***************


From "No Way" by Pearl Jam

Here's a token of my openness
Of my need to not disappear
How I'm feeling, so revealing to me
I found my mind too clear
I just need someone to be there for...me
I just want someone to be there for


***************



"Is there anything I can do for you, Mulder?"

I struggle to suppress a smirk in spite of myself. For a
moment, I entertain the thought that she has asked a trick
question. Of course, she would not jest at this moment, and
everything about her physical presence reinforces that
fact. Her posture is stiff, forced, and she avoids meeting
my gaze. We both notice, and the awkwardness settles
between us in the slant of light from the window. I
contemplate the glints of dust particles floating there,
drifting in a Brownian daydream. I know I cannot stare
stupidly into their tiny universe forever. Unsure of the
possible ripples to be caused, I reply to Scully's
decidedly sober question.

"No. Actually, you've already done far more than anyone
else. As much as anyone can."

The implications do not need to be spoken. She knows. She
is probably painfully aware. There is a void between us,
between me and everyone. After all, not many people can
really empathize with a dead man, not even a pathologist.

"Well, I guess I should go," she says dubiously, watching
me now with curious eyes, and she starts to leave.

I lay my hand lightly on her shoulder as she turns away,
and she stops suddenly. I fail to summon the words to
express what I feel, so I simply pull her close. Part of me
balks at the idea of embracing Scully with arms that have
known anything other than life, as if my touch alone might
be sufficient to siphon away her vitality, the fire I
cannot resist. She latches her arms around me tightly,
though. Inextricably. No one would believe her strength, I
muse. She is underestimated all too often. Who else would
deny death the unquestioning acquiescence it demands in
order to reclaim a misguided visitor?

I sense a wave of trembling pass through her frame as I
marvel at the implausibility of our circumstances. Her head
rests against my chest, against the very place where
someone, or something, split me open and tried to remove my
faith in her. When they realized they could not have that,
they took everything else?

Suddenly, I feel empty. The world looks gray. The next
thing I know, I hear her mutter an expletive. I cannot
resist a smile as I feel myself tilting and sinking.

"Mulder? Can you hear me?"

"Uh-huh."

The ceiling appears in front of me. Or rather, above me. I
feel the familiar curves of my leather couch. I do not need
to look to know that Scully has me pinned down with her
clinically concerned/drag-Mulder's-butt-to-the-hospital
expression.

"What happened to you?"

Another loaded question. I watch as she pulls the coffee
table closer to the couch so she can sit within reach.

"I was just remembering. Didn't intend to, believe me."

She looks at the floor, silent, sad, and exhausted. I
immediately regret my blunt statement. What was I expecting
her to say? "Sorry you were dead like that, Mulder"? She
looks at the door. I have to do something to keep her from
leaving. Now.

"I have copy of Plan Nine from Outer Space in the DVD
player. Want to watch?"

Oh, that was lame. I cringe inwardly. I regroup and
reinforce my plea with the half-pout that seems to work so
well on her. It is totally shameless, but this situation
requires desperate measures.

"Sure. I think I can handle that."

Success. The light from the window has begun to fade,
leaving the room cast in various shades of blue. Scully
disappears into the kitchen for a moment. I do not bother
to turn on a light, but grab a couple of remote controls
and get the TV and DVD player set up for the movie. Soon,
the sound of a hundred tiny kernel explosions emanate from
the kitchen. The smell of butter perfuses the room, and the
anticipation of a relaxed, worry-free moment with Scully is
almost tantalizing. She returns to the room carrying one
large bowl full of popcorn.

"Want something to drink?"

"Yeah. Juice, please."

Politeness will get me everywhere, I think with a smile.
After a couple of thwumps from the fridge door, she appears
holding two beverages.

"Move it or lose it, Mulder."

I practically scramble to get my legs out of her way, well
aware that she can indeed back up that order. I find myself
sitting next to her, the only mild light and sound coming
from the fish tank in the corner. The television sits
obediently darkened on the Input channel, awaiting, well,
input. The quiet of this moment makes an impression in my
mind. Finally, Scully breaks the tranquility by reaching
for the popcorn and munching on a handful.

"You know, I was looking at one of your magazines," she
says between bites.

Oh no. Busted. I feel some definite inguinal shrinkage at
the thought.

"Uh, and..?" I am not sure where this is going.

"It was The Paranormal Examiner. Something like that."

Thank God, I think quite sincerely. I sigh, and she
probably hears it.

"Anyway," she continues, "I've always loved that word,
'paranormal'."

I patiently persevere through her next snack-munching
interlude, too curious about her thoughts to get any
popcorn for myself just yet.

"How so?" I prod.

"Well, the etymology varies quite a bit, so its potential
meaning covers a lot of ground. 'Para' can be anything from
'next to' to 'beyond'. First off, you have to know what
'normal' means, and I have yet to find anyone who can
explain that to me."

I hesitate to interrupt her line of reasoning, but she
waits for some response. The aerator in the fish tank
bubbles away happily.

"I'm certainly not the right person to ask about normalcy."

She raises an eyebrow at me playfully in the cobalt light
of the aquarium, but her face quickly reverts to a more
serious expression.

"It seems that 'paranormal' pretty much describes both of
our lives, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," I reply, trying not to think about her point too
much. "And then some."

The movie waits patiently in the DVD player, as it has
slipped greatly in importance.

"That doesn't necessarily mean that 'normal' would be
better, though."

"True," she allows.

And we sit in silence again. I suck up my bravado and
decide to tell her something very personal, in the most
masculine way possible, of course. I look at her, not to
lose myself in her eyes, but because she deserves nothing
less than direct openness.

"I do remember everything, Scully."

I swallow hard as she becomes frighteningly still and
quiet. My voice softens reflexively.

"The one thing that stood out above everything else was
that I needed to be beside you again. I couldn't fail. I
just couldn't."

She looks away for a moment, sniffing and blinking back
some tears. Her wound rips me in half. I push on
steadfastly.

"I imagined this moment many times over, what I would do
when I saw you again, what words would be accurate for what
you should hear, but none of the ideas seemed to fit.
Everything fell short. Then, while I was at the hospital, I
found a story in an old magazine."

I pause, somewhat intimidated by the moment, my voice the
lone entity penetrating the darkness between us. She waits.
That is more reassuring than she could ever know. She waits
for me and no one else.

"It went something like this: A boy wanted to give his
teacher a gift to show his appreciation. He lived in a
remote village in the middle of the African plains and did
not have any money. The boy left one day, and no one saw
him that night. Three days passed before he showed up at
the school."

Scully watches me intently, and I try not to stumble on the
words.

"He smiled at the teacher and handed him a box. The teacher
had no idea what the boy could have gotten for him. Inside
the box, he found a beautiful seashell. The teacher asked
the boy how he got such an item. The boy replied that he
walked to the beach. The teacher could barely believe it,
and remarked that the ocean was an awfully long way to go
for a gift."

I take a deep breath.

"The boy replied that the journey was part of the gift."

I hear Scully inhale, the shaky rhythm of her breath
betraying carefully suppressed emotions.

"Mulder, I..."

Her voice pinches off. I step in to avoid the looming
uncomfortable moment.

"Sorry, Scully. I lost your seashell somewhere along the
way."

A smile spreads its way across her face, now streaked with
two glistening trails that reflect the blue aquarium light.
I reach up and wipe each of them away with my thumb,
pressing gently against her soft skin. She intercepts my
hand, wrapping it in her own and squeezing lightly before
guiding it down from her face.

"That's okay. I have some time off."

She releases my hand to reach out and brush some hair away
from my forehead. I had not even noticed it.

"We can go find one together."

It is good to feel alive.

I wrap an arm around her and proceed with the movie plans,
instructing the TV to come to life. I have a remote control
at one hand and Scully, and her popcorn, at the other. The
moment is not exactly like any that I had imagined, but I
would not trade it for anything.

We quote our way through the movie, but I do not watch many
of the scenes. I am busy re-memorizing another familiar
image in the flickering glow. Her face.

"Scully! You remember all of the lines. I'm impressed."

She does not dignify that with a response.

"I'm turned on."

She jabs me in the ribs with her little, seemingly
innocuous elbow. I grunt accordingly, hearing her emit a
satisfied chuckle.

Then, just as the aliens are ruminating over their plans to
take over the earth, we both fall silent. We know the lines
that will follow, and the awkward, usually amusing dialogue
has new meaning.

<Well, as long as they can think we'll have our problems.
But those whom we're using cannot think. They are the dead.
Brought to a simulated life by our electrode guns. You
know, it's an interesting thing when you consider...the
Earth people, who can think, are so frightened by those who
cannot: the dead.>

***************


Note: Plan 9 from Outer Space belongs to Reynolds Pictures,
Inc. and Edward D. Wood, Jr.

The X-Files and related entities belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox. I write only for the profit of feedback, not money.