Sixty Degrees of Separation
Author's notes: I've used a phrase here which was coined (I think)
during the Cold War. Forgive me for using it out of context, or,
perhaps, chalk up its usage to Mulder's muddled state.
Thanks: (I tried to leave the schmoop out of the story, but had to put
it someplace. It ended up here
catches of embarrassing errors and awkward phrasing. Even sleepy!Amy
catches stuff I skim right on by. To Paula Graves, for time and effort
spent reading this story (that surely could have been spent doing better
things) and wonderful constructive commentary. And to marguerite, for
pointing out problem areas, and suggesting terrific ways to correct
them, when she should have been kicking back and enjoying feedback for
her latest amazing story. Thank you, ladies, for being wonderful writers
and teachers.
***
Part 1/5
***
He was racing down the long corridor, through intermittent patches of
stark light and murky shadow. The institutional lighting, combined with
the institutional shade of mustard yellow on the walls, was disorienting
-- both familiar and unfamiliar at once. He was running -- not away, but
toward something. Something remote, inaccessible, and... longed for. He
had the feeling that if sheer strength of will was enough, he could make
the object of his search appear. I can make it happen, he thought. I
can....
Out of the darkness, a door appeared. Despite his panic, he almost
laughed at the sound of his own voice echoing in his head. I'd like to
try door number one, Monty. His fortune, he thought.
His fate.
He pushed open the door so hard it banged against the wall. A woman,
sitting behind a desk in the dimly lit office that lay before him,
jumped in reaction to his abrupt entry.
"You--" she said, gaping at him.
He felt himself smiling, in recognition and self-congratulation. He had
found her. "Scully!"
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, apparently not happy to be
found.
"Scully?" he repeated, suddenly feeling foolish.
She rolled her eyes, then muttered an annoyed "Oh, brother," under her
breath. She got up and moved to the back of the office, toward a door he
had not noticed before.
"Scully, no," he said, and then, as she opened the door, "Scully!
Scully, don't!"
"Don't what, Mulder?" He felt a hand on his shoulder. "Mulder, wake up."
***
As his arm flailed outward and he jerked awake, he heard a thud and a
muffled curse.
"Are you OK, Mulder?" a voice asked, from a distance.
"Yeah." He took in his surroundings -- familiar ones. He was in his
apartment. He looked up at the source of the voice. "Scully?"
"Yes, it's me." She watched him warily as he adjusted to a half-sitting,
half-slumped position on the couch. She closed the distance between
them, and sat gingerly, about a foot away. "I've been here since we got
back from the hospital. Do you remember that? Do you remember..."
As if triggered by the sound of the word, memory came back in a flood of
images and sounds, action and emotion. The rented boat chugging through
the clear Caribbean morning, with him at the helm, feeling queasy and
excited at the same time. The sudden shattering, of first the air around
him, and then the deck beneath his feet. The oddly peaceful submersion
in a warm blue shroud, followed by the frantic kaleidoscope of activity
to the tempo of big band music. And in the center of it all, his anchor,
his lifeline. Scully.
He turned to her to reaffirm the connection, then stopped dead at the
look on her face. He'd had years of practice decoding the tiny clues she
let slip through her various masks. At that moment, through the blaze of
a headache that had crept up on him, along with consciousness, he saw
worry, puzzlement, and compassion... but not love.
He turned away and slumped back down. "You can go, Scully."
"Mulder, you just got out of the hospital, and you're recovering from a
head injury. I'm not going anywhere," she said.
"I'm not a holy day of obligation. You don't have to take the day off
just to tend to me and rack up grace points."
"Mulder," she said patiently, "if this is about what you said, I'd like
to--"
"This is about me having the mother-in-law of all headaches, Scully. I
just want to go back to sleep." To dream, he thought -- then wondered
why. What had he been dreaming about? It was hovering just beyond
memory.
"May we discuss it now?" she asked.
Asked in the same way she'd say 'May I have my root canal now?', he
thought bitterly. Just try to bring up anything personal, and you got
the best of Scully in a nutshell. Overly careful, cautious, and
restrained. He vowed not to look at her face again while she was still
in the apartment. He couldn't bear to see the pallid expression he knew
he'd find there, instead of the passionate one that he knew now he
wanted.
"You can go, Scully," he repeated, flatly.
"Mulder, stop acting like a child," she snapped back.
Setting the standard for the shortest commitment to a vow on record, he
turned to face her. "What?"
She sighed, and began rubbing the leather of the couch, moving her hand
in a distracted pattern across the foot of space between them. "Just
because I didn't want to discuss what you said last night, and again
this morning, in, of all inappropriate places, a hospital room, where
anyone could walk in...." She flashed a look in his direction, warming
to the subject. "Just because you couldn't make me say, or do, what you
wanted, when you wanted, you've decided to run away from the discussion
I'd like to have now."
She was trying to maintain her usual impassive facade, but cracks were
beginning to show. He really was a sorry son of a bitch, he thought.
Even having her angry with him made him a little happier -- anger was
passionate, at least. If they couldn't do the things he'd envisioned
them doing on this couch, maybe a rip-roaring argument would satisfy for
now. "I'm not the one who's been running away, Scully," he sneered, as
his opening salvo. Her eyes lit up in response. Oh, yeah, he thought.
This is good.
"Did that bump on your head reinforce your selective memory, Mulder?
What were you in the process of doing when you got it, if not running
away?" she said.
"Big difference, Scully. I was running toward something. Something
interesting and extreme. Something exciting. Something that didn't
involve fertilizer."
"Something that didn't involve me?"
"No..."
Oh, shit.
"And now after running out on me, leaving me to cover for you, not to
mention rescuing you -- now you're annoyed that I didn't react the way
you wanted to the stunning revelation you brought back with you? That I
didn't keel over, exclaiming 'Oh, Fox' on the way down to the ground?"
She launched herself off the couch, and, began to stalk toward the
kitchen.
"Jesus, Scully," he protested feebly, suddenly wondering if eliciting
her anger was such a good idea after all.
He backtracked and threw caution to the wind. "I told you this morning,
it all involved you," he called after her. "On that ship, you were the
center of it all. The reason I'm still alive, the reason we're all still
ali--"
She turned to face him, hands clenched at her sides. "That wasn't me,
Mulder. You had a concussion and a subsequent elaborate hallucination.
Whatever that... figment of your imagination said or did, she did it
because you were making it happen." She paused, crossed her arms, and
looked down. "It wasn't me."
"I didn't tell her what I told you, Scully," he said quietly.
She kept her gaze fixed to the floor. Thinking he was going to get no
response, he was surprised when she said, in a small voice, "What would
you have had her say if you did, Mulder?"
"Well, not 'Oh, Fox.' I'd rather hear 'Oh, brother.' than that," he
said, starting to get up. He had no idea what he was going to do when he
got closer to her, but the pain that had replaced her anger was tearing
at him. He had the vague idea that comforting her would make him feel
better.
He gasped as the effort of standing increased the pain in his head to a
nearly intolerable level. With a sharp look of concern, Scully moved to
his side and gently pushed him back down on the couch. He was in no
shape to offer resistance. She walked back to the kitchen, then returned
with a glass of water and a prescription bottle of pills.
"Take these, Mulder," she said, offering him the glass and two pills.
"Then lie back down."
He swallowed, then murmured, "I thought you wanted to finish this,
Scully," as he closed his eyes and slumped gratefully back onto the
couch. "I guess now I'm just supposed to call you in the morning."
"This is too difficult right now, Mulder" she said, brittle facade back
in place. "We'll discuss it another time."
"When?" he rasped, with a last burst of energy. "When you have all your
counter arguments in place? When you won't be able to react honestly
because you've mapped out a strategy to deal with this latest quirk of
old Spooky's?"
His bitterness was redirected, back where it belonged. True, Scully
wouldn't respond the way he wanted, but he realized now just how
thoroughly he'd fucked this up. He should have expected it, he should
accept it, he should just give in and wallow in it.
"I'm going to work in the kitchen," Scully said, as if from a far
distance -- moving away from him as rapidly as possible, he thought. He
didn't blame her.
He heard a click, then the sound of the television.
"Is American Movie Classics OK, Mulder? she asked. "The screaming every
five minutes on the SciFi channel makes it hard to concentrate."
"Sure, fine," He mumbled. Whatever.
He drifted, waiting for the pain to subside so he could start to plan a
way out of this latest mess. Eventually, the soft drone from the
television resolved itself into a voice. David Niven? Cary Grant?
Neither, he thought.
"What'll it be guv?"
He glanced over at the source of the voice. "Whiskey," he said. "Neat."
***
The jovial bartender, whose working class accent clashed with his formal
wear, banged a glass on the bar and poured a finger full of single malt.
"Yank, eh?" he said, raising his voice over the music coming from the
band behind them. "Oh, to be in the States, now that war is here. How
come you ain't hightailed it back home, Yank?"
Mulder blinked, then studied the shot glass. What the hell. He tossed
back the contents, then grimaced and wheezed, "Looking for someone."
"Oh? Must be a right proper little dolly bird. Can't imagine why anyone
would stick around here elsewise. Unless you want to join the fun -- rub
old Adolf's nose in the dirt for 'im."
Mulder took in the scene reflected in the mirror behind the rather grand
bar. Couples were swaying to the sound of an old standard tune he
vaguely recognized, the women in long gowns, the men in formal wear.
Small tables, scattered around the edge of the room, were each set with
an old fashioned telephone and crowned with a well-shaded lamp, perfect
for intimate conversation away from the press on the dance floor. A
supper club, he realized. It looked familiar... but that ship had
sailed, hadn't it?
"I am looking for a woman, as a matter of fact." He raised his voice to
carry over the music. "A redhead." Unfortunately, the band chose that
moment to finish its tune. His voice carried clearly across the softly
applauding crowd. In the mirror he saw several heads turn in his
direction, and then -- he saw her, sitting alone at one of the tables.
She had also turned her head at the sound of his voice, and a look of
surprise crossed her face. He whirled around on the bar stool. "Well,
that was easy," said the bartender. "I was going to wish you happy
hunting, but it looks like you've run the little vixen to ground." The
woman began pulling on a pair of long white gloves, looking as if she
had every intention of bolting.
"Thanks," Mulder said hastily, and reached into his pocket. Surprised,
he pulled out a handful of half-crowns, shillings, and pence, then
turned to look helplessly at the bartender.
"Cor, you Yanks," said the bartender, "I could bloody retire on the lot
of you, not bothering to learn our simple little system." He picked
several coins from Mulder's palm. Mulder shoved the remainder in his
pocket, then turned back, only to find the table empty.
"Where did she go?" he asked the bartender. "Did you see her?"
"Here, easy on, guv," said the bartender. "She just ran up the stairs."
"Thanks again," Mulder said over his shoulder, heading out the door.
"Don't mention it, Yank," called the bartender, "And thanks for the
tip!"
Mulder reached the stairs, then began to fight his way past the constant
stream of couples heading down toward the club. Luckily for him, his
redheaded quarry was caught in the same jam. By dint of longer legs and
poorer manners, he reached her before she got to the upper level.
He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Scully? Scully, it's me."
She shrugged him off, and, without turning, whispered under her breath,
"Grab me again, and you'll be singing soprano, buster."
He carefully put his hands at his sides, ready to shield any critical
target she might have in mind, then leaned over her shoulder. "Come on,
Scully, what's going on? Why are you running away? Why are you always
running away?" He winced at the pathetic note in his voice.
"As I recall, you were the one who ran. You told me a harebrained story,
insulted me, then jumped overboard." She leaned back into him to avoid
getting trampled by a particularly boisterous party pushing their way
past them.
Mulder blinked. "It's you?" he said. "But I thought... I thought the
boat..."
She turned to face him, so close he could feel her breath on his cheek.
She was standing one stair above him, so they were almost eye-to-eye.
"You thought I went down with the ship? Well that may have been your
plan, but I had plans of my own. I had a way off that ship waiting for
me, and I lived to fight another day," she said triumphantly. "Can't say
the same for those fascist pigs. We don't know what happened, but
nobody's heard from them again."
"Oh, Scully," he breathed, "Thank God. I thought I had sent you--
sacrificed you..."
"Stop calling me that. And aren't you full of yourself? Do you think
things happen just because you want them to? Who do you think you are?"
Stung, he said, "The guy who saved you and everyone else from those
fascists getting their hands on a doomsday weapon? The guy who told you
how to get rid of the fascists?" He swallowed hard, then said
helplessly, "The guy who kissed you good-bye, thinking he would never
see you again?"
She stared at him impassively. "Well, maybe you do have some reason to
be full of yourself," she said. "But what's past is past. I have another
job to do now, and I don't need you throwing a monkey wrench in it. It
would be better if you left, now." Her face softened a bit. "Please?"
She'd turned away from him when a drunken voice behind him said, "Hey,
bub, move it up or move it down, but just move it, will ya?"
Mulder closed his eyes briefly, then made a blind grab for her elbow.
"Dance with me," he said, surprising himself, "Just one dance, then I'll
leave."
She turned back to him, not pulling away from his grip, he noticed.
"This guy bothering you, lady?" said the voice behind him. "You want I
should get rid of him?"
"No," she said over Mulder's shoulder. "I'll handle this." She looked
back at Mulder. "One dance," she said, "One."
Is the loneliest number, Mulder thought wistfully, then turned to escort
her down the stairs. He stopped abruptly, and found himself looking down
into the ice cold eyes of Walter Skinner.
"Why, Mulder?" said Skinner, reaching up to tug Mulder's shoulder. "Why
are you still here?"
***
Mulder shook the hand off his shoulder, then felt himself falling. The
strong hand reappeared and stopped him from rolling off the couch.
"What--" he croaked, and realized his throat was parched. "What do you
want?"
"Mulder, why are you still here?" demanded a gruff voice. "You were
supposed to report for work this morning."
Mulder opened his eyes and regarded his former boss warily. "How did you
get in here?" he asked. He half-sat up, which did his pounding head no
good at all. "Where's Scully?"
"She gave me her key," said Skinner. "She had to go into work early, and
didn't want to wake you. She asked me to check on you when you didn't
answer the phone. It's a little easier for me to get away from work
these days than it is for her," he added grimly.
Mulder sat up the rest of the way and gulped water from the full glass
that was sitting on the coffee table. He grimaced. Lukewarm. Scully must
have left it last night.
"I want to go in to work," said Mulder abruptly, throwing off the
blanket that covered him. More evidence of Scully's care.
"It's a little late for that. I'm sure your absence has already been
noted," said Skinner. "Besides, you look like hell."
"I want to see Scully," said Mulder. "And I have to check on--" He
glanced at Skinner. "Check on something."
"Can't it wait?" asked Skinner.
"No." Mulder headed into the bathroom, trying to remember the latest
dream. He peered at his still bruised face in the mirror, and wondered
why he was feeling wary of Skinner in a way he hadn't felt for years.
***
End Part 1/5
To the next part...