TXF: Scenes in Between

“I don’t believe in aliens, Agent Mulder. I think you know that.”
“I do. That’s why I need you.”

It’s like breathing deeply for the first time in days. The swirling maelstrom in his head has quieted to a dull roar, above which he can isolate thoughts and images one by one, a welcome relief from the unceasing bombardment he’s endured up to now. Diana. Skinner. Kritschgau. Doctor, nurse, orderly. He sifts through each in turn, none of them the one he wants.

None of them Scully.

But she’s too far away, beyond even his enhanced mind’s reach. His brave Scully, chasing answers on the other side of the world. He can only hope that by the time she gets back, they’ll have found some answers of their own, here. Kritschgau’s just left to get some equipment so they can try to quantify – or at least prove the existence of – Mulder’s extrasensory abilities. From there, they can hopefully start trying to isolate the cause.

Not as though he doesn’t already know the cause. But that knowledge means next to nothing without proof.

“How’re you feeling?” Even if he couldn’t hear Skinner’s running mental commentary, the tension in his boss’s voice would have given away how much stress he’s under.

“Tired,” is his honest answer. “Turns out catatonic states aren’t as restful as they look.”

“But this drug, this phenytoin. It’s helping?”

“For now,” Mulder says. “It’s just a patch, though. Kritschgau knows it’s not viable, long-term. Knows the doctors would never approve it as a treatment, especially not at the dosage required to actually do anything.”

“Is it dangerous?”

Mulder shrugs as best he can, lying on his back. “Pick your poison. I’m on borrowed time either way, and at least this way I’m actually coherent enough to try and help figure this out.”

Skinner doesn’t say aloud how unsettling it is to see him not in his right mind, but Mulder can hear the thought as clearly as if he had. He doesn’t envy his boss, or Scully, having to see him like that; living through the loss of control himself is bad enough. And as welcome as this reprieve is, it won’t last long. They’ll have to re-dose him when Kritschgau returns, probably.

“We’re going to do everything we can to help you,” Skinner says. “Whatever it takes.”

It’s a pretty thought, and he knows that Skinner sincerely means it. But Skinner’s not Scully, and he’s fighting not only against time but against those who would dearly like to see him fail. There are at least a few people who don’t want to see Mulder cured, and they’ve got eyes and ears right here in the hospital. The errand Skinner sent her on won’t keep her busy for long, and she’s probably already reported back to her other employers.

“Careful what you promise, there,” Mulder murmurs. “And careful who you trust. You’re not the only person Diana answers to, you know.”

Skinner’s eyes narrow. “You have reason to doubt Agent Fowley’s integrity?”

“I should’ve seen it a long time ago, but I didn’t want to believe. Scully knew, though. She figured it out, and I told her she was crazy.” His mind assaults him then with images, Scully’s face, disappointed and hurt, reflected back at him from a hundred different angles like funhouse mirrors. Closing his eyes doesn’t help, and he tries to direct his focus elsewhere, to dull the pain. “Kritschgau’s motives aren’t exactly selfless, either. I still think he’s the best one to help, but watch your back. He got screwed over by Uncle Sam, and you might end up being the closest target for revenge.”

Skinner’s next thought is overlapped by those of at least two other people, the combination triggering a screeching feedback noise inside Mulder’s mind. He groans and reaches for his head, thwarted by the straps around his wrists, and his temples throb in time with his racing heart. There was a time he might once have imagined telepathy to be convenient, a means to uncover secrets and separate truth from lies; he never guessed it would hurt like this.

“–Mulder! Agent Mulder, can you hear me?” Skinner’s voice sounds like it’s travelling through water. “Agent Mulder!”

The attack subsides as quickly as it came on, and Mulder gasps at the sudden relief. Blinking his eyes open, he nods wearily at Skinner before letting them slip closed again.

“I”m okay. I’m okay.” Even his own whisper is harsh in his ears, and exhaustion presses down on him like a physical weight. Forming words suddenly seems to take a tremendous amount of effort. “Sir I’m gon– I’m gonna rest. Try to get some sleep before Kritschgau gets back, if I can.”

He’s unconscious before he has a chance to hear any response Skinner might have made.

“I just think I’ve… earned the benefit of the doubt, here.”

It is a long drive to the airport, all the longer because they spend it in awkward silence. When they’re assigned seats three rows apart on the commuter flight to Charlotte, neither of them makes any attempt to ask for a change.

Mulder is disappointed more than angry, but he won’t lie; there’s a little anger there, too. She’s just so goddamned stubborn. Any progress they might have made with their baseball outing has been completely undone in the week that followed. Scully seems almost pathologically determined to distance herself from him, and if he thought she were doing it because she truly wasn’t attracted to him or interested in him romantically, then he could respect that. He’d be sad, but he could accept it and try to pick up the pieces. He is 100% certain, however, that that’s not what’s going on here.

No, this is about control or fear or Catholic self-sacrifice or something. Probably a combination of things. But not one of them is genuine disinterest. He’s sure of that.

He promised himself he wouldn’t push, not least because he’d thought it would absolutely backfire, but now he’s beginning to doubt the certainty of that. Maybe they at least need to talk about it openly. If he can get at the root of whatever’s holding her back, maybe he can put forth a convincing counter-argument. He’s certainly already convinced himself.

Either way, whatever’s going on between them now has to stop. It doesn’t even feel like she’s his friend anymore, and that just straight-up sucks.

***

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His plan is failing spectacularly.

He thought it was a great plan. Elegant in its simplicity. Subtle yet effective. In retrospect, perhaps he went a little too far with the subtlety, which would explain why they’ve been here for nearly two hours already and she still hasn’t caught on that he’s not really reading obituaries.

He taps a pencil absently against the desk. Maybe he should call it off. She just stepped out a few moments earlier, muttering something about Vitamin D and fresh air going to waste; maybe when she gets back, he should pretend to have found something and tell her they’re done here.

Except that he’s already dragged her out on a beautiful day – as she keeps reminding him – and if he packs it in after only a couple of hours, without even getting to the part where they flirt and he makes her laugh, then her lasting impression is going to be a negative one. He was supposed to charm her, not annoy her so much that the next time he calls her up on a Saturday, she’ll turn him down.

No. No, he can salvage this. He has a whole speech prepared, about box scores and Pythagoras, baseball and actual human emotion, carefully crafted to appeal to both her scientific sensibilities and her romantic ones. He just needs to find an excuse to actually say it all.

***

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“You want us to do what?”

Mulder looked over at the shocked expression on his partner’s face, an expression he was carefully keeping from being mirrored on his own. He glanced at Skinner, who was apparently very interested in the papers on his desk all of a sudden.

“Because there is not as yet any definitive motive or explanation for the disappearances,” Skinner said lightly, “the case falls under the purview of this department. And since the conventional investigative techniques employed by local law enforcement have proven ineffective, it’s been decided that an undercover approach is the logical next step.”

“But sir–”

“This is the assignment, Agent Scully. You have 24 hours to make arrangements and get on a plane to California. Am I understood?”

“Well, yes sir, but… I’m just surprised that the FBI saw fit to buy an $850,000 house for this operation.”

“They didn’t.” Skinner looked up. “An arrangement was made between the bank and the local DA’s office. We have access to the house for two weeks, with the option to extend the occupation on the condition that it is warranted.” He looked pointedly at Mulder. “So no, the house doesn’t belong to the FBI. Let’s try to bear that in mind, shall we?”

“You hear that, Scully? Dad says no raging parties,” he deadpanned, and he was rewarded with one arched eyebrow.

“Agent Mulder–”

“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll keep her in check.”

Skinner shook his head. “Right. Agent Scully is the one I’m worried about,” he muttered, then cleared his throat. “You’ll coordinate with the San Diego field office. Any analysis that can’t be performed on-site, you can run through them, but the bulk of the crime scene processing will have to be your responsibility, and done in a manner that won’t arouse the suspicion of the neighbors. To that end, you can requisition equipment from the field office as well. Put together a list of what you’ll need and call it in this afternoon.”

“Didn’t the local police already process the scene?” Scully asked, frowning.

“The hope, Agent Scully, is that you will find something they might have missed.” Skinner closed a file folder and handed it across his desk to Mulder. “I need these forms filled out and returned within the hour, in order to pull documents together establishing your cover identities. That’ll be all.”

Mulder stood, meeting Scully’s eyes and finding in them nothing matching his own amusement. This assignment was absurd, and he couldn’t see how it was an X-File, but it was still hilarious, the idea of them posing as a married couple in suburban Southern California. Especially given how often they were mistaken for a couple as it was. How did she not see the humor in that?

He led the way back out into the hall, then slowed enough for her to draw alongside him. “So what do you think? Ozzie and Harriet? Or should we be Ward and June? I think I see you as more of a Harriet than a June, but I don’t know if I can pull off Ozzie…”

“I’m a little more worried about equipment requisition than names right now,” she said, her voice clipped. “I think we should talk to someone in the lab and get their advice about what would be most useful to have.”

“Well, why don’t you go take care of that, and I’ll fill out the paperwork for Skinner. Divide and conquer.”

She nodded. “Yeah, okay. I’ll coordinate with San Diego, and you handle the stuff related to our cover. Just… nothing too ridiculous, name-wise, all right?”

“You realize you’re talking to a guy named ‘Fox,’ right?”

An indelicate snort erupted from his normally-subdued partner. She shook her head, reaching out to press the elevator call button. Mulder grinned.

They got on the already-crowded elevator when it arrived, squeezing together into one corner. There was, Mulder realized, a bright side to this whole ridiculous assignment. As her partner, it would be weird if he pulled her back against him, or if he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and tucked her snugly into his side. Pretending to be Scully’s husband, however, could afford him all sorts of opportunities to give in to the impulses he ordinarily had to resist. It was perfectly acceptable, for example, for a man to tuck his wife’s hair behind her ears when it fell forward into her face. Or to reach out and take her hand for no reason whatsoever.

Maybe there would even be a situation wherein the only way to salvage their cover was to kiss her. Convincingly.

The elevator doors opened again, and Scully turned to look up at him. “I’ll see you back in the office in an hour or so, all right?”

“You got it, honey.” Her eyes went wide, and he chuckled. “Just practicing. Gotta make sure we’re ready to play the part.”

She rolled her eyes, stepping off the elevator to head down to the lab. Mulder watched her walk away until the doors closed again. Yeah, he had a feeling he wasn’t going to mind this assignment so much, after all.

“Anyone for water?”
“No!”

Dales shrugged. “Mmm, well, in that case you’ve got your choice of scotch or, um… scotch.”

“You know what, thank you, Mr. Dales, but we really should be–”

“Okay. Sure.”

Both men turned to gape at her, and Scully leveled a steady gaze back at each of them in turn until Dales threw back his head and laughed.

“I knew I liked this one,” he said once he’d recovered. “All right, then. Scotch all around.”

Mulder leaned toward her. “You always keep me guessing,” he murmured, and she couldn’t help grinning in response.

“Mulder, after the night we just had, I wouldn’t think it’s that surprising that I’m not opposed to the idea of a drink.”

“It’s barely 9 AM.”

“A small drink.”

Dales came limping back toward them, the three glasses precariously balanced between his hands. Scully rose to help, and Mulder quickly followed. Dales nodded his thanks as they took their drinks, and he raised his own glass.

“To whatever brought the two of you together.” Scully snuck a glance at Mulder; his lips quirked sideways in a partially-suppressed smile. Dales cleared his throat before continuing. “You know I… I’ve been around a long time. Went through my share of partners at the Bureau, let me tell you. And this–” He gestured with his glass between the two of them. “–this is something you don’t see every day.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Mulder’s voice was a low rumble beside her, and as she raised her glass to clink it against the other two, Scully couldn’t ignore the swooping in her stomach, a warmth blossoming there before she’d even taken a sip of alcohol.

“What is she?”
“I think she’s the one, Scully.”

She stares at him for a long moment. He really believes this, believes so completely that he probably would have pulled the trigger if he and Cassandra had been alone. Finally she blinks, shaking her head. “Mulder, she is a woman who has had unspeakable things done to her. Isn’t that enough, without her being some… some lynchpin of an alien conspiracy, too?”

“Look, I don’t know what to tell you. I can’t change what she is. But if we fail to accept it, fail to fully account for the reality of her situation, then we will only be unprepared when everything goes to hell.”

There is no reasoning with him. They could argue about it until they’re both blue in the face, and it won’t change anything. She’s not going to be able to convince him of anything without proof, and there’s no chance Fowley will let them get close enough to Cassandra to run any sort of analysis.

Fowley. Scully’s stomach is still a cold, hard ball of fury over the way they were treated by that woman. It’s even more infuriating that Mulder doesn’t see right through her.

She slams the locker shut in frustration. “I’m going to request some proper clothing and get the hell out of here.”

“I think we need to try to work with Diana on this. She’s only looking out for Cassandra’s best interest, even if she hasn’t gone about it in the best way.”

Unbelievable. “Mulder, Agent Fowley doesn’t care about Cassandra. All she’s done with this little stunt is deliver her into the hands of the very people who want to hurt her. I mean, why can’t you see that?”

He shakes his head. “I think you’re wrong. You’re letting your prejudices cloud your judgment, and it’s blinding you to what’s really going on here.”

She shoulders past him, scowling. “Oh, no, I can see quite clearly what’s really going on here.”

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“The project is still going on.”
“Yeah.”

It’s a relief to see the spark back in his eyes, to see him shed the shroud of apathy that’s hung about him since she was released from the hospital in New York. It’s been all too reminiscent of the last time they lost the X-Files, when they were separated and he slipped into a quagmire of depression and paranoia. This is how she likes to see him, focused and intent.

If her gaze drifts a little from his eyes to his mouth, well, she is only human. (And almost a foot shorter than him. Yes, that’s definitely the reason.)

“Wait, how did you get all this? They have our badges.”

She’s been wondering when he would ask about that. “Some of it was public record, believe it or not. As for the rest, well…” She clears her throat. “Our contacts at the State Department and Metro PD don’t yet know we’re on administrative leave.”

His eyes widen. “Scully, when they find out–”

“They’ll already have their files back. I’m only borrowing them to show you, and I’m meeting with Cheryl Martin from State in–” She glances at her watch. “–about half an hour to return everything. It’s all been kept off the record. The information I got from the police department and the hospital, about Openshaw’s death, was all verbal.”

There was a time, not even that long ago, when she would never have considered breaking the rules like this, jeopardizing other people’s jobs in the pursuit of mere information. But things have changed. There is more at stake here than employment.

It should probably make her sad that she’s become so disillusioned, that she’s finding more ethical gray areas than she ever used to believe existed.

“Anyway, I thought you needed to see all this,” she says, nodding toward the box. “And now that we have names and dates, I thought we could go pay a visit to the Gunmen and see what else they’re able to dig up.”

He nods, the muscle in his jaw bulging momentarily. “We need to try and get specifics on the project. Find out what exactly they’ve done to Cassandra, to the other abduction victims.” He hands her back the file folders. “Give me a few minutes to get changed, and then we can go.”

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“Look, Ritter, don’t sweat the math. It’s him. Just get there and find Agent Scully.”
“All right. I’m on it.”

He didn’t even ask permission before leaving. It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway; he was going, regardless of whatever Kersh might’ve had to say about it. Scully wasn’t answering her phone, and no one knew where she was – like hell was he going to sit around twiddling his thumbs in Washington.

He spent the whole flight trying to convince himself her phone had just run out of batteries. Or got switched off accidentally. Or she’d dropped it somewhere, maybe left it in a car. Any one of the perfectly reasonable explanations he could come up with for why she wouldn’t be answering.

It didn’t help much.

When turned his own phone back on after landing, there was a missed call and one new voicemail, and he nearly dropped the phone in his eagerness to play the message. His stomach clenched when it was Agent Ritter’s voice, not Scully’s, in his ear.

“Agent Mulder, this is Peyton Ritter. There’s, um, there’s been an accident. I thought you’d want to know. Agent Scully was, uh… she’s in surgery right now for a gunshot wound–”

The world seemed to tilt sideways for a moment.

“–NYU Medical Center. I’ll, uh, I should have some more information for you in a few hours.”

Damn it.

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“Are you gonna be all right, sir?”

When she was in the hospital last year, after the test results showed that her cancer had gone into remission, Scully made a promise to her mother. She promised that, to the extent that her travel schedule allowed, they would spend more time together. It hasn’t always been easy, but she has done her best to make herself available at least a few times a month for some sort of mother-daughter activity.

Which is why, when her phone rings at nearly 10:30 on a Tuesday night, she and Maggie are in her car on their way back from a book club meeting in Silver Spring.

In the split-second her eyes are off the road, she recognizes the number on the caller ID as Skinner’s office line, and she frowns as she presses the button to answer. “This is Agent Scully.”

“Hey, Scully, it’s me.” Mulder’s voice takes her by surprise.

“Mulder? I thought I saw Skinner’s number come up.”

“Yeah, I’m here in his office. Listen, Scully, I think you should come take a look at him.”

She can hear an irritated, “Damn it, Mulder, I’m fine,” in the background.

“Mulder, what’s going on?”

There is a pause. “I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. Can you just come down here?”

She frowns again; Mulder’s evasiveness is either cause for annoyance or worry, and it’s impossible to tell which without knowing his motivations. “I’m at least twenty minutes away, and I have to take my mom home first. Is it an emergency?”

Another pause. “Doesn’t look that way, no. But I’d feel a lot better getting your opinion on the situation.”

“All right, well, I’ll get there as soon as I can.” She hangs up the phone with a frustrated sigh and looks over at her mother, who is watching her with concern.

“Everything all right, Dana?”

“I hope so. Something’s come up at the office, but it sounds like it can wait until I’ve taken you home.”

“Goodness, at this time of night?” Maggie shakes her head. “That’s asking rather a lot, isn’t it?”

You’re telling me, Scully wants to say, but doesn’t. Her mom never disapproved of her career choice to the same extent that her father did, but Scully has still felt a need to defend her job and her commitment to it, especially after her illness.

“A friend might need my help,” she says instead.

“Fox?”

She shakes her head. She’s given up trying to tell her mother not to call her partner by his first name, but it still sounds wrong every time. Mulder, at least, doesn’t seem to mind too much.

“Someone Mulder and I used to work with.”

“And it can’t wait until morning?”

“Apparently not.” Her mom means well, she knows, but it still gets under her skin; Maggie wouldn’t ask questions like that if Scully worked in a hospital. “But what were you saying, before I answered the phone?”

They return to safer topics of conversation – grandkids and Maggie’s upcoming trip out to visit Bill & Tara in California – and for the rest of the drive, Scully does her best to push work and Mulder’s worrying phone call from her mind. Once she drops her mom at home and turns around to head back to the Hoover Building, she finally allows herself to wonder whether this is going to turn into one of those nights where she never actually makes it back to her apartment to sleep.

A/N: This episode aired after Terms of Endearment, but dialog within the ep places it “about six months” after Valentine’s Day. So we’re looking at Aug/Sep, which means that it’s actually either set way later in the season than the episodes that follow it, or it’s set between The Beginning and Drive. For the purposes of narrative consistency, I have chosen to interpret it as the latter. (They still have enough leeway from Kersh to get away with, say, investigating Daryl Mootz as a possible domestic terrorist, as long as Mulder was creatively vague on the case request form. It seems like there’s very little chance something like that would fly after Terms of Endearment.) This interpretation also gave me the opportunity to address a certain scene from Fight the Future that early Season 6 chooses to pretty aggressively ignore. ;)

“Well, who’s to say that it doesn’t work the other way around – that the way someone feels can affect the weather, that the weather is somehow an expression of Holman Hardt’s feelings? Or-or better still, the feelings that he’s not expressing.”

They go on for some time, working through their usual song and dance of Mulder spouting complete nonsense and Scully telling him, with varying degrees of bluntness, that he’s nuts. It’s been a long day, though, and the previous night’s excitement is catching up with them both; Scully soon gives up trying to cover her yawning and declares that, as long as Mulder makes it to the airport on time, she doesn’t care one way or the other if he wants to share his ridiculous theory with Holman in the morning.

“Maybe you’ll listen to him when he tells you that what you’re suggesting is completely impossible. But right now, I’m too tired to keep arguing about it. I’m getting ready for bed.”

She stands, stretching her back with a groan, and pulls her pajamas from a drawer before retreating to the bathroom to change.

It’s not ideal, sharing a room with Mulder, but it’s not as though they have a choice. And it’s not as though it’s a problem, either. She tells herself it’s just that she and Mulder have such different sleep habits. Specifically, Mulder doesn’t sleep much, period. In fact, it’s probably that very tendency that saved him from getting hurt a hell of a lot worse last night when that cow came through the ceiling at 3am; if he’d been asleep like a sensible person, he might have been crushed. So it’s not unreasonable for her to be somewhat wary of how this night might go, to wonder whether she’ll be kept up for hours by his restlessness.

In truth, though, that’s not all it is, and she knows it.

There’s been this slight but unacknowledged layer of tension between them since they got back from Antarctica. At least, she thinks there has been. It’s possible she’s just imagining it. He certainly doesn’t seem to be acting like anything’s changed. Then again, maybe that’s a conscious decision on his part, to ignore what happened right before Antarctica. Maybe he didn’t really mean what he said in the heat of the moment, when she told him she was quitting. Regrets it, even. Regrets telling her she saved him.

Regrets what (nearly) happened next.

She tried to bring it up, just once, repeating his own words back to him – “If we quit now, they win” – but he gave absolutely no indication that those words had any significance to him. So she dropped it. If he wants to pretend it never happened, she’s not going to push him. But that doesn’t mean she hasn’t thought about it.

And thinking about it is exactly what complicates the very mundane situation of having to share a hotel room for the night. It wouldn’t have bothered her a few months ago, so there’s no reason for it to bother her now, not really. And yet…

She squares her shoulders, determined to just act normal. After all, they’re only sharing a room. It’s not as if they have to share a bed.

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