From: Mirax327@aol.com Date: Mon, 24 Aug 1998 17:56:47 EDT Subject: fanfic: Thirty-Seven Strikes Back Title: Thirty-Seven Strikes Back Author: Tina Geneveive, Mirax327@aol.com Rating: R, for adult language and graphic depictions Classification: V Spoilers: None Keywords: M/S Friendship, M/S UST Summary: An introspection by Mulder that leads up to an unexpected encounter between he and Agent Scully. (And not the kind of encounter all we shippers are hoping for.) Author's Notes: This story, although not exactly in the way I describe it, actually happened. In a manner of speaking. I remember being very young, no more than three or four, and waking up with a nightmare. My father came into the room, woke me up, and held me until I fell back asleep, after which he stayed with me, reading to me from a book of nursery rhymes until morning came. I was watching an episode, (I have long since forgotten which one) when I began to think about Mulder and Scully's relationship. They obviously care for each other on so many different levels, and that thought led to my connecting them with this childhood memory. I would like to dedicate this piece to my father, who I do believe was thirty-seven years old as well on the night when I remember him coming to me. Thank you, Daddy. For everything. Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are not mine. Never have been, never will be. I use them completely without the permission or knowledge of their owner, Chris Carter and 10-13 Productions. I'm not making any money from this, and no infringement is intended. Please take good care of them, Chris, and don't do anything with them that I wouldn't do-- or most of what I would. Early November, 1998 I turned thirty-seven years old a few weeks ago. Strange, isn't it, how the passing of time, the passing of life itself, is marked with such distanced rationalism. Thirty-seven. It's a number. People can relate to it. It has its own distinct definition, the expectations people carry for it. It lives up to those expectations, and no one questions anything. People just smile and nod, then go on their merry way. But, what if someday, thirty-seven up and looked around, examined his life, and didn't like what he saw? What if, for some reason, it suddenly seemed much more appealing to thirty-seven to be eighteen, or twenty-one, or thirty, or fifty, or whatever the fuck it felt like? What about twelve? Twelve is a good number. Gets a lot of attention. Twelve months to a year, twelve days of Christmas, twelve apostles, twelve signs of the Zodiac, twelve to a dozen, _Twelfth Night_, two sets of twelves in a day, _Twelve Tables_-- the early codes of Roman Law. Fuck, even time will split itself apart for twelve. It does it in physics... music, too. Anything that can get the artists and the scientists to agree must be one talented son of a bitch. Twelve marks the passing into adolescence: from childhood into adulthood. A mark of passage. Kids have their Bar or Bat Mitzvahs if they're Jewish. Confirmation, if they're Christian. Even in math, twelve is one important cocksucker. They force down the minds of kids the multiplication tables... by twelves. Twelve's got lots of friends: divisible by one, two, three, four, six, twelve. What has thirty-seven got that's so special? It's a far cry from being any kind of turning point. There are no thirty-seven days in a month, or any goddamned thing like that. There are no special categories set aside specifically for it. Hell, what's it divisible by?: One, and itself. Somehow, that seems almost fitting. "Well, thirty-seven, you've got yourself, and you've got... well... aw, hell... take One." One is the consolation prize in numerics. Christ. What the fuck does twelve know? Thirty-seven is bigger than twelve. Thirty-seven could kick twelve's ass any day. I don't care what nice and kind, politically correct messages you've heard-- Size does matter. Anyone who tells you different is either stupid, small, or selling something. Thirty-seven has been pretty good for me. So far at least. No major catastrophes yet. Nice, monotonous, normal days. Well... as normal as things can get when you investigate paranormal phenomenon for work... and fun. What did twelve ever do for me? I was twelve when the only person who ever really loved me was snatched away, leaving me with the pain, the fear... the guilt. Well, that's not entirely accurate. Sam was the *first* person to ever really love you. But there is another. Scully loves you. She's got to. No way she could put her ass (cute little ass that it is) on the line for me, over and over again, without hesitation, unless they loved me. Loyalty, and a desire to see justice carried out, could only take a person so far. There would have to be something else there, ready to step in, to pick up the slack. That something is love. I was kind of scared by that thought when it first occurred to me, but then I sat down and thought about it. I guess the reason I was scared was because I didn't think I deserved anyone's love. Certainly not someone as fantastic as Scully. But, I realized, it's not a conscious decision. It's just something that happens. Besides, the only two choices would seem to be to either let her love you, and just make *damn* sure you live up to what she deserves, or cause her so much pain and make her hurt so bad that she has no choice but to *not* love you. God, talk about your no brainers. I didn't expect anything from Scully for my birthday. She usually just takes me out to dinner, same as I do for her. This time, though, when I came into the office, she had beaten me there, and there was a little package on my desk. Neatly gift wrapped, and with a little bow on top. Would I have expected anything less from the *Enigmatic* Doctor Scully? I opened it, and found a book. Not my usual brand of entertainment, either. A child's book: Dr. Seuss: _Fox in Socks._ I sat down and read it right then, and didn't even bother to try to hold back the lewd little comments that came to mind. Book: "And here's a new trick, Mr. Knox... Socks on chicks, and chicks on fox." Me: "Well, maybe this *is* my usual brand of entertainment." Book: "Mr. Fox! I hate this game, sir! This game makes my tongue quite lame, sir!" Me: "They actually let kids read about blow jobs? And statutory rape?" Scully gave me The Look, and said that *only* I could manage to pervert a perfectly innocent child's book. There's nothin' like singularity. Book: "Here is lots of new blue goo now. New goo. Blue goo. Gooey, gooey, Blue goo, new goo." Me: "No, this guy's got it wrong. Those alien hybrids ooze green juice, not ooze blue goo." Book: "Bim comes. Ben comes. Ben bends Bim's broom. Bim's bends. Ben's bent broom breaks. Ben's band bangs and Bim's band booms." Before I could comment on that one, Scully took the book away, and told me I could have it back at the end of the day. I don't think she appreciated it when I told her about the sexy professor/ naughty student fantasies that I know everyone has. Although, she did watch me with this look I didn't recognize in her eyes, whenever she thought I wasn't paying attention that day. Until we broke for lunch, I sat there and wondered: Why this book? Was she making an overture to my inner child? Nah. My inner child is a brat. Could she have been trying to make some gesture that I just wasn't understanding? Was this her secret revenge for asking her not to call me Fox? Ya know, the "She gave it to me, now I have to keep it" thing. Was this some kind of payback for making her come up with an explication for that Apollo 11 keychain? Oh, yeah... the keychain. She probably just saw it, and thought it was a cool book. Scully's not that devious, or manipulative. Hell, she's guileless by nature, and is the worst liar I have ever met. Which has its benefits, although I wouldn't have thought so before getting to know her. * * * Scully has these nightmares every once in a while. Even if I didn't know her as well as I do, I would still pick up on that. Insomnia and night terrors and I go way back. I guess her dreams are about Emily, although I can't be sure. Melissa is always a distinct possibility, too. Of course, there is always her father. Especially given the fact that she refused the offer to get his last message to her so that she might come sit by my bedside in the hospital yet again. On the few times that she's known for sure that I know, she hasn't offered any explanation, and I haven't asked for one. As much as it kills me to not know, it's her subconscious, and she has the right to privacy. That doesn't stop me from worrying about her, though. All the "i'm fine"s in the world will never be able to do that. But, usually, her nightmares pass fairly quickly, or she wakes herself up. That wouldn't seem to be the case tonight, though. She woke me up with her muffled screams. Odd, that the only times I have ever heard Scully scream because of fright is when she's asleep. When I first woke up, I grabbed for my gun, ready to run in and kill whatever nasty dared to come near her. I scare even myself sometimes, when I think about what I'd like to do to those that would harm her. Maybe going for the kill shot right away is too good for them. I could make sure she's out of danger, then just stand there, and wing 'em a few times until they bleed to death. I've got a photographic memory. I remember my anatomy courses from college: there are really only six places you could shoot someone, and have them die very quickly from blood loss. There are the two femoral arteries on the inside of the thigh, but they're hard to get a good, clear shot on. The two carotid arteries on the neck are almost too easy. Plus, the fucker'd probably die even faster, since chances are any of my shots would hit the spinal cord. My personal favorite is the radial arteries on the wrists. Shoot the son of a bitch there, and you're almost sure to sever the artery. Cause enough tissue damage to leave his hands dangling by tendons, or some shit like that, too. Hit the nerve centers, let him watch, in pain, as he dies. Or, sometimes, I think-- Screw anatomy. Just empty a clip into the bastard, and watch the patterns of blood and gore the exit wounds make on the walls. Like I said, I scare even myself sometimes. I worry about what might happen if someone-- a friend-- startles her, and she cries out, bringing me running. Chances are I'd think with... whatever part of my body it is that she's set up claim to, rather than with my head. Anyone who startles Scully in my presence runs the risk of being just one more addition on the Mulder list of collateral damage. Jesus Christ. Would you listen to me? "Collateral Damage." I've been working for the government too long. But anyone not a friend who comes near her, deserves whatever they get, plus a million times more. Although, considering my track record in fights, Scully might have a better chance of defending herself, rather than figuring on me to come to the rescue. I'd probably just lose my gun again. Times like these I wish I believed in a hell, so that I could feel confident they were gonna get what they deserved. It's probably a good thing for me there is no hell, though, because I'm pretty sure my thoughts would send me straight there when I die. Which, in all likelihood, will be sooner rather than later. I just don't give enough of a rat's ass to be careful. Why the hell do you think I run off and leave Scully behind so often? I'm doing my damndest to make sure she's not there for when the shit hits the fan. She, however, seems to have other ideas in mind. When I realize that she's just having another nightmare, I can't help but to stop and wonder if going to her would be what she wants. She's such a strong person that she doesn't understand that a display of emotion does not equal a display of weakness. At least not with herself. She can be there to pick me up and put all the pieces back together whenever I fall apart, over and over again, but she wouldn't even consider letting me return the favor. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen her really and truly upset. Hell, I could even add in the number of times I've just *heard* about her being profoundly affected, and I'd still be able to carry two cups of coffee. That probably comes from her job environment and the habits it forces on her as much as it does from any innate tendencies. She's a woman, and she does a job that most men wouldn't be able to handle. Scully is nothing if not intelligent; she would know that the moment she shows any signs of being a member of the "weaker sex" she would lose any respect she had managed to gather for herself. That just goes to show how little any cocksucker like that knows. I try to be better towards her than all, and I know I'm better than most, but, still... Sometimes I can't help but wonder if I'm being quite good enough about her status as an equal partner. I guess that since I harbor this overwhelming urge to protect and shelter her, I'm not, but that's not something I think I'll change at the moment. As I stand in the middle of the connecting doorway between our two hotel rooms, I make my decision. It might not be the thing she'd want, and it's probably not the politically correct thing, but fuck it, that's what I'm gonna do. I set my gun down on the chest of drawers in my room, and walk over to where she's twisted in her blankets. I sit on the edge of her bed and gently shake her shoulder, but she doesn't wake up. Rather, Scully looked like she was getting more and more upset as the dream progressed. When she started to thrash her arms around, I grabbed her wrists in one hand, pulled her to my chest, and wrapped the other around her back. She stopped moving around quite so much, so I guess she woke up, but I don't know for sure, since I couldn't see her eyes. Her face was tucked under my chin, and mine was in her hair. I couldn't help but notice that that's what her hair smelled like. "Mulder?" When she murmured my name and moved to wrap an arm around my shoulder, I knew she was awake... or close to it. "Shh. It's all right. You were having another nightmare. But it's all right. It's over now, and you're safe." She made some mewling sound in her throat, and I thought I might cry when she turned her face to press her cheek into my shoulder and wrap her other arm around my waist. No way she was wide awake. Scully at full strength, undiluted by drowsiness, was nowhere near seeming this innocent, this... child-like. The fact that she trusted me enough to know that I was there, yet not purposely raise her defensive walls again didn't escape me. "Mulder? Will you do something for me?" "Anything." She could have asked for me to fetch the moon and some stars and bring them to her on a silver platter, sprinkled with pixie dust, and I'd have found a way to get it for her. "Will you stay? Talk to me?" "What do you want me to say to you?" "Anything. I'll be able to fall asleep if you're talking." I chuckled, but knew what she meant. Like I said, guileless by nature. I wracked my brain, trying to quickly think of something to say to her. Yet, wouldn't you know it? Even with all those Poetry classes I had to take at Oxford, I couldn't remember a single line of poetry or prose. No Eliot, no Tennyson, no Yeats, no Byron... not even a little Emerson. So much for a photographic memory. The only thing that I could think of was that Fox in Socks book she had given me for my birthday a few weeks ago. So I began to recite it. "Fox. Socks. Box. Knox. Knox in Box. Fox in Socks..." I got completely through the whole twisted nursery rhyme, and as I said the last line, I stopped. Scully had long since fallen asleep, dozing quietly in my arms, but when I quit talking, she began to stir. I don't claim to understand why she found listening to my voice so soothing; it was enough that she did. I was afraid that if I didn't keep talking, she would wake back up, or, worse-- begin another nightmare. So I said it again. And Again. And Again. * * * By the time the sun rose, my voice was rough from over-exertion, my neck was sore from the angle which it was pressed against the headboard, and my arms had long since fallen asleep. But-- who gave a flying fuck, you know? Who cared if I was a little hoarse, so long as she was happy? Who cared if my neck had a few extra kinks in it, so long as she was sleeping so peacefully? And who cared if I couldn't feel my arms, so long as it was Scully who was in them? I was about halfway through the extended tongue twister when she woke up. Trapped in that state that wasn't sleep, but wasn't wakefullness, but was somewhere in between, she rubbed a hand across my chest, and softly pressed her lips against my shoulder. I knew it was from the new sensation of waking next to a warm body, but it was still... distracting. I trailed off, and she opened her eyes. "Hi." Scully said. Leave it to her to state the obvious. "Hi yourself." I smiled down at her, and was rewarded with one of those rare, full-fledged ScullySmiles-- the kind usually reserved for waking out of comas. "Do you remember last night?" "Yeah. Thanks." She gave my hand a squeeze, and then moved to disentangle herself from my arms. I wasn't happy about letting go just yet, and my stiff joints protested, but she somehow pulled it off. "You were great. So, how was it for you?" Only Scully could be awake for less than thirty seconds, but still be able to come up with witty repartee. "Fantastic. But where's my good morning kiss?" "Go brush your teeth, lover. Morning breath's no fun." I smiled. "Guess the honeymoon's over." She grinned back at me, but didn't answer. I crawled out of bed, and headed to my room, rubbing my hand across her shoulder as I passed. I went into my bathroom, pulled out my razor, and started to shave, but paused to look in the mirror. I turned thirty-seven years old a few weeks ago. I had thought at the time how strange it was that the passing of lives was marked by something as mundane as numbers. But now, I know that it is not. Life, and the passing of lives, is marked by moments, not numbers. It wouldn't matter how old I survived to be, if I never really *lived.* But, Scully changed that. Not only did she make me realize what it meant to live, but she helped me to actually do the living. No, more than that. She shared in the living with me. Scully, my partner, my best friend, is an inextricable part of my life, and for that fact I am eternally grateful. And, in that realization, thirty-seven gained a new meaning. Now, it wasn't just thirty-seven. It was thirty-seven, and one other. * * * END