Title: Two Weeks Author: Jessica < JessLB@aol.com > Rating: PG Category: V, MulderAngst Keywords: Pre-XF Spoilers: Pilot (nothing major) Summary: After two years have passed, Mulder remembers his partner on the day he is assigned a new one. Archive: Of course; just email me and let me know before you do. Feedback: Who could say no to feedback? Tell me what you think, it's my only paycheck. So whether you hate it, love it, or are stuck somewhere in between, please let me know. Two Weeks ~Jessica 2/26/99 I went to our tree today. It seems so ridiculous to me now, in retrospect, but at the time it seemed so right -- to go and visit the place where I'd first told her that I loved her, the place where we'd been so happy. I stood there with my hands gently touching the tree, the bark rough and bristly under my hands. F and D. The memories came back immediately. << Mulder, this is ridiculous. We aren't teenagers. >> << There is nothing childish in this. >> She had shaken her head and kissed the tip of my nose. << Then by all means, carve away. >> I can still remember looking into her eyes and feeling like nothing bad could touch me. Invincible. I remember how her hair shone in the bright winter sun, her pale cheeks chapped from the cold. But that was nearly three years ago. When we'd still known love, happiness, and warmth. Before my quest -- the one she'd always been so eager to assist in -- drove an undeniable wedge between us. Before everything I'd worked for, yearned and desire for crumbled without warning like shards of glass all around me. It was September when it happened. Very early September. I woke up to find her gone, which was nothing unusual. She usually left for the office before I did. I guess she thought that if I knew she was waiting for me there, I'd move faster and maybe one day I'd get into work on time. So I went into work -- past the sneers of the men who'd once called me friend and now considered me foe, past the not-so-discreet whispers of "Spooky." I entered our office fifteen minutes late, but only because I stopped to admire the nameplates outside the door. I still got a surge of pride every time I saw our names together like that, somehow symbolic of our journey together: in work, in love, in life. It seemed so right. << I'm leaving. >> Just like that. No explanations, no warning, nothing. She stood there in the middle of our office, a sad look on her face, and told me she was leaving. I vaguely remember asking her to repeat herself, and then asking why. The story of my life: Why, why, why. Why my sister? Why my parents? Why me? Why was she leaving? I never really got a straight answer out of her, only that my quest -- not ours, mine -- was consuming me. << You knew what I was before. Don't use Samantha against me. Don't do this. >> << You've changed, Mulder. You aren't the man you used to be. I can't compete with these! These files! I'm supposed to be your life, not these goddamn monsters and ghosts and aliens. I can't do this anymore. I won't - - I won't play second fiddle in your affections; I won't compete anymore. >> << We can talk about this, you've never had to compete for my love, you *know* that -- >> << I have, Fox, I have. Ever since the beginning. I can't do it anymore -- I won't do it anymore. I'm leaving. >> Then she'd kissed my forehead and shut the door softly behind her. They say that before you die, you're whole life flashes before your eyes. When she closed that door behind her, I know a part of me died. A part of me that I don't think anyone could ever reopen. It's encased with her memory; the memory of the betrayal, the hurt, the denial I felt at that moment. So I made myself a vow. Distance. And I did it. In the year and a half since, they've tried to give me other partners; no one has lasted more than a few weeks. Either it was my tendency to ditch them, or my irrational theories of aliens and paranormal, or my erratic temper. I let them go; none of them mattered. She was the only woman I'd loved. I'd mention Phoebe, but the only justification I have for that relationship is a young man's lust for a beautiful, more experienced woman. Not love. . . .never love. So I visited our tree today. I asked myself if it was something I could have prevented, with the obvious conclusion that if I hadn't been so consumed in my search, my quest and my demand for the truth, she'd still be here. Until a voice piped up that if she had ever loved me at all, she'd had understood and stayed. And for the past two years, I've moved on. They call me the ladies' man at the Bureau, and I wonder if they actually know how many of the women that I've gone out with I've slept with. I can count 'em on one hand. I've promised myself that no one else will ever be able to make me let down my shield like that ever again. I won't let myself be hurt again. Some asshole, one of the powers that be, has decided to give me a new partner. I'm just thrilled. I wonder how long this one will last. I made a bet with Frohike; he bets I've got myself a keeper -- he's got a "feeling." I told him two weeks. I better be right. I've good money riding on this. I hear the elevator bing -- my partner has arrived. I hope she doesn't expect me to roll out the red carpet. She won't be here for long, anyway, I already read up on her. I doubt Frohike or I will get any money out of this; this chick's as dry as the desert. Better cut it down to one case and she's off. So I don't move, I resume my work. She's going to have a heyday with our first case. I already have a theory, one she's sure to reject. Already I feel my hostility towards her, and I can't bite back a sarcastic, "Nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted." It's a generic welcome; they all get it. And suddenly, there's a new presence behind me. "Agent Mulder. I'm Dana Scully, I've been assigned to work for you." I turn and take a good look. She's definitely nice- looking, and I've never had a redhaired partner before. I vaguely wonder why her hair color matters. I see the sincere smile, the firm grasp of her hand in mine as we shake, how she wears confidence like a perfume. She smiles at me again and I make an on-the-spot judgment call. Two weeks at best.