From: JGreco217 <jgreco217@aol.com>
Date: 12 May 1999 22:34:52 GMT
Subject: Case #1235: Fox Mulder  By: Jamie Greco (1 / 2) 

Case # 1235  Fox Mulder

By: Jamie Greco (jgreco217@aol.com)

Rating: PG-13 for language

Classification: MSR, sort of...none displayed

Spoilers :Small Anasazzi

Summary: Mulder is evaluated for fitness for duty


I'm not getting anywhere with Fox Mulder.  Nowhere at all.  He comes to me
twice a week for a little over a month and I get nothing.  He runs the gamut
from glib to hostile, but he never gets beyond the most surface aspects of his
life. I, on the other hand, have run the gamut from irritated to charmed, but
mostly I'm frustrated.  If not for his rather extensive files, I would only
know that he is reviled by most of his colleagues and only fully trusts his
partner.  From his files, I have learned that he lost his sister to what he
believes is an alien abduction, his father to murder, his reputation to his
steadfast belief in the indefensible.  From the expressions on his face, I've
learned he lost his heart to his partner. None of which is why he has been sent
to me.  It is my job to make sure he isn't losing his mind as well.
I'm not his first psychiatrist, although he says I'm the first woman.  I wonder
about this.  Some men feel compelled to appear strong and indestructible around
women, it certainly effects the doctor-patient relationship in one way or
another, even if the effect isn't always clear.  In any case, I am one of a
parade of counselors, therapists, psychologists and the like as a result of the
obviously general consensus, of first his family and eventually of his
employers, that Mulder, as he prefers to be called, is teetering on a very
unstable brink of insanity.  I'm the latest of at least half a dozen called in
to evaluate his stability over his lifetime.  At least since he was twelve.

I keep my records on tape.  This was less than delightful news to Agent Mulder,
although he didn't argue the point...much. I find it helps me to hear the
actual conversations, the tone, the pauses, even the modulation of breathing;
sighs, sharp intakes and the like.  I close my eyes and I can picture what went
on.  It is very helpful to me when reviewing, as I am now, in anticipation of
Mulder's arrival.  Choosing tape one, I lean back in my chair and concentrate
on him.  His image flickers and gels behind my eyes and I can see him and feel
my reactions to him as if it were happening in the present.

He stalks into my office and throws himself down on my couch, his legs and arms
splayed in exaggerated relaxation.  He throws his head back, leaning it against
the wall and begins:  "No, I don't hate my mother.  I'm more than a little
pissed at my father.  I dreamt of trains and tunnels last night.  Do you think
that makes me gay, or is it simply a manifestation of my inward journey?"

"Been through this before, huh?"

"I'm the poster boy for psychiatric evaluation."

"Well then, this should be painless," I say--rather disingenuously, I realize
in hindsight.  I hear myself shuffling his papers.  "I want to let you know
that I am taping our sessions."

It's as if he were a spring coiling back to its original position.  He sits up
quickly, his face becoming tense and drawn.  I suddenly see exhaustion in his
features.  "Is that necessary?" he bites off.

"I find it helps in my evaluation."

More silence.

"I can guarantee you that nobody will hear them but me."

He smirks, obviously unimpressed with my word or my trustworthiness in general,
but he doesn't reply.  I see his jaw clenching and unclenching.  I write in my
notebook, Paranoid?
"So where would you like to start?"

He sighs. "It's your show."

"Let's start simply.  What do you like best about your work?"

He doesn't answer for a moment, not because he's considering it, but because he
is obviously annoyed.  "I get free food when I'm traveling," he replies, his
voice dripping with contempt.

"Well, that's a plus," I reply, irritation evident in my voice as well.  "And
the down side?"

"I hate being knocked out before I'm tied up," he answers suggestively. 

I snap off the tape player and head away from my desk in search of tea.  I need
fortification before I go on. Our experience together is less than
illuminating: a glimpse of rage, a glimmer of sorrow, of terror, but never a
full picture.  He guards his inner self as if the loaning of information would
be the death of him.  I remind him that it is my evaluation that determines his
future with the FBI, and he doesn't seem impressed.  He reminds me that he
functions and that his work only demands that of him.  A stable mind would only
be a plus.  I consider how his view of himself is shaped by this opinion: the
hollow, matter-of-fact view that he is an instrument with no worth beyond his
job performance, at least to his superiors.  It saddens me in a way that I find
uncomfortable; and, as I pour the steaming water over my tea bag, I try to
shake off the inappropriate feelings I have for him.  Becoming emotional over a
patient never serves anyone well.  Especially this kind of emotion.  I mentally
slap myself.  

I return with my mug of steaming peach-ginger and sort through my tapes,
plugging another one in.

"Do you think you're unstable?"  I sound detached and find some more relief in
that.

"I don't think it matters."

"How could it not matter?"

"Stability is fluid and relative."

"Okay, but, in your opinion as a trained psychologist, how would you evaluate
yourself?"

He grins.  "Dangerously paranoid.  Delusional.  Depressive.  Failure to
attach."

"And this is acceptable to you?"

He shrugs.  "It's not exactly how I see myself."

"You said..."

"You asked about my opinion as a psychologist.  Psychology is not an exact
science."

"Are you paranoid?"

"Only so much as I believe everyone is out to get me.  And you know what they
say about that."

I have to smile at him sometimes.  I know I shouldn't encourage his humor-as-
defense shtick.  But when he genuinely smiles, it moves me and I have to return
it.  Plus, there is some pleasure in talking with a patient who knows
psychology and whose knowledge may even outstrip my own.  "Well, if your work
history is any indication, everyone is out to get you.  Although you didn't
hear that from me."
He appreciates my acquiesce.  I can see it in the sudden warmth that nudges out
the deep mistrust in his eyes. But it's gone as quickly as it came.

"Delusional?"

"Depends on who you ask."

"I'm asking you."

"No," he states firmly.

"Depressive?"

"I don't know.  How did the Knicks do last night?"

I don't smile.  I simply watch his face play out the decision to tell the
truth.  "I tend to be depressed," he answers after a moment.

"Failure to attach?"

"I'm depressed because of my failure to attach," he replies flippantly.

I sigh.  "So you don't have any attachments to speak of."

"No...I mean, that's not true."

"Who would you consider as the primary attachments in your life?"  This
question disturbs him on some level.  He looks down and studies his sneakers.

"Your mother?"  I offer.

He tilts his head and seems to ponder the question.  "I'd do anything for her."

"It's not what I asked."

"I guess, on some level, we're attached."

"Not exactly a ringing endorsement."

"She did the best she could under the circumstances."

"The abduction of your sister?"

He nods.  Once.

"Your father?"

"My father is dead."

"I meant were you--"

"My father is dead," he reiterates as he almost physically retreats.

"Okay, you tell me.  Who is it that you have an attachment to?"

His eyes sweep my office, ceiling to floor, wall to wall.  "Why is this
important?" he almost whispers.  
"What has this got to do with my job?"

 "Attachments are very important to mental health.  You know that."

He seems to mull this over.  His lips part as if her were going to answer, but
he closes his mouth and drops his head. "I'm attached...I trust...my partner is
my friend."

I open his file and scan it.  "Dana Scully?"

"Yes," he answers, never meeting my eyes.

"She's a woman, isn't she?"

"What has that got to do with anything?"

"Nothing...nothing.  It's just sometimes hard for men and women to maintain a
friendship."

"So I've heard," he throws off.

"But you have a friendship with her?"

"Yes."

"Does she feel the same about you?"

"The same as I feel about her?"

"Yes."

"She thinks of me as a friend, most of the time."

"That's not exactly an answer."

"It's the only answer I'm offering."

"Why does this scare you so much?"

He laughs a harsh crackling laugh.  "This is not scared."

"What is it then?"

"Annoyed.  Pissed.  Frustrated."

"Why?"

"My time's up," he points out as he rises to leave.

The snap of the play button as the tape ends startles me, and I reach for it
quickly.  I have an uneasy feeling in my stomach, and I don't think I want to
name it.  Instead, I wander from my chair and look out the window where I see
Mulder pulling up in his nondescript sedan.  It doesn't suit him.  I see him on
a motorcycle or a black sports car and...I'm giving this way too much thought. 
Shit.  Pushing away a realization that scratches at the back of my brain, I
watch as he strides toward the door, his hair tousled by the wind, his coat
billowing behind him as if he were being perpetually followed by an impending
storm.  Shit, shit, shit.  What the hell am I doing?

He'll be here in a few moments.  I quickly return to my desk and pull open my
drawer, grabbing the small mirror I keep there and add some lipstick. I glance
at my reflection and I know I need to do some serious adjustments to my
expression.  I close my eyes and breathe deeply.  

"Oh, I'm sorry," I hear him say, his voice devoid of the usual antagonism.  

"No...no, come on in."

"No one was here.  I just thought..."

"No, please, come on in, Mulder."  I fumble with the lipstick tube, needing to
appear nonchalant.  I'm quite sure I'm not successful at it. 

He enters somewhat cautiously, leaving his hand on the door frame, anchoring
himself.

I gesture him in and he takes the last few steps into my office, shrugging off
his over coat as he goes.  He's wearing a suit and a jarring tie.  "I just came
in from Boston," he says as he sinks into the chair across from me.   I nod.

"So, anything happen since last time we talked?"

"I was chased by a half-beast, half-man, flesh-eating creature who tried to
chew off  my right arm." He pushes up his sleeve and exposes a heavily bandaged
forearm.  He gauges my expression almost cheerfully.

"Half beast?"

"Yeah."

"What kind of beast?"

He shrugs.  "Standard issue, I guess."

"Does your partner confirm your report?"

He smiles at me, a little incredulously.  "My partner?" he repeats.

"Yes."

"She'd probably say I was attacked by a human with a beast delusion.  Or if she
were to go the beast route she'd say--"  He puts on a dead pan, seriously
sincere face--  "A beast...or a beast-like creature."

"She doesn't back you up?"

"She backs me up in more important ways."

"More important than trusting your perceptions?"

He grins a little.  "Agent Scully's sanity is not in question."

"In other words..."

"Agent Scully trusts what she can prove logically, scientifically."

"And you don't?"

"I don't like to limit myself."

"What did she say when you showed her your arm?"

He gazes at his sleeve and doesn't answer immediately.  "She...asked if I was
all right...took care of me."  

He fidgets in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable.

"But she didn't believe your perception?"

"She believed that I believed it."

"And that's good enough for you?"

"More than good enough," he states flatly, closing off the conversation with a
slam.  Silence ensues, and I decide to change the mood.  I lean toward him and
attempt a Viennese accent. "So, how do you feel about nearly losing your arm to
a...a...whatchamacallit?"

"Well, I have very strong feelings about my right arm, so I guess I
feel...bad."  He laughs a little.  
I laugh along with him for a moment.  I don't want to bring up what I've
decided to ask.  "Mulder, speaking of your partner, I want to suggest something
concerning Agent Scully."

His face takes on the expression I privately refer to as his Scully face.  It's
simply a softening combined with heightened interest.  I realize in a sickening
flash that I resent it.  I'm stupidly, brattily, insipidly jealous.  "I'm not
sure how you're going to take this."  I'm lying.  I know exactly how he'll take
this, and I desperately want to hide under my desk.  "I'd like to conference
with your partner."

I almost wish I had videotape of his next few expressions.  I could never
recreate the quick slide from containment to shock to fury with a few extras
thrown in for free.  He springs up and turns his back to me.  I think he might
leave.  But then he spins on me and I actually flinch; his indignation is
palpable.  "You want me to bring my partner here?" he asks as if it were a
house of ill repute.

"I think it would give me insight," I intone calmly, belying my heartbeat.

"Insight?  Into what?"

"Your working relationship."

"I can tell you anything you want to know."

"That's just it, Mulder.  You tell me next to nothing.  I can't make a judgment
on whether you're able to work in a highly stressful job without serious
insight."

"Fine!" he snaps off, his face lowered into a snarl, his eyes bloodshot and
savage.  "I'll talk!  I'll tell you whatever you want!  My father?  He was a
callous son-of-a-bitch who sold out my innocence knowingly, who held my future
in so little esteem that he happily killed off any hope I ever had of trusting
anyone.  My mother?  Cold, separate, silent.  She lost her favorite child and
was left with her flawed, hopeless excuse for a man, who will never live up to
her smallest expectation.  The friends I have are situational; my colleagues
think of me as the fucked up mutant who lives in the basement, chasing after
fragments of my own imagination while they take bets on when I'll end up
strapped down and drugged to the eyeballs, babbling and drooling."

He starts out full of wrath and power, but his voice and body language begin to
falter toward the end, as if all of his strength had been poured into the air
with his words.  He throws himself limply into a chair.  "What else do I have
to say?"

I approach him carefully, with the smallest amount of fear in my chest  "I
don't want to see Agent Scully to punish you for not being forthright.  I know
enough about you to know that you need your defenses to survive."  I stand in
front of his chair, and he regards me with a dread that is barely under the
surface.  He drops his head, and it hangs so low that I can see the nape of his
neck above his collar.  I stifle the urge to stroke his hair.  "I just feel she
can give me the most definitive advice about your well being.  I simply want
what's best for you."

"Then leave her out of this," he whispers brokenly.

"Why?  Don't you trust her?"

He rolls his eyes and looks back at me in disdain.  "Haven't you been
listening?  I trust only her."

"Then why?"

He brushes past me as he stands again.  "I don't want her...to consider my
sanity too carefully."  He throws a small unfelt smile over his shoulder.  

"Why?"

He looks around my office as if he hoped to find a secret door.  I walk in
front of him and look into his face, but he keeps himself from me in an
impenetrable way.

"Why?  What do you think will happen if she considers your sanity?"

He looks over and around me, almost frantic.

"This woman you trust implicitly, this woman whom you call your only friend,
can you only trust her with the easy stuff?"

"Easy stuff?  You have no perception...no possible way of knowing. There is no
easy stuff between me and Scully!"

"Then what?  She's stood by you, by your own admission, through the worst times
of your life...and hers.  I simply want her opinion about your well being!  Do
you think that will drive her away?"

"I don't think that!" he insists as he moves away from me once again.

"Then what do you think?"

"I don't!  I do everything in my limited power not to think!  I concentrate on
my work; I divert my mind in every possible way.  I leave the TV on when I
sleep so I don't think my own thoughts."

"Why? Are your thoughts so dangerous?"

He turns and looks into my eyes and what I see frightens me; I can't imagine
how frightening it is to him.  I want to soothe him so badly I can taste my
frustration.  But my conscience  can't sign off on him before I know he won't
break and fall to pieces with my blessing.

"Mulder," I say in the gentlest voice I can summon.  "If you trust this
woman--"

"I don't have to prove anything to you."

"Then prove it to yourself...and to her."

He walks purposefully toward his coat and snaps it up.  "What if I won't do it?
won't ask her to come here?"

"Then I'll recommend a six-month leave of absence."

He flings the door open and walks out.

End part 1 of  2

Case #1235 Fox Mulder (2/2)
By: Jamie Greco (jgreco217@aol.com)


 Today's the day.  He'll either show up or he won't. There is no reason for the
sickening anxiety in the pit of my stomach.  This would be his last session,
after all.  Even if he were to want to come back to me, I'd have to refer him. 
I am not allowed to have these feelings for him.  It would cloud my judgment. 
Now there's an epiphany.  That's probably what Mulder tells himself about his
partner. But not allowed and don't are worlds apart.  I can't help but wonder
if his partner feels the same; and if she did, if that would make things better
or worse.

I hear the ding of the elevator outside my office, and my senses are
heightened.  My curiosity about his partner is almost unbearable.  I listen
carefully, and I can hear the rumble of his voice and, soon after, an as yet
indiscernible female reply.  He has brought her.  I am...I don't know what I
am.  Almost joyous, but not quite.  My arms and the back of my neck tingle. I
can't help thinking that if I shared my rather odd thoughts with anyone, I
would be the one evaluated for fitness.

They are in my office waiting room, and I can hear their tone but not their
words.  His, a jumble of anxious, strung together syllables, almost melodious. 
Hers, quieter, more compact.  I hear his name, only discernible in its
solitude.  "Mulder," she says, soothingly; and it seems to work.  His voice
becomes quieter, less agitated.  I wish I could observe them without their
knowledge to watch their interaction.  To see if what he doesn't admit to is
reality or just my own impression.        

I go to my office door and place my hand on it.  I can hear them clearly from
here.

"What are you going to say?" he asks.

"Depends on what she asks," she answers.

"You keep saying that," he replies, sounding petulant.

She sighs.  "Because you keep asking me the same question.  Ask me something
different, Mulder, and I'll give you something else."

Silence.  "What are you wearing under your suit?"

"I said different, Mulder."

I am a little confused.  Sexual banter doesn't seem to fit how I  think of
them.

I put my hand on the doorknob and take a deep breath.  I picture them sitting
shoulder to shoulder, head to head, but I couldn't be more wrong.  I open the
door, and Mulder looks at me from his position across the small room.  He is
standing, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, legs loosely
crossed at the ankle, he is biting his lower lip.  His partner is opposite him.
In fact, his partner is his opposite in every way.  She sits almost primly on
the old vinyl couch.  Her composure is striking, especially compared with
Mulder's lack thereof.  And her position isn't the only thing that sets her
apart from him.  She is softly curved where he is angular, compact where he is
cumbersome, assured where he is openly anxious.  

"This is my partner," he grudgingly offers.

She throws a look at him, stands and approaches me. "Dana Scully," she says as
she holds out her hand.

My hand feels large and awkward in hers, and I release her quickly.  "Would you
like to come in?" I ask and walk in ahead of them.

I sit down quickly so as to gauge their body language.  He touches her: her
waist, her arm, lightly and without claim, guiding her.  It seems incongruous. 
I don't know if I've ever seen a woman less in need of guidance.  But as they
separate, I realize the contact is for his benefit; his hands seem restless
once he withdraws from her.  He leads her to a chair and hovers over her as she
smoothes her skirt and sits down.  She takes no notice of him; her eyes are
firmly set on mine.

"I want to thank you for coming," I offer.

"It's not a problem," she replies; and I think I detect a small amount of
annoyance in her voice.

"I hope it didn't inconvenience you."

"Not at all," she answers, looking up at Mulder as if he were always at her
shoulder when she sat.  He immediately sits down.  I think there may be some
silent communication between them, but I haven't caught it yet.

Mulder drops his eyes and looks intently at his hands, which are crossed in his
lap.  Silence reigns.  I look at Scully, who looks back expectantly.  I can
feel myself  developing the need to fidget, so I pull his file from my desk and
open it.  "Well, shall we get started?" I sound like one of those psychologists
on television.

"What would you like to know?" Scully replies, sounding more like I'd hope to.

I look at Mulder, who is twisting his head so far from the conversation, such
as it is, that I fear for his neck.  "Would you like to step out, Mulder, while
I talk to your partner?"

He regards me warily, sullenly, but doesn't answer right away.  "How do I know
you won't talk behind my back?" he finally asks, a harsh timbre in his voice. 
He's angry, obviously and trying to cover it over with sarcasm.  I don't
entirely blame him.

"Mulder," Scully begins, reigning him in, or making the attempt.

"That's all right," I tell her.  "Mulder, you can stay or go.  I just thought
it might be uncomfortable  for you to be here while we--"

"Analyze my damaged psyche?" he inputs, leaning forward in his chair.

"Among other things," I answer cheerfully, hoping to find a more pleasant
chord.

He looks steadily into my eyes for a moment. An underlying threat is barely
visible but undeniable.  I simply look back, enjoying the electrical charge of
the unbroken stare.

"Mulder," she says and his eyes desert mine immediately.  "Go on, get some
coffee.  This won't take long."  There is a dismissive note in her voice.  Once
again, I think there is more unsaid than spoken aloud.  

He looks into her face and questions her with his eyes: Is it all right?  Am I
all right?

She nods once, almost imperceptibly. It seems enough for Mulder; he moves to
get up from his chair, but doubt overtakes him.  He looks at her once again.
She raises her eyebrows, and that seems to clear it up for him.  He gets to his
feet and places his hand briefly on her shoulder and departs quickly.

She seems less...intimidating without him.  Her expression hasn't changed.  I
think her need to shield him diminished slightly without his physical presence,
making her demeanor less hostile.  Yet he is here and his spiritual presence
hovers, almost humidly.  

"Okaaaay," I drawl.  "Where to start?"

"May I start?" she asks, although it's hardly a question.  She has something to
say and she will say it.

"Certainly," I say.

She clears her throat and looks off over my shoulder as if she is reading from
a prepared text.  "Agent Mulder is a very complex person.  He is an efficient,
if not brilliant, agent.  I consider him a genius in some ways.  He is a..."
She looks down and I wonder if she will cry, but she looks up again, clear eyed
and vivid.  "He is my closest friend as well as my partner.  It is my fervent
belief that this psychological evaluation, as well as the others, is a fishing
expedition designed to distract him at the least, and, at the most, to destroy
his work.  You should also know that there is nothing I would say about him
that I wouldn't say if he were here."

I feel like sitting back and letting a whoosh escape my lips.  She is
determined and overwhelming.  "I understand," I say quietly.  My heart is
beating quicker.  "I certainly haven't called you here to undermine your
partner."

"Then why?"  Anger appears more readily on her face, but she swallows it down
again, reverting to a less threatening demeanor.

"I'm recognizing some anger on your part," I tell her; and she squirms a
little, obviously uncomfortable with my ability to read her.

"I...it was very difficult for Agent Mulder to come to me...to ask me to do
this.  I hate that I am being used to..." Her voice trails off.  "I will not be
used as an instrument to take him down."

"But that was your original mission, wasn't it?"

She shakes her head firmly.  "Never.  Never in my mind."

"I find it interesting that you refer to the X Files as his work."

She frowns slightly.  "When did I do that?"

"When you were telling me your feelings about him."

She shakes her head again.  "I was talking about him, so naturally I referred
to his work."

"So there are no issues between you about your partnership?"

This time she chuckles out loud.  Just briefly.  "I don't suppose there are any
partnerships of any sort between a man and a woman that don't have their
issues."

"So what are some of yours?"

She sighs.  "My issues with Agent Mulder are irrelevant to this discussion."

I acquiesce, but she has more to say.  "But let me say this.  Agent Mulder
tries.  He makes the effort that almost none of my co-workers have been willing
to make."

"He treats you as his equal?"

"He respects me."

"Not my question."

"I know..."  She chews on her lips and releases it, obviously weighing her
words.  "He protects me too often, but I don't think he ever underestimates
me."  She pauses, and I can see in her face that she is considering, taking my
question seriously.  Her eyes are veiled, but I can see her intelligence, her
serious nature.  "He protects me," she finally says, "but I protect him as
well.  We tell each other if we're being heavy handed.  I think it's normal to
want to keep those that you...to keep your partner's welfare in mind."

"So you don't think he thinks of you as delicate, in need of his superior
strength?"

She smiles and looks away. "Nooo," she draws out, obviously amused.

"Do you think he respects your opinion?"      

"He hears me...most of the time.  More than he hears anyone else.  I've never
heard him seriously ask the opinion of any other agent but me.  He sometimes
calls me in the middle of the night, just to hear me out on something he knows
I will fight him on.  I don't think...When he dismisses me, it's not because of
my gender."

"He dismisses you?"

"I'm not sure that's the right word.  There are times he has to go his own way.
 Don't we all have to do that?"

I nod, not daring to speak, to interrupt her musing.  It's as if she has let
down some barrier, as if we were simply women friends.  I wonder if she has
this experience in her private life.  

"I've been angry at him, when he has put himself into a dangerous
situation...or tossed aside my judgment, when his logic seems so foreign, his
thought processes so ..."

She looks at me suddenly and closes down some inner door. Straightening in her
seat, she assumes her straight-spined posture and looks me in the eyes. "But I
never consider him a danger to me or to other agents.  I never doubt his
ability to do his work and do it better than any other agent at the Bureau."   
   

"So it is your opinion that Agent Mulder is a perfectly lucid, sane individual
with no danger of psychological problems, now or in the future."

Scully almost smiles.  She cocks her head.  "That may be taking things a bit
far," she murmurs, her bemusement clearly evident.

I smile, letting her know that I realize she is not condemning him.  "I
understand that Agent Mulder is unique.  Certainly he is well suited for the
kind of cases he chooses to undertake.  I only wonder...I worry..."

She looks closely at me, slightly suspicious.  "You worry?" she asks evenly.

I feel flustered.  As if she knows something I can't even admit to myself. 
"Yes," I say, pleased that I don't stutter.  "Agent Mulder was sent to me for
my opinion on not only his current mental stability, but his future."

"I would think that's an impossible task," Scully offers.  "How can you predict
anyone's future stability?"

"One can only take the known information and attempt to apply it to the future.
 There are no absolutes.  But given what I know about Agent Mulder's childhood
and his current lapses from what would be considered healthy behavior, not to
mention his lack of social support, I am a little wary about signing off on
him."

"I am willing to be responsible for his well being."

"Agent Scully, do you really want to take on that kind of responsibility, even
if it were possible?"

'You're assuming I haven't done so already."

"Then, I guess my question would be why?"

The secret smile, once again, transforms her face.  "Surprisingly enough,
you're not the first person to ask me that."

"And what did you tell them?"

"There are times when it fells like a burden.  I suppose it might be
overwhelming if it were a daily ritual, keeping Mulder sane.  But I suppose the
fact that I don't see him as close to insanity as others do helps.  He has
worried me a number of times, but most of the time I think of him as
eccentric--not as a diplomatic word for crazy, but in the truest sense.  If
ever there was a different drummer, it's the one who plays Mulder's tune.  
Even when I am the least convinced of his sanity, I know, deep in my bones..."
She stops and sighs.  "I admire what other people find bizarre about him.  I
think he admires the opposite in me, whatever that might be.  He says I keep
him honest.  I think we complete each other. In the long run, although there
may be madness in him, there is also the truest sense of...of nobility I have
ever seen in a person.  You don't find that every day, and maybe that's what
frightens people...confuses them.  It's what I'm unwilling to lose."

I can hear Mulder in my outer office.  I wonder if he can hear the testimonial
being given, in all its fierce, poetic loyalty.  I hope so.  I almost ask her
to speak up.  "You sound as if your relationship is like...Don Quixote and
Sancho."

A burst of laughter escapes her, and I know he hears her now.  There is pausing
where he is, a quieting.  

"Oh brother," she finally exclaims.  "No...no." She laughs a little more.  "Do
you think people see us like that?  Mulder tilting at alien windmills while I
gaze up at him in admiration?"

"I think it wouldn't be a stretch if they didn't bother to get to know you."

"No...I guess if you picture Sancho saying things like 'Are you trying to say
that the shaving bowl  is a helmet?  I think you're seeing things that just
aren't there.' Or  'I think you're wrong about Dulcinea.  I have records here
that prove her name is Aldonza, and she has a record as long as your lance.'"  

We're both laughing easily now and I find, to my surprise, that I like her. 
She's quick and clever, and I get the feeling that she doesn't share her humor
easily.  She covers her mouth slightly, almost shyly.  Her laughter is like a
gift, and I accept it with pleasure.  "I think," I finally say, "if  Don
Quixote had you for a partner, we would have been cheated out of a really sad
ending."

"We share the quest.  We just approach it in different manners."  She shrugs. 
"I don't know.  Maybe the shaving bowl really is a helmet.  I can give him that
if he'll drop that Dulcinea tramp."

The laughter begins again.  I guess the sound is too much For Mulder and he
knocks, ducking his head in the door.  "Is this a private party?" he asks with
little humor in his voice.

I wave him in and he wanders through the door, his forehead creased in
puzzlement.  He drops in a chair next to his partner and frowns deeply at her. 
She pats his arm for assurance and slowly her laughter fades followed quickly
by her smile.  

I follow her lead and straighten in my chair, assuming the professional
position.  I know that I will let him go on with his work, his partner.  Maybe
it's what keeps insanity at bay.  Or maybe there is no insanity, just lack of
tolerance for the typical. I'm glad to be able to give him that.  I feel a
secret delight in what I haven't yet said; I almost wish I could keep my words
a little longer.  But he's watching me expectantly.  I will miss his face.   "I
see no reason Agent Mulder should not continue in his position," I announce
with a certain flourish.  "I will fax your superiors this afternoon."

Agent Mulder looks surprised, but Agent Scully seems to have known the outcome
for some time.  Maybe she is simply aware of the benefit of having her in your
corner.  

"Does this mean you're declaring me sane?" he asks mischievously.

"For the time being," I reply.  "Although I hear there's an office pool taking
bets to the contrary."

They both smile.  "What do you think the odds are?" Mulder asks.

"Ask your partner," I tell him.

He turns to her and she grins. "Seven to one at best."

He feigns chagrin. "Damn! I hope I can still change my bet."

She gets to her feet, and Mulder rises beside her as she holds her hand out to
me once more.  "It was good to meet you," she says; and I am pleased as I doubt
she ever says anything just out of politeness, especially if it isn't true.

"Thank you," I answer and hold my hand out to Mulder.  He takes it and smiles a
little before he turns to Scully and places his hand on her lower back and they
walk out together.

I feel childish, but I move quickly so as to watch them walk down the hall
together.  They are a breath apart, not touching, but obviously a unit.

"I saved your butt again, Mulder," she tells him.

"Ohhh, Scully, I love when you talk about my butt."

The elevator door opens; and he ushers her in, pushing the button.  "You owe me
big time," she tells him, ignoring his comment; and he leans into her space as
the door closes.  I wonder if he might kiss her.  I doubt it, but I can hope.

End 2/2

Jamie