By Jake
nejake@tds.net
Rating: R (Language)
Classification: V
Spoilers: Post-ep for "Lazarus"
Summary: "And for those of you who don't know already -- this
one's important to me." -- Fox Mulder in "Lazarus"
Disclaimer: Do these characters really belong to Chris Carter,
FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement
intended. Fun, yes. Profit, no.
Author's notes: In "Lazarus" we saw Mulder's first desperate
search for Kidnapped!Scully. Remember how his brow creased
when he talked to her on the phone while Willis held her
hostage? ~sigh~ This ep was a wonderful glimpse at Mulder's
growing attachment to Scully, and a great buildup to later eps
"Tooms" and "Duane Barry."
This story is dedicated to Clarissa, and she knows why. It
starts mid-"Lazarus," so we won't miss a moment of
Concerned!Mulder.
~~~
The Distressed Damsel
By Jake
DESMOND ARMS RESIDENT HOTEL
LULA PHILLIPS' APARTMENT
She was here. Multrevich ID'd her. ID'd them both. Agent
Bruskin and I head down the stairs to the street. "Now *I'm*
worried," he says, "Twelve hours with no word. I don't get it.
Why's their car still sitting out front? Why didn't Willis
call for backup?"
"Because it wasn't Willis who answered the hot line."
"What are you talking about, Mulder? You heard the recording.
It was Willis' voice."
Jesus, I'm talking to a goddamn brick wall. Willis isn't
Willis; he's Dupre, you f-- "Forget it, Bruskin."
Agent Bruskin isn't willing to concede. "Plus which, the
manager just ID'd him *and* Scully."
"I said forget it." We're at the front door and I step
outside. The sun is too bright. Where the hell is Scully?
Bruskin is right on my heels. "This isn't one of your X-File
theories, is it?"
Fuck you. "It doesn't matter what I think. We're still after
the same thing." Either I'm wrong or you're wrong -- it makes
no difference; Scully is missing. She might already be--
My cell phone rings. Please, be good news. Please.
"Mulder," I identify myself.
//FBI Centrex Operator. Please hold.//
I hear the operator open the line.
"Guess who, Ace?"
It's Willis. Or Dupre in Willis' body. I turn my back on
Bruskin to hide the fact that this situation scares the shit
outta me.
"Willis?"
"That depends on who you ask, don't it?"
"Where's Scully?" If he's touched one hair on--
"You're the FBI. You figure it out."
"Let me talk to her!"
He considers it, and says, "Yeah. Sure."
I hear some rustling and then Scully says my name. "Mulder?"
Jesus, she's alive. "Dana, are you okay?"
"Don't--"
Shit! "Dana?" God damn it! The son-of-a-bitch cut her off.
He thinks he's-- "Okaaaay," he says, "That's it. Good-
bye."
Fuck.
- - - - - -
FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON, DC
//I feel myself getting into their heads and I'm scared by
what I'm feeling. The intoxicating freedom that comes from
disconnecting action and consequence. Theirs is a world where
nothing matters but their own needs, their own impossible
appetites and while the pleasure they derive from acts of
violence is clearly sexual, it also speaks to what Warden
Jackson called their operatic devotion to each other. It's a
love affair I almost envy.//
I've listened to Willis' tapes a dozen times, gone over his
field notes, Dupre's file. There has to be a clue here --
something that'll lead me to Scully.
She said she and Willis dated for almost a year. Did he know
her better than he knows Lula Phillips and Warren Dupre? Did he
love her? I'm hoping he can keep her safe from Dupre. For
Scully's sake, I'm hoping some shred of Jack Willis still
exists.
* * *
"This is it," the agent says, looking at me.
Finally. A break -- I hope. I take the phone from him.
//Listen carefully.//
The voice is Lula's. I ask her, "Where's Willis?"
//Oh, he's lying around here somewhere.//
What the hell does that mean? "Let me talk to Scully."
//Not this time.//
"We don't deal unless we know Scully is alive."
//Oh, she's alive. She's not happy, but she's alive.//
"You listen to me -- you lay one hand on Scully, and so help
me, God--" I picture myself strangling this woman.
//If I were you, I'd stop talking and start passing around the
collection hat 'cause if you ever want to see Scully again
it's going to cost you a million dollars. Have it by this time
tomorrow. I'll tell you when and where.//
Shit, she doesn't realize -- Bureau policy prohibits
negotiating with kidnappers.
- - - - - -
LULA'S HIDEOUT
We located her. Lula's phone call provided the clue we needed.
She's hiding in a rundown, two-story house not far from the
airport. God, please let Scully be okay.
"FBI! FBI!" Bruskin shouts as we storm Lula's front door. We
hear a gunshot just as the door bursts open.
"Jack!" Scully yells, her voice full of fear and concern.
I rush to her while Bruskin checks Willis. Her lip is bleeding
and she's on the floor, handcuffed to the radiator...but she's
alive. "Scully, are you okay?"
She cranes to see past me, to Willis. "Jack!"
"Scully, are you hurt?" I crouch beside her, try to get her
attention. I want to wipe the blood from her face.
"Is Jack okay?" she asks Bruskin. "Unlock me, Mulder." She
rattles the cuffs and rises to her knees. Her wrists are raw
and swollen. She's pissed at me for being so slow.
"He's dead," Bruskin says. "They're both dead."
This news collapses Scully back onto her haunches. Her eyes
are fixed on Willis' body. She breathes through her mouth and
shakes her head. "Mulder?"
I get the cuffs off her, help her stand. When she tries to go
to Willis, I hold her back.
"There's nothing you can do," I say as gently as I can.
I tilt my head, putting us at eye level. "You're bleeding."
"I'm fine." She swipes at the blood, smearing it.
"Let's get you checked--"
"I said I'm fine, Mulder. Let me go. I need to see Jack."
"*I* need to know you're okay." I lock eyes with her. I can
feel her soft, panting breath on my cheeks. "He's dead,
Scully. You can't bring him back. Not again."
Sorrow threatens to spill over her lashes, but her anger
refuses to let her tears fall. Not in front of these men. Not
in front of me. Shrugging off my hands, she shoulders past me
to the door.
- - - - - -
FBI HEADQUARTERS
WASHINGTON, DC
"Hi." I don't know what to expect. Scully is cleaning out
Willis' desk. Her face is unreadable. I dig Willis'
wristwatch from my pocket and hand it to her. "I got this from
the morgue, along with the rest of his personal effects. I
thought you might want it."
The back is inscribed. A gift from her, I'm guessing. **We
dated for almost a year.** She takes it.
"'Happy 35th, Love D.' I got it for him three years ago."
Right. I point to the box. "Next of kin?"
"Uh...no. Jack was an only child. Both his parents died when
he was in college. There's a kid over in Parklawn. Jack's been
his Big Brother, so I'm going to go and see him tomorrow."
No wonder she dated Willis. Tall, dark and selfless.
"What am I going to tell him, Mulder?"
"The official story."
"Which is?"
"Fugitive Lula Phillips died yesterday in a shoot-out with
federal agents, which also resulted in the death of Special
Agent Jack Willis -- killed in the line of duty."
I hate lies like these. They ignore the facts in the name of
honor. Everybody ends up feeling good, but the truth stays
buried.
Scully sighs and then sits down at Willis' desk. She
looks...confused. "What am I supposed to tell myself?"
I'm guessing her question is rhetorical -- she doesn't really
want to hear my theory. I decide to go home, let her come to
her own conclusions. We can review the case in the morning.
I tell her, "Good night."
She doesn't hear me. She's looking at the watch. "It's not
working," she says. "It stopped. At 6:47."
I can't help myself. I want her to see the truth. "The exact
time that Jack went into cardiac arrest at the hospital."
"What does that mean?"
"It means..." Leave it alone, Mulder. She's not ready for it.
She just lost someone who meant a lot to her. "It means
whatever you want it to mean," I say; my answer is as dishonest
as the FBI's official story. She seems relieved. Maybe it is
okay to lie sometimes. "Good night," I say again, leaving her
to finish packing.
- - - - - -
MULDER'S APARTMENT
LATER THAT NIGHT
I'm snoozing on the couch when I think I hear a knock on my
door. 11:40. Must be the televi--
Nope, a definite knock. I haul my ass off the couch, shut off
the TV.
"Coming," I yell. A second later, I open the door to find--
"Scully?"
For some reason, she seems startled by the sight of me. Is it
my clothes? I'm dressed in sweats and an old tee, but they're
clean. Her eyes focus on my bare feet. She asks, "Can I come
in?"
"Uh...sure." I stand back and she walks beneath my
outstretched arm. "Are you...are you okay, Scully?" I shut the
door and trail her to my living room. She stands beside my
coffee table and faces the window. Her eyes travel across my
desk, the couch, the fish tank.
"I've never been in your apartment," she says.
"Oh. The cleaning lady comes in June." Does the place smell
bad? I take a little sniff. Seems fine. "Sit down." I
gesture toward the couch. "Can I...can I take your coat?"
"I shouldn't stay."
"You came all the way over, Scully. You must have something on
your mind."
She turns to face me. "Could Warren Dupre really...I mean...is
it possible...?"
Is she ready for the truth? Really ready? Or did she come here
to hear me corroborate her version. She looks exhausted. "I
dunno, Scully. You heard Professor Varnes. When cells die,
genetic material begins to unfold, and a tremendous charge of
energy is released. You're the scientist. You tell me."
She walks to the couch, sits, shakes her head. "But the human
consciousness... To suggest it can transfer and survive in
someone else's body...that's a leap I don't think I'm willing
to take."
I sit down, too, on the opposite end of the couch. "Then why
are you here?"
"Because...because you believe." She pins me with a haunted
stare.
"Scully...it's not that I believe so much as...I *want* it to
be true. I hope it's true."
"Why would you hope someone's soul could invade another
person's body?"
"I don't. I don't hope for that specifically."
"Then what?"
How do I explain to her? How do I explain that I need to
believe in the plausibility of the fantastic, or else there's
no hope of ever finding Samantha.
"I don't kid myself, Scully. I know there's a difference
between hope and expectation. My job...*our* job...is to find
the truth -- no matter what it is."
A sigh sifts from her lungs. She tips her head back into the
cushions and closes her eyes. A bruise shadows her lower lip
where Willis...where Dupre struck her earlier. I fight the
urge to move close enough to touch it. I opt for tickling her
finger with my thumb. My touch opens her eyes.
"I don't think I'm cut out for this, Mulder."
I withdraw my caress. "For what?"
"This job. The X-Files. Working with you."
It's been a rough month for her. She lost her father. Then some
alien asshole in Steveston, Massachusetts, tried to jump her
bones, do the nasty. Now this thing with Jack Willis. I can
hardly blame her for wanting a little normalcy.
"Take a break if you need it, Scully, but don't give up.
You're good at this."
Her eyebrows shoot upward. "You're joking, right?"
"Scully, you profiled Tooms. You saved my ass in Icy Cape. You
solved the L'Ively case." I reach for her hand and hang onto
it this time. "You don't have to believe what I believe. But
you have to respect the truth."
She considers my words. Nods her head. After a minute she says,
"I loved Jack at one time, you know."
Tall, dark and selfless.
Her brows draw together as she struggles to understand what
happened to the Jack Willis she once loved. "He knew all
about her."
"Lula?"
"Mmhm. He knew her birthday and her favorite color. Do you
know my favorite color?"
"Pink?" I guess.
"Pink? No." She's annoyed, but I'm pretty sure it has nothing
to do with the color question. "He knew the private
conversations they'd had. How...how would he know those things
if..." She draws away from me, hugs her arms to her chest.
"Mulder, for a second I thought I saw..."
Say it, Scully. Admit it, to me, to yourself. "Saw what?"
"Nothing. I was tired. He was Jack, Mulder. He remembered our
trip to his parent's cabin in Pine Barrens. He remembered the
snowstorm and the woodstove, and wrapping us both in a
blanket when the fire burned out."
"Jack was still in there, Scully." I want to add "with Dupre,"
but I don't. Is a half-truth a lie?
She lets her arms drop to her sides. "Call a cab for me?"
"I'll drive you."
She stands while I slide into my sneakers. I leave the laces
untied. She's looking at my apartment again. Shit. The place
is a mess. Her eyes land on the latest issue of Celebrity Skin
beside the VCR.
"What's your favorite color, Mulder?"
"I'm colorblind."
"You are? I didn't know that."
My coat is balled up in the chair beside the desk. I grab it
and put it on, follow her to the front door. Scully and I have
been working together for almost a year. We hardly know each
other. Would I be able to tell if someone's soul invaded her
body, displacing the real Dana Scully?
"What's *your* favorite color, Scully?" I open the door and
we step into the hall.
"Not pink."
We walk to the elevator.
"Blue?"
"No."
At the elevator, I push the down button and the doors slide
open. We step inside.
"It's green, isn't it? Is it green?"
She looks me in the eyes and seems to relax a little. "Yeah,
Mulder," she says, "I like green."
THE END
Author's notes: For those of you who are as nitpicky as I am,
"Lazarus" presented us with additional evidence that CC is no
math geek (as if we needed more). Check out his arithmetic in
this scene [Mulder is briefing several agents during the
search for Scully]:
"Okay, from our last phone contact we've identified what
sounds like light aircraft taking off. Now, Washington County
Regional Airport happens to fall within our area, just south
of the state line. Since takeoffs are north to south it's a
fair bet that our target area lies along this flight path. For
those of you who remember ninth-grade math, that gives us an
area of just over three square miles to cover -- roughly 1000
households. With 100 law enforcement officials at our disposal
at about 30 households per man per hour we should be able to
canvass the entire area in about three hours. Agent Bruskin
will grid the target area and divide it among the teams."
Three hours? According to my calculations, 1000 households
divided by 100 law enforcement officials equals 10 households
per man. If each man can cover 30 households per hour, (i.e.,
one household every two minutes, which is pretty fast, I have
to admit), the entire search should take only 20 minutes.
Hmmm. No wonder Scully was pregnant for 13 months.
Obviously, I'm spending waaaay too much time trying to
reconcile CC's number crunching. Perhaps I inherited my dad's
love of equations -- he's a retired math teacher.
Feedback, good or bad, is welcome on this or any of my
stories. Send comments to nejake@tds.net.