FOX'S DEN
by Thalia D'Muse<thalia@goodnet.com>

Summary: Mulder is missing, and in her effort to find him, Scully
visits his apartment and dwells on her work, and life, with her
partner. Story is set _before_ Season 4.
Classification/Rating: VRA, PG
Spoilers/Warnings: Early Season 3 spoilers. Strong hints of MSR -
you have been warned.
Archivists: Yes to Gossamer, everyone else please ask me first.
Disclaimer: No surprises here. I don't own Mulder, Scully, X or
Mrs. Scully. Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox own 'em. I couldn't
afford 'em anyway. Excerpts from 'The Blessed Way' also
shamelessly borrowed from CC. Don't worry, Big Kahuna, no
infringement was intended.
Author's Notes: This vignette was inspired by 'Fox's Den', a
recent 'Entertainment Weekly' article describing the X-Files sets
in Vancouver. Don't ask me how I got Scullyangst out of an
article about furniture - that's just how my twisted little mind
works. <evil grin> Huge thanks to KL, Rhoni, Pamela and Kelsy for
their endless support and suggestions.
Feedback...please, I want feedback! Send all comments, questions,
suggestions or musings to <thalia@goodnet.com>. This is my first
fanfic, so please, no flames - I'm pyrophobic. <grin>


FOX'S DEN
by Thalia D'Muse<thalia@goodnet.com>

She listened to the raindrops pelt the window, the impact
sounding like fingertips impatiently tapping against the glass.
Her eyes were closed, and she was leaning against the wall, her
body feeling heavy and weak. Her arms were crossed beneath her
breasts, her hands unconsciously stroking the sleeves of her blue
cotton sweater.

A booming clap of thunder startled her, and her eyes snapped
open. She stared at the masking tape on the lower right window
pane. In her haste to put up the signal, she saw that her 'X' was
terribly lopsided, one part of the cross being much longer than
the other. But Dana Scully didn't care. The person she was
summoning wouldn't care, either.

She slowly crossed the room and lowered herself to the caramel-
colored vinyl chair, sitting on the edge of a cushion, her elbows
resting on her knees. Leaning forward, she brought her hands to
cup her face.

"Where are you," she asked aloud, wishing the air in the room
would breathe an answer into her tired body. She raised her head,
her eyes scanning the room. The tiny den was illuminated only by
the light from the drab, rain-soaked sky, and it created dancing
shadows in every corner. She had already canvassed the apartment,
looking for some clue to his whereabouts. But, as always, Fox
Mulder left no clues. She turned her head toward the round table
on her right. Her eyes followed her fingers as she ran them along
the chipped tabletop, then across the spine of the book 'Human
Destiny' sitting under the gray lamp, then across his reading
glasses that were perched on the book. Her eyes finally came to
rest on the telephone. She willed the black box to talk to her,
staring intently at it, repeating the mantra, "Ring, ring,
damnit" in her head over and over again.

Mulder was supposed to meet her for lunch three days ago. His
voice was almost child-like in its enthusiasm. She could hear in
his voice that he desperately wanted to tell her what had brought
on this change in attitude, but he had to tell her in person. So
they had agreed to meet at a nearby diner. She sat at a booth in
the dimly-lit, deserted diner for two hours waiting for him. He
never showed.

He had been gone for over seventy-two hours now. Not long, by
Mulder's standards. She had known him to run off for longer than
that. But he had always called when he reached his destination.
Not necessarily to tell her where he was, but to let her know
that he was okay, that he was alive. He always called, if he was
able.

This time, there was no phone call. She knew that whatever he had
run off in search of, it wasn't connected to a case; they had
nothing important pending at the moment. She had contacted the
Lone Gunmen, thinking that they had some tidbit of information
that Mulder had convinced himself was a lead to the truth. But
they had not seen nor heard from him since the last case over a
week ago. She had spent most of the last seventy-two hours
calling and canvassing every place she could think of, hoping he
would be there, offering her a lopsided smile and a lame excuse
for disappearing. But he was nowhere to be found.

Scully sat back in the chair, the cushion letting out a 'whoosh'
under the impact of her weight. She raised her head toward the
ceiling and closed her eyes. Her mind involuntarily traveled back
to a time she had tried not to think about anymore.

When she had been told that Mulder had been killed in the boxcar
fire in New Mexico, she had come here, to his apartment, not just
to search for clues to avenge his death, but because when she was
here, in Mulder's den, she had felt so close to him. She wanted
that same feeling now.

She sighed heavily as she remembered that night, one of the
roughest nights of her life. She had heard a light knocking at
her door and for one fleeting moment, she thought it might be her
partner. But when she opened the door, she was shocked to see
Frohike standing there. His body wavered as he staggered into her
apartment, the few remaining drops of vodka sloshing about in the
bottle he had in his hand. She remembered making a pot of strong
coffee and the two tried to make sense out of Mulder's 'death':

<< "He was a good friend. A redwood among mere sprouts," Frohike
had said, his fingers wrapped tightly around the coffee mug. "I
guess this means he's passing you the torch."

"I'm afraid not. I'm soon to be out of a job," she said, rubbing
a finger along the blue rim of her mug.

"Those sons of bitches. They're rigging the game."

Her lips formed a tight, sardonic smile. "And like rats they just
scatter back into the woodpile." >>

"And they were doing it again," she said, her voice sounding like
a shout in the quiet room. The rats scurried in, took her partner
again, and scurried back into their hiding places. It seemed that
lately the only kind of adversaries she and Mulder faced was the
nameless, faceless enemy lurking in the shadows. Those shadows
were the ones responsible for Mulder's ordeal in New Mexico.
Those shadows had claimed her once before, not only stealing
three months of her life but constantly invading her mind in
nightmares. And now she was waiting for help from one of those
rats in the shadows.

She waited for the call from the mysterious 'X'. She laughed
bitterly at the thought of 'X', a man whom Mulder considered an
informant. *An informant of _what_,* she silently mused. Every
facet of this man was untrustworthy. His cold-as-steel eyes, his
dark, expressionless face. Everything about him sent warning
bells clanging through her head. But she had nowhere else to
turn. This rat, this 'X', was her only hope left at finding her
partner.

Her thoughts went back to Mulder. Now here was a man who
distrusted everyone in his life. Well, almost everyone. The
corners of her mouth formed a thin smile as she remembered his
words: "Scully, you are the only one I trust." So he trusted only
one person, yet he was willing to put his life in the hands of a
man who would kill him if it fit his purpose. Mulder knew 'X' had
his own agenda, yet he continued to take the bait. Yes, he
approached the bait tentatively, as a fish would approach a tasty
worm dangling from a hook. But like the fish, his hunger would
eventually be his downfall.

For the fish, the primal urge of feeding its hunger would win and
it would sink its mouth around the worm, finding out only too
late that it was a fatal trap. Mulder reacted much the same way,
only his primal urge was feeding his hunger to believe. He wanted
to believe that his sister was alive. He wanted to believe that
we are not alone. He wanted to believe that each piece of bait
that was fed to him would not have a deadly hook attached. Mulder
wanted, needed, to believe.

A yawn overtook her, stretching the muscles in her tired face.
She remembered trying to drift off to sleep after finding out
about Mulder's 'demise' in New Mexico. She had a fitful slumber,
tossing and turning all night, hoping to open her eyes and find
that she had dreamt the entire event, that she could dial his
number and hear his groggy voice. But she knew she had to face
the fact that he was gone. She had to make herself _believe_ that
he was dead.

Then she had another dream, a dream so real, it convinced her
that he was still alive. He appeared to her as a floating,
transparent form above her bed, but she could make out every
detail of his face, even down to the mole on his right cheek. But
it was his voice that convinced her that he was alive. His voice
was low, melodic, and completely mesmerizing; the words he spoke
cut straight through to her soul:

<< "I have been on a bridge that spans two worlds, the link
between all souls by which we cross into our own true nature. You
were here today looking for a truth that was taken from you. The
truth that was never to be spoken but which now binds us together
in dangerous purpose. I have returned from the dead to continue
with you but I feel this danger is now close at hand, and I may
be too late." >>

Although she had that dream only once, she could recall his
speech verbatim, the words forever etched in her mind. And even
though she had never believed that dreams could be premonitions
to the future, that dream had touched her so deeply that she
couldn't help believing it was the truth. She didn't know how she
knew he was alive, she just knew.

And now she waited for another of these dreams, for Mulder to
reach out to her and tell her not to give up searching for him.
She had waited for a sign from him for the past two nights. But
it never came. So she came here, to where she felt closest to
him.

She slowly opened her eyes and her gaze drifted to each piece of
furniture in the small room: the cluttered desk by the window,
the metal skeleton of a bookshelf that looked barely sturdy
enough to hold the dozens of books housed there, the cloudy
fishtank with one of its three residents doing the 'eternal
backstroke' at the top, the coffee table with its scratched and
warped wood, the garish Navajo-print rug in need of a good
cleaning. She marveled at how much the room was disheveled yet
charming, haunted yet comforting. The room was just so...Mulder.

Her eyes came to rest on the black couch across the room. She
gathered herself up from the chair and walked over to the long
piece of vinyl that served as Mulder's bed most nights. She
lifted one of the overstuffed pillows to her chest, hugging it
close as she sat down, sinking into the dark cushion. Looking at
the armrest, she saw where the vinyl was cracked and worn, little
veins of dull cloth peeking through the shiny skin of the couch.

She raised the pillow up in her grasp so that her nose rested on
the piping along the edge. She inhaled deeply, her nostrils
taking in the smells of stale sweat, spicy aftershave and other
musky scents that she could only describe as Mulder. She closed
her eyes, inhaling again and imagined him sitting next to her on
the couch. She could see him, dressed in faded sweats and a worn
t-shirt, his long legs propped up on the coffee table, his arm
stretched across the back of the tattered vinyl.

They would sit on this couch some nights, watching late-night B-
movies on TV or just talking. Although some cases had them
spending most of their waking hours together, they spent a good
deal of their downtime together, too. And she didn't mind. She
enjoyed watching his deep hazel eyes narrow and the nostrils on
his prominent nose flair when they argued about what movie to
watch. She enjoyed watching his thick brown hair fly in all
directions when he ran his long fingers through it, deep in
thought. She enjoyed seeing him relax, seeing his whole body
soften when he would forego the strains of work, even if just for
a few hours. She enjoyed being with him. Completely and
unconditionally.

She had tried to explain her relationship with Mulder to her
mother, but to no avail. Every time Scully mentioned that she and
her partner were 'just friends,' the corners of her mom's mouth
would curl up and with a knowing look in her eye, she would say,
"Whatever you say, Dana." That was her mom's response every time,
up until a month ago, when Scully visited her at the house.

Leaning back into the black couch, she closed her eyes as she
recalled being at her mom's house:

<< "Mom, I've already told you, Mulder and I are partners, we're
friends. That's it," she had said, taking another sip of iced tea
as she watched her mom putter about the brightly-lit kitchen.

"Dana, you can't sit here and tell me that he doesn't love you. I
_know_ he does. I could see that when he visited me while you
were..." her voice trailed off and both Scully women lowered
their gazes to the floor. "He loves you with his entire being,
Dana."

"And I love him, too, Mom. But not _that_ way."

"_What_ way, dear," her mom asked, her voice feigning innocence.
But Scully could see the mirth in her mom's bright eyes.

"You know what way. What Mulder and I have is a special
closeness. We have a unique bond, a bond that goes beyond just
being partners. He's my best friend and he's very important to
me, Mom. I trust him with my life."

Putting the dish towel down and turning to face her, the elder
Scully looked in her daughter's eyes. "But you won't trust him
with your heart, will you, Dana?"

Her breath caught in her throat, her ears not believing what her
mother had just said. "Mom...I...it's not like that. Where did
you get that idea from?"

Her mom tapped a fingertip on her graying temple. "Mom's
intuition. One thing I know about you, honey, is that you're
always thinking, always analyzing every detail to find the most
logical conclusion. Which is fine in your field of work, that's
what makes you such a fine agent. But it doesn't work in matters
of the heart, Dana. Love is anything but logical."

Sighing, Dana lowered her gaze to the glass tabletop. "Mom, it's
just not that easy. If Mulder and I were to take our relationship
to the next level, it could destroy what we have now."

"Or it could add a whole new dimension to it." The elder Scully
approached the table, taking her daughter's hands in hers. "Just
think about it, honey, that's all I'm saying. You risk your life
every day for your job. Don't you think your happiness is worth
the risk, too?" >>

Her mind returned to the present and she opened her eyes, her
eyelashes fluttering around the unshed tears. She focused on a
stained coffee mug sitting on the table and took in a shaky
breath, letting it out slowly. At the time, she had dismissed the
conversation, telling herself it was her mom's way of saying,
"It's time to think about settling down, Dana." But now she
wasn't so sure.

Was her mom right? Was it worth risking their friendship? Worth
risking that special bond they had? She knew little of Mulder's
past relationships other than that fact that they were utterly
disastrous. Would it be different with her? Was it worth risking
everything to find out?

She squeezed her eyes shut again, willing the thoughts from her
exhausted brain. Taking a long, deep breath, she opened her eyes
and let them drift over to the telephone sitting across the room.

"Call, you son of a bitch, tell me where he is," she said aloud,
her tired voice cracking. She stared at the damned phone, its
silence infuriating her. She mentally shook off the anger and her
eyes drifted back to the window. Beyond the taped 'X' she could
see the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and she could barely make
out stray rays of sunshine streaking across the brick building
across from Mulder's apartment.

She shifted on the couch, bringing her legs onto the cushions and
stretching out across its length, her feet barely reaching the
end of the second cushion. She settled her head on the armrest,
her arms still fiercely wrapped around the pillow like a security
blanket.

Her eyelids felt like lead and she struggled to keep them open.
*Please, just let him be safe and unharmed,* she prayed silently.
*Please let him come back to me.*

She took one last look around the room, the thin white pinstripes
in the beige wallpaper starting to blur together in her gaze. She
blinked a few times, then finally closed her eyes, letting her
senses take over as she slowly, reluctantly, drifted to sleep.

THE END