiss you -- even though I really, really wanted to, Scully. Then I fell
asleep on your couch and you covered me with a homely crocheted afghan
that your grandmother gave to you for ---"
"'Some kind of chicken-thing,' Mulder?" I try to stop the stream of
words but he's going full-throttle.
"Once, we were out on a rock in the middle of the water and you told me
that I remind you of Ahab from Moby Dick. You had a yappy little dog
named Queequeg that got eaten by Big Blue---"
I groan. "It was an alligator, Mulder."
"You've got a tattoo on your --"
"That's a matter of public record, " I counter. God, how embarrassing.
"Okay, how about Eddie Van Blundht?" He's positively smirking at me.
"You were about to let him go where no Mulder has gone before--"
"Shut up, Mulder." Okay, that's enough. I've heard enough.
"Which, by the way, I have /never/ mentioned to anyone. You and I
haven't even discussed it! Nobody knows what went on that night but you,
me and Eddie."
Oh, I just had a horrible thought.
"Let me see your tail, Mulder."
He laughs and starts to turn away, fingers jammed in the waistband of
his pants. I clamp my hand on his forearm and squeeze, hard. "Stop it. I
believe you."
He grabs my hand in both of his and holds onto it tightly. The sunlight
dances in his clear green eyes. "You believe me," he breathes.
"I believe that you are Fox Mulder, my partner, and no one else."
He nods encouragement, waiting to hear what I'll say next.
I can't help it. I /do/ want to argue.
"But I do not believe that you were ever anyone else."
"Scully, come on!"
"Stop it, Mulder. Let me go."
"I know you must have been through some. . . weird situations the past
few days. . ."
Weird? That is too mild a word. Try Bizarre. Fantastic. Surreal.
"You're out of your comfort zone and that tends to make you defensive
and a little hostile --"
"Get out of my head, Mulder. And get out of my way." I try to move past
him to go around the open car door but he's holding fast to my hand.
"C'mon, Scully."
That wheedling tone does a little tap-dance on my last nerve. I wheel
and slam the car keys down on the hood of the car with a crash, yanking
my other hand from his grip and planting my hands on my hips. In the
back of my mind, I realize that we're being watched by the other agents
and governmental-types a hundred yards away. Fuck 'em.
"'C'mon' /what/, Mulder? 'C'mon' and believe that your - soul or
whatever - inhabited the body of Morris Fletcher? That his invaded
yours? That it wasn't /you/ doing those things--"
"What things?" He looks intensely curious and just a tiny bit worried.
He has also planted his hands on his hips and is eyeing me warily. I'm
highly aware of the stares we're drawing.
Here comes the show-down, boys and girls. Duck and cover.
"Those /things/ you did, Mulder, when you were out of your mind."
Kersh's smirking secretary sashays across my mind's eye.
Stay on target, Dana. We'll go into that later.
"You expect me to believe that your consciousness was elsewhere? That
Morris Fletcher was in your body, making you act like an ass? That is
the most absurd -"
"But you /know/ it's true, Scully! You've as much as said so, already."
"I've said nothing of the sort!"
"You handcuffed him to my bed and you contacted me and you helped me put
this whole exchange together, Scully. I know you believed it," he leans
forward and puts his face directly in front of mine. "You believed it,
Scully. And you acted on it."
A slow grin starts to spread, the goofiest expression I have ever seen
on his face, and he's nodding excitedly, like a kid who has just been
handed a gift-wrapped package and he's pretty sure he knows what's in
it.
"You believed it and you acted on it and you didn't wait for scientific
proof or hard data. You just went with it . . . and you saved me."
Oh, here we go again. I stare at him, grateful that the sun is behind my
back so I can see his expression clearly. He is so excited I can almost
see the vibrations in his body. His head is still nodding up and down,
urging me to give in. My own head shakes from side-to-side in negation,
of its own accord.
"Yes, yes, yes. You took the leap. How else do you explain your own
actions?"
"I--" I pause with my mouth open and then I shut it, abruptly. My arms
fall to my sides.
"I--" I try again. But his goofy face and the way his whole upper body
is nodding up and down is just too much. I start laughing and retrieve
the keys from the hood of the Taurus.
"Get in the car, Mulder."
His expression turns triumphant and he fairly skids around the hood of
the car, beating on it with the flat of his palm as he goes. "Yes!" he
exults, punching the air with his fist. "Yes, yes, yes!"
I gun the engine and peel out onto the highway with a squeal of tires. I
straighten the fishtailing automobile and speed up. A glance in the
rearview mirror shows me nothing but a narrow ribbon of blacktop and a
cloud of dust where the small crowd of fibbies is still milling.
"I'm not saying that nothing happened, Mulder. I'm saying that what you
/think/ happened is not scientifically possible, let alone provable."
"But you know intuitively that it's true. That's my point. Without the
proof, without the evidence, you took action."
"Oh, is that your point now?" I shoot him a disparaging glance and push
a little harder on the gas pedal. "I do not believe that your
consciousness traded bodies with Morris Fletcher's."
There, how plainly can it be stated?
"You do believe it, Scully. If Gibson were here, he'd call your bluff."
The mention of Gibson Praise shuts my mouth abruptly. I cut a sidelong
glare at the man beside me and see him make an exaggerated wince. He
knows he's stepped in it, now. I graciously allow it to pass. After a
moment, I dive in again.
"There is a rational explanation for what happened, Mulder."
"Yes. A /rational/ explanation, backed up by scientific evidence ---"
"Which we don't have," I point out the obvious.
"--but which can be substantiated when we get that flight data recorder
back--"
"Which we will /never/ get back--"
"--but we know that there is an explanation, Scully. There /is/
evidence. It's just a matter of knowing where to look."
"It's not going to happen. You know it and I know it. We're going to
chase this thing around for the next four hours and then we're going to
get on the plane and beat it for another two and a half hours..."
I'm wearing myself out, just thinking about it. "And then there's the
hour in the airport and the drive home--"
"We could pull another all-nighter, Scully." He is thoroughly enjoying
himself. "That chicken stuff was really pretty good. Or we could do
beer and pizza this time. Less work that way."
"I'm already sick of the subject, Mulder. You're not going to back off
this theory of yours -"
"You haven't even /heard/ my theory!"
"I know what your theory is. Five years together, Mulder. I /know/ what
your theory is."
"What, then?"
"It's some kind of...of....'Freaky Friday' thing. Or, or, like 'The
Fly..." I'm floundering. "...or something."
"Let me tell you my theory, Scully," he pleads and I can't help myself.
I'm delighted to have my partner back -- never mind where he was before
-- and I'm laughing.
"Alright, alright. Lay it on me."
The theory he relates is beyond bizarre. I've worked on the X-Files long
enough -- I've personally witnessed enough -- to believe that our
government is capable of keeping a secret of this magnitude. That there
are top-secret military experiments ongoing. That some of them involve
the design and operation of advanced aircraft. That there are problems
relating to the use of said aircraft.
That's not what's bothering me.
I just don't buy the "tear in the space-time continuum" theory. I don't
buy the idea that exposure to the operation of an advanced aircraft, /of
any sort/, (and I'm not even going to address Mulder's assertion that
the technology comes from some sort of extraterrestrial intelligence)
could possibly result in souls and bodies being exchanged at random.
Quantum physics theories be damned. Even if that sort of technology
exists, the resulting "body-switching" idea is just not a plausible
one. Not by human standards.
That thought brings me up short.
Now /I'm/ thinking in terms of alternate intelligent life-forms.
"Listen to me carefully, Mulder," I say, taking my eyes off the road to
punctuate my words with my expression. "What you are saying is Not.
Possible. It sounds /exactly/ like something I've seen on Star Trek: The
Next Generation -"
"You watch that show, Scully?" He sounds impressed.
"It's science fiction," I continue.
"And a damn fine show, too."
"NOT the show - your theory. Your theory is science fiction." I might
as well be singing my ABC's for all the attention he's paying to my
words. "No. Scratch that. Not science fiction. Just /fiction/,
Mulder. Fick-shun. Not science."
"Ahhhh....Scully," he sighs and stretches his arms out in the car's
small interior. He lets his left arm flop companionably across the back
of my seat and I cast another glance at him. He's grinning from ear to
ear, surveying the long highway that stretches out before us. "It's
good to be back."
I elect to discard a quip about where he has or has not been and the
relative points of the debate that he so conveniently ignores as it
suits him. The road ahead is straight for the next mile or more, so I
take the opportunity to glance in his direction again.
He's looking at me now, still smiling. His fingers flick lightly in my
hair and then I feel his palm against the back of my head, smoothing my
hair in a way that makes me feel cherished and adored. His expression
is full of tenderness and a little bit of longing.
I have to look back at the road now, or wreck, but I let myself relax,
resting the weight of my head against his hand for a moment.
Right now, I don't care where he's been. It's just good to have him
back.
And I have all the proof I need.
****
End
Author's Notes: I just /had/ to try to fill some of those huge holes in
this ep and I had to do it on a deadline. I know I missed a lot, but
it's all going to be moot in four days, anyway.
Regardless of the response to this story, I'm happy because in the
writing of it I discovered the most awesome beta reader in "Molly
Malone." Molly, I owe you a lot. *L*
Molly gets credit for the title. Even if it's not the best suited title
in the world, it beats the hell out of what I had in mind. Besides, it
makes me giggle.
--
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