Title: Are You Lonesome Tonight?
Author: ML
Distribution: Just tell me where, and leave the header/footer stuff attached, please.
Spoilers: through Season 7
Rating: Teens and older (language)
Classification: S, Angst, MSR
Keywords: Mulder/Scully Romance
Summary: Mulder spends some time in quiet reflection.
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the X-Files, Mulder, Scully, or any of the other characters named herein. They are the property of Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen, and FOX, and I hope they use their power responsibly. I’m not making any money from this, and I promise to treat them well. I also don’t own any part of Casablanca, but I do quote from it here and there, and no infringement is intended in either case.
Author’s notes: This story is part of the “Another Gray Morning” series. All can be found at Ephemeral. Titles at end of story. And by the way, the title may make it *sound* like a songfic, but it isn’t.
Are You Lonesome Tonight?
by ML
It was better now that it had turned dark outside. He didn’t bother with turning on the lamp. He let his eyes adjust slowly to the familiar shapes around him, lit only by the faint gleam of the street light through the slats of the blinds.
He thought it would help to come here, to the place most familiar to him. He wanted, he needed, to be alone. He hadn’t been alone, truly alone, since before his abduction. Since his return, so many people seemed to have claims on him. Except the one person who had the most claim seemed reluctant to admit it.
Scully had a new partner. Mulder didn’t know how to feel about that. Well, yes, he did, really. Scully was on the X-Files, and he wasn’t. It was weirder than missing time.
Scully had finally confessed to him at the Gunmen the day before, after Skinner let something slip. Scully just blurted it out. He thought he handled it pretty well. He listened to her talk about him, staying carefully neutral, all the while trying to assess how she felt about this guy. Doggett, his name was. Mulder vaguely remembered the name. Ex-cop, very by-the-book. Scully should love that. Except for the fact he was Kersh’s golden boy. Which meant Scully reported to Kersh, too. Just a few little details Skinner forgot to fill him in on.
He’d stayed calm while they were at the Gunmen’s, though overall it had not been a very successful visit. No news, good or otherwise, about Krycek or Marita; no new information from the abduction returnee centers; no reports of UFOs crashing anywhere or hovering over the White House. And he still couldn’t remember more than vague, fleeting images of his own experience.
Skinner eventually took them back to Scully’s. Mulder had been quiet all the way there, as was Scully. Once home, there was the distraction of the baby and other little chores to attend to. He decided he would wait until Scully was ready to talk to him about it. He wouldn’t ask questions, he wouldn’t accuse, he wouldn’t blame. <It’s the new Mulder,> he told himself. <No jumping to conclusions or running off.>
Well, any conclusions he’d jumped to he kept to himself. And he hadn’t run off until the next day, so perhaps it *was* an improvement.
He’d waited for Scully to broach the subject, to tell him more about her new partner, what she thought of him, what ideas she had for getting rid of Doggett and getting *him*, Mulder, back as her partner. But she didn’t say another word about it.
He fell asleep on the couch while Scully put the baby–put David– <I guess I should get used to calling him by his name now> to bed. She’d come back out to the living room, and he was vaguely aware of her presence, hovering near. When she didn’t say anything, he’d pretended to still be asleep. He felt her place a blanket over him before she left the room.
The morning had been no better. Mulder woke up early, and lay listening for any sounds from the bedroom. He couldn’t hear anything, then realized the door was shut. He went into the kitchen to make coffee and to think about what to do.
Skinner told him he still needed to lie low, and that he’d be in touch about his status with the FBI. Apparently Skinner also answered to Kersh. Mulder reflected that Skinner probably had done some damage to his own reputation, aligning himself with the Bureau’s Monster Boy. <Well, I probably can’t help him there,> Mulder thought sourly.
He was on his second cup of coffee when Scully appeared. She put her hand on his shoulder as she busied herself at the stove, boiling water for her own herbal tea. He waited until she was sitting at the table too before saying anything.
“I want to go to my place today,” he told her without preamble.
Scully looked at him over her mug. After a moment she nodded. “I’m not supposed to drive yet, but I can call Frohike, or maybe Skinner–”
“No.” He cut her off. “I’ll take a cab. I just…I just need to be alone for a while, someplace where I’m not a visitor, you know?”
She nodded again, but he could see that she was hurt. He so wanted to be at home with Scully, but for the moment at least it wasn’t possible.
He hung around until lunch time, helping change David, keeping an eye on him while Scully showered. After they pretended to eat lunch, he called for a taxi and went down to the front of the building to wait for it. He resolutely refused to look back at Scully’s window, to see if she was watching him or not.
He let himself in to his apartment. It looked about the same as when he’d come back from any trip, except the fish were still alive. There was his couch, the coffee table, the prints on the wall.
He looked through all the rooms. Except for looking somewhat cleaner than when he last saw it, it looked normal to him. He could hardly tell that anyone had been living here in his absence. A look in his bedroom revealed a rolled up futon in the corner. <Jeez, the guy pays rent and he doesn’t even get to sleep in the bed? Who wrote the rules here?> His closet was nearly empty except for some boxes sealed up with tape, his name scrawled on them in black marker. Bureau drawers, empty.
The bathroom contained nothing but a toothbrush and toothpaste, not his usual brand. The medicine cabinet was empty. Fresh towels hung on the rack.
In the kitchen, his sparse collection of cutlery and dishes were still there, more or less where he’d left them. The refrigerator was close to empty.
<Scully must’ve called the guy to clear out while I was showering this morning> he thought. <He *had* to be living out of suitcases.> He felt sorry for the guy–what was his name? Calvin?–who obviously never made himself at home here. Nonetheless, Mulder was also pleased by this. He hadn’t been sure he liked the idea of someone else living in his apartment, though Scully’s explanation made sense.
It felt incredibly lonely, but he was used to that. He missed Scully, but even that was a familiar feeling. All the time they were partners, even before they’d become lovers, the times away from her were lonely. Weekends were excruciating, especially at the end of a case. He’d use any excuse to call her, to lure her into the office, or invite himself over.
He drifted around his apartment, picking up things at random, turning them over in his hands. Most things were both familiar and unfamiliar, artifacts of another life.
This place was his past. So much of it was bittersweet. He remembered returning after a night at Scully’s bedside, certain that he’d seen her alive for the last time–then getting the call that told him she would live, which meant so would he. He’d had that bond with her, even then. Maybe that was when he first realized it.
He remembered *his* return from the dead, finding Scully and Skinner holding each other at gunpoint. He would never forget the look of joy in Scully’s eyes, though at the time he refused to act on it–or to let her act on it, either. He wondered what might have happened if he’d let her speak, or if he’d said what was in his heart.
All water under the bridge now. After so many false starts and years of yearning <at least on his part,> they were together. Sort of. He’d at least gotten a start on showing Scully what she meant to him, then his draft number came up and he was called to the mother ship. Now it looked as though they were back at Square One.
He sat on his couch and closed his eyes. He both wanted and didn’t want to remember what had happened to him. Somewhere in his subconscious, he was sure that some of the answers he’d sought for so long must be hiding.
Some sort of self-hypnosis might do the trick, he thought. He remembered explaining to Scully his method of indirect thinking and started looking around for his tape of “Plan 9 from Outer Space.” There were no videos to be found, anywhere. Evidently Frohike wasn’t kidding when he said he had them. Though they might be in one of the boxes somewhere…
He just didn’t have the energy to look for anything. He found the remote, which was neatly placed on top of the TV, and began his other favored method of self-hypnosis, channel-surfing.
He couldn’t be so lucky as to find “Plan 9,” but anything sufficiently familiar would probably do. He paused at an old movie. “Casablanca.” Well, mindless it wasn’t, but he knew the dialogue nearly as well as “Plan 9.”
The scene playing was after hours at the cafe, Rick reminiscing about the woman he loved and lost, remembering Paris…Mulder closed his eyes, not needing to see, letting his mind drift where it would.
Funny how it always drifted back to Scully. The one clear memory he had of his time away was how Scully had always been with him, how the sense of her nearness was what kept him anchored, kept him sane. <*You’re part of his work, the thing that keeps him going…* but so much more than that.> He let his mind drift through some of his favorite Scully moments. Most of them seemed to involve seeing her smile as he woke up in a hospital bed. There were some more recent ones, however, seeing her smile in her sleep next to him, and other expressions even more delightful. <I want more of that,> he thought. <It can’t be that our time is already over.>
When he was aware of his surroundings again, it was dusk. He shut off the television and sat in the gathering dark. He sat for a long time, not really thinking of much, not feeling anything. If his trance, or doze, had triggered anything, it wasn’t manifesting itself. He leaned back again, eyes shut, wondering if he should just go back to Scully’s and somehow make her talk. Make *himself* talk. He was as reluctant as she seemed to be to open a subject that might end up being painful for both of them.
A movement by the door startled him. A shadow moved, then spoke. One word, his name.
<Oh god, it’s Krycek. Knew he’d show up eventually.> “I guess I’m not surprised to see you,” he said calmly, sitting up and trying to assess the danger.
“I’ve known of your return, but I didn’t want to approach you with Skinner hanging around. I had to wait until your baby sitters were out of sight.” Krycek moved a little closer to the couch, but still out of arm’s reach.
“Changing sides again, Krycek?”
“There are no sides, Mulder. There is no right or wrong. There is only survival or destruction.”
“That’s pretty dramatic, isn’t it?” Mulder forced himself to speak calmly, like he was discussing box scores. His stomach churned. Maybe Krycek knew something. “Why should I help you?”
“You don’t have a choice, Mulder. I have leverage against you now.”
“What do you want?” he asked, tensing for attack. <Leverage. Scully? David? What about Skinner?>
“What do you think I want? Same as you. Answers. Information. To win.” Krycek stayed where he was, though he had to know Mulder had no gun. He seemed to know everything else.
“I don’t have anything for you,” Mulder said. “Unless you want some old magazines or a cup of coffee.”
“Be serious for once in your life, Mulder,” Krycek snarled. “I need what you have.”
“What do you think I have? *I* don’t even know what I have.” Mulder stood up slowly, and watched Krycek tense in expectation of an attack. <At least he thinks I can still kick his ass,> Mulder thought. He stayed where he was, however, and waited for Krycek to elaborate.
“Access, *Agent* Mulder. I need your access.”
“Access to what? The alien ship? Sorry, I think they took my key card back when they dropped me off.” Mulder walked past Krycek into the kitchen and was faintly amused to feel the other man draw back just slightly.
“Don’t be stupid. Access to the FBI, to its resources. To *your* resources,” Krycek followed him into the kitchen, his good hand curled into a loose fist, and leaned against the counter, watching Mulder.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have any access to the FBI just now,” Mulder told him. “I thought Skinner was your fair-haired boy. Why can’t he help you?”
“I can’t make him cooperate with me,” Krycek said. “He blames me somehow for your disappearance.”
“Maybe he had good reason to,” Mulder said. “At a guess, I’d say you’re probably also wanted for murder. Unless of course Smoking Man has returned from the dead.” He rummaged around in various cupboards, keeping one eye on Krycek. He found only a few packets of some herbal tea.
“Would it surprise you if he had?” Krycek countered.
“Not particularly. It wouldn’t be the first time,” Mulder said. <Shit, I’m out of practice for this kind of verbal volleyball.> He filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. “I’m afraid I’ll have to take back my offer of coffee. How about a cup of tea?” <How `bout I throw a little scalding water in your face, Comrade?>
“I’m not bluffing, Mulder,” Krycek said ominously. “You know I’m not.”
Mulder resisted the urge to slam Krycek up against the refrigerator, just for old times’ sake. “Alex, listen. If I knew anything, I would tell you. Right now, I *really* don’t care if you’re working for a consortium consisting of the Ayatollah Khomeni and Saddam Hussein. *I don’t remember anything.* Whatever little mind wipe They performed, They did a real good job.”
“What if I told you I had a way for you to recapture your memories?” Krycek asked him.
“What if I told you you’re full of shit?” Mulder countered. “If you have that, what’s keeping you from running off to Oregon or somewhere, and using it on someone else?”
“Because no one has what you’ve got, Mulder,” Krycek continued. “You are the one with the key.”
“Well, I’m really flattered, but I don’t think so,” Mulder said. “Why don’t you go peddle your lies somewhere else?”
Krycek moved toward Mulder as if to grab him or hit him, and seemed to catch himself just in time. He stood where he was, seething, just out of Mulder’s reach. “This conversation isn’t over,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Okay,” Mulder said reasonably. “I *might* even think about what you told me.” He continued to speak in a calm, measured voice, letting his words and his eyes convey his message. “But let me tell you something. If *anything* happens to anyone I care about, if Skinner gets so much as a cold, or if Scully or the baby are harmed in any way, I will track you down and believe me, you’ll wish the aliens had taken you.”
Krycek turned away, but not before Mulder could see the fear and frustration in his eyes. This was new. Krycek seemed somehow afraid of him. Why? And what possible advantage could this mean for Mulder and the good guys?
He wondered briefly where Marita Covarrubias was. He hadn’t thought to ask Krycek. He knew they were uneasy allies at best. So were they all. He walked out of the kitchen to see if Krycek was still there but he had disappeared as quietly as he’d appeared. <I didn’t imagine that, did I?> His front door was slightly ajar. He pushed it closed.
He finished making the tea and returned to the living room. What if what Krycek said was true? Where would he get such knowledge?
He’d barely sat down again when someone knocked at the door. His instant thought was <Scully!>
He jumped up and opened the door to find Marita Covarrubias.
She simply stood there and looked at him. His smile faded to indifference and he turned away, leaving her at the door. “Unless you’ve got a pizza, I’m not buyin,'” he said, going back to the sofa.
Marita came in and shut the door. “You haven’t even heard what I’m offering,” she said.
“Doesn’t matter. Your partner was already here to give me the sales pitch, and I told him the same thing.”
“My partner.” Marita stood next to the sofa. “You mean Krycek. He’s not my partner. I don’t trust him.”
“That doesn’t give you any special status,” Mulder replied. “No one who knows him trusts him.”
“Whatever he offered you, it’s a lie,” Marita continued. “He doesn’t have anything. He just *thinks* he does.”
“I’m so glad you cleared that up for me,” Mulder said. “I suppose you *do* have something?”
“I just want to make sure you end up on the right side of this,” Marita said. “The winning side.”
“Would that be the side with the flame-throwing aliens, or the side with the shape-shifting aliens?” Mulder asked. “I don’t see much to choose from, either way.” He sipped his tea. “Get to the point, Marita. You’re not saying anything.”
She knelt beside him and put her hand on his arm. “You’ve *got* to help us. Time is running out. We *have* to know what’s going to happen, what’s being planned.”
Mulder laughed and gently moved away from Marita. “You think I know? That They told me everything, and then turned me loose to warn the human race?”
“Mulder, please. For old times’ sake?” She smiled, but where once he saw an attractive woman, he now only saw skin stretched too tight over her bones, and a stark terror in her eyes.
“I wouldn’t bring up the past if I were you,” he told her. “It’s poor salesmanship. There was never anything between us, not even friendship. You used me, same as Smoking Man and his cronies did.”
Marita stared at him. “Doesn’t the future mean anything to you?”
“Yes, it does. It means more to me now than it ever did before,” Mulder said, and realized that it was true. Not for the reasons Marita might think, but for his own reasons. Two reasons, primarily, upon which he pinned all his hopes for the future, any future.
“Then you’ll help us?” Marita looked relieved and calculating at the same time. <How does she do that?> Mulder wondered.
Mulder stood up and offered his hand to help Marita to her feet, and led her to the door. “I’m not saying yes, and I’m not saying no. You can tell that to your associates. When I’m ready to listen to your sales pitch, I’ll be in touch.”
“*We’ll* be in touch,” Marita corrected him, and slipped out the front door.
“Well, it seems that as long as everyone thinks I have secret alien stuff, I’ll never be lonely,” he murmured to himself, and took his cold tea back into the kitchen.
Other than his unwelcome visitors, no one had tried to contact him all day. The phone was working; he picked it up for the hundredth time to hear the dial tone. He started to dial Scully’s number but stopped halfway and sat down on the sofa again. He knew she was well-protected. Obviously she had been while he was gone. He wasn’t needed.
<Everyone wants a piece of me–except maybe Scully.> He could feel himself slipping into self-pity. He lay back on the sofa, television on but muted. He shut his eyes and felt the flash of changing pictures against his eyelids…
…and he was back on the ship. He could not feel his body but knew They were doing something to him. Shadowy figures circled around him. The whir of equipment was loud in his ears but no louder than his frantic voice, yelling with all his might:
“SCULLY!”
“SCULLLEEEEEEE!”
He woke himself up, bathed in sweat, panting. He could still hear a ringing in his ears, then realized it was the phone. He lunged for it and started saying, “Hello? Scully?” before he got the handset to his ear.
There were a couple of hollow clicks and he thought wildly of phone taps. Then a hollow voice came on the line.
“Am I speaking to Mr. Mulder?”
“Who wants to know?” he asked cautiously.
“I’m calling from Mike’s Auto Glass, and we are going to be in your vicin–”
“NO!” shouted Mulder, and slammed the phone down. <Fucking telemarketers.>
He went to the kitchen sink and bathed his face, leaning down to drink from the faucet. <Scully probably wouldn’t like that,> his mind supplied automatically. <Or drinking directly from the juice carton, or dropping my clothes on the floor, either. Bet she’ll try to teach the kid not to do it, too.> He grinned to himself. <It’ll be fun to show him how.>
But first he had to find out if Scully even still wanted him around. She *seemed* happy to see him, his first night back. Now he wasn’t so sure. She seemed to be standing back from him, assessing him, perhaps trying to figure out what possible harm he might bring to her and the baby.
He would go away before he’d let any harm come to her or their child through him.
He hated feeling so needy, but the truth was, he needed reassurance that he still had a place in her life. She had been forced to do without him, to move on. Would he have done so well without her? He already knew that answer, having experienced it.
When Scully was taken from him, he fell apart. He’d felt helpless and useless all the time she was gone, and when she came back, and he could do nothing for her, he felt worse. The same thing happened when she was diagnosed with cancer. He ran around, acting like he knew what he was doing, but in the end nothing he did made any difference. Miracle or not, Scully recovered. He may have been the go-
between who supplied the remedy, but all he could do was stand by and watch it work or not. If it hadn’t been the answer, he’d have had nothing else to try.
Enough of this. Enough of this lying around, feeling sorry for himself. If he was going to have a place in Scully’s life, he would damn well have to do something about it. She wasn’t going to come to him and beg him. He called for a taxi and bounded out of the apartment.
He stood at the elevator door, bouncing on the balls of his feet, just about ready to dash down the stairs. He could run to Scully’s faster than the elevator would get to his floor. He could probably be halfway there before the taxi even got here. He turned away as he heard the elevator bell ding. The door slid open. He heard footsteps on the hall floor.
“Mulder?”
He turned back.
end.
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