Inventing the Mulders By prufrock's love Rating: pg-13 Summary: It wasn't a real life, but it might have passed for a moderately priced knock-off. **** It was never really in question that she would, but it had taken her less than twenty minutes to realize she was never going to love this man. He was simply The Date – as in 'No, Mulder, I won't be home tonight – I have A Date.' Like a Pottery Barn vase, he was intended for decorative use only. He wouldn't have been half-bad if she could have sutured his mouth closed, but then the same could be said for Mulder. Put the two men in a room and it would have been like two Furbie's chattering at each other, provided they could have found a middle ground between small cap stocks and UFO's for discussion. "So you're a…" he paused in search of a word Betty Fredian might have endorsed, "Single mother, Scully FBI?" The Date asked, showing his perfect teeth when he smiled. The last time she'd done the singles' scene that would have translated to, 'so the kid's gotta be asleep before I can get laid?' and she assumed it still did. "Are you and the father… estranged?" "He's been away." The Date was a nice man – the kind parents had in mind when they said that phrase – 'find a nice man, honey' – to their daughters. He was like nondairy coffee creamer: pleasant. Not as luxurious or as sensual as real cream, but acceptable and risk-free. If she had run a personal ad, The Date would have fit the bill: divorced, distinguished, fatherly- Scully stopped that thought in its tracks, grinding it to death like a poisonous spider with her high heel underneath the restaurant table. Her son had a father. William didn't need another and neither did she. "And now he's back," he said in his oh-so-amused tone. "And now he's back. He has our son tonight. It's his night," she explained, the words continuing to slip out even after she ordered her mouth to stop moving. She didn't often get to talk to another live adult about anything but dead bodies. She knew every single verse to 'Wheels on the Bus,' but that seldom impressed anyone in casual conversation. "We have an agreement. Tonight is his night." "Too bad – I was hoping tonight was my night," he said with just the right amount of dangerous James Bond charm, and she decided to let him live until after the appetizers. **** 'I thought it would be different, Mom,' she had admitted last week. 'I know I said I'd do it alone. I was ready to do it alone – to raise a child alone. And I know it's not fair to be angry with Mulder, but I almost wish he'd never have been there for me if he wasn't going to stay.' 'He didn't go because he wanted to, Dana,' her mother had reminded her, unintentionally being as irritating as the voice of reason always was. 'I know that too,' she'd answered tiredly, fastening a sleeping toddler into his car seat. **** "What are you reading, Dana?" the date asked, having earned himself lowercase letters by not calling her 'Scully FBI,' in the last hour. By her standards, the evening was going well: she hadn't been attacked by slugs, shot at, or abducted, and to her knowledge, Mulder hadn't yet died this year. She was out of the house, wearing a matching bra and panties, and not holding a scalpel or a sippy cup. It wasn't a real life, but it might have passed for a moderately priced knock-off. She held up the book, showing him the cover of "The Vagina Monologues," which she had been leafing through curiously while they waited for the teenager manning the coffee bar to master the art of froth. He appraised her with amused metallic blue eyes that sparkled like they had ice crystals in them. "You're only reading that in the store because you don't have the nerve to buy it." Her lips twitched and nostrils flared at the challenge. She briefly envisioned herself dropping the paperback, shoving The Date into the self-help section, and ordering him to do things to her that would have made a sailor blush – just to see his surprised reaction. Oh Hell, she didn't even like to use public toilets these days, let alone have sex with a man who'd been God only knows where. She could hear her own voice in her head saying that in a motherly tone: 'Don't touch him, sweetie – he's been God only knows where…" Instead, she carried the book - cover side out - across the bookstore and dropped it on the counter with a satisfying slap. "Ring it up," she ordered, looking around for something else she could add to prove her point. Whatever her point was. The only things at the register were glossy magazines and bookmarks with unicorns on them, so she grabbed a copy of Cosmo and slid it beside the book. She'd already discovered her G-spot, mastered lip liner, and she'd found Mr. Right immediately after giving birth to his child, but at least it wasn't Scientific American or Working Mother. Freud would have loved to get naked and roll around in her issues. **** Some nights he'd just be there, looking like a dark, brooding angel and smelling like 'want' the same way Skinner smelled like 'honor' and Doggett smelled like 'loss.' "How long?" she'd ask each time she watched him walk into her apartment and each time she watched him walk out. "As long as it takes," he'd sometimes say, cradling Will in one arm and her in the other and breathing in as though he could inhale them. "Just a little longer," he'd murmur on other nights, planting a line of kisses over her shoulders like a sailor plotting a course for home. "I don't know," he told her the last time, his leather jacket creaking as he shrugged it on, then leaned over to pick up his wallet, keys, and gun from the nightstand. **** 'Ring,' she commanded her cell phone, pooling all her telekinetic powers at her jacket pocket as she walked back to the table. The Date sat waiting with two after-dinner cups of his latte excuse not to take her home yet. 'Skinner, Doggett… Kersh… Mom,' she begged, probably bending nearby spoons with sheer mental desperation. It purred obligingly, which she would have had to rationalize away at any other moment, but tonight she thanked the patron saint of cellular service. Until she saw who it was. "I'm sorry, Scully," he at least had the decency to say. "I'm sorry to interrupt." "What's wrong with Will? Did something happen?" "Nothing happened. He's fine. What can I give him for a fever? Which is it he's not supposed to have: Tylenol or Aspirin? I can't remember." "He has a fever? He was fine two hours ago. How high is it?" There was a pause and a rustling sound, and then she could hear Will jabbering close to the receiver as Mulder held him. "He's just a little warm." She stuck one finger in her ear so she could hear over the coffee grinders and coffeehouse pontification. "He's just getting over an upper respiratory infection and one of the kids in his daycare had viral meningitis; having a compromised respiratory system puts him at risk to have contracted it." "Wasn't he vaccinated for that?" "You know that and you don't know whether to give him Aspirin or Tylenol?" she asked, and got no response. "Immunizations don't always produce antibodies; there's a small failure rate. Is he fussy? Can you tell if his neck is stiff?" "He does not have meningitis," he insisted. "Just take his temperature and tell me what it is and stop arguing, Mulder." The Date was watching her curiously over the rim of his soup bowl-sized cup. She gestured to her cell phone, then ducked outside on the pretense of needing better reception. "I don't have a thermometer. He's not that warm, Scully." "How can you not have a thermometer?" Another unhappy silence. "There's one in my medicine cabinet. Go take his temperature and call me back and tell me what it is," she ordered. "And there's infant Tylenol and some-" "Oh, for God's sake," he said irritably. "He does not have viral meningitis and I'm not driving to Georgetown so I can take his temperature. Get a grip, Scully." "You can either do it or I'm coming to get him. How can you not have a thermometer, Mulder? What did you think-" He'd hung up. The Date nudged gently against her shoulder, then handed her a Styrofoam cup of latte. "I thought you might want this to go," he said, smiling with only the corner of his mouth. "I'll get the car." **** "Nice wheels," Mulder said as she needlessly tried to unlock her apartment door. God forbid she get to do the 'I had fun too; don't call me sometime' routine without Fox Mulder's supervision. "Nothing says maturity and emotional depth like a Jaguar convertible with vanity tags," he told his son in his who's- Daddy's-boy voice. Will was sitting on the center of the rug like the Buddha of Toys- R-Us, picking up where he'd left off before she'd taken him to Mulder earlier that evening. It was hard to miss the Playschool hurricane that had hit her living room, but Mulder had already made the rounds, she was sure. He was a trained observer. Between the front door of her apartment and the bathroom medicine cabinet, he'd managed to survey the dozen discarded 'date' outfits in her bedroom, the half-eaten cheesecake in the refrigerator with a single spoon stuck in it, the stack of Blockbuster's best cures for loneliness atop the VCR, and probably even the remarkable lack of any form of birth control. "98.8," he announced sarcastically. "Should I contact the CDC?" She squatted down and put high-tech thermometer in Will's ear again, always feeling like she was checking his tire pressure instead of temperature when she used it. The electronic display read 98.5, so she hit the memory button. It had been 98.6 when Mulder had taken it a few minutes ago. Her expression must have looked dangerous because Mulder said earnestly, "He woke up from his nap and felt warm. I guess it was just all the covers on him. You didn't have to come home, Scully – I would have called you." "You did call me. Did you ever really think he had a fever?" "Do you think I would just make up a reason to call and interrupt you?" he asked, trying to sound like he wanted to hear that answer. She exhaled, then waded through the toys to the bedroom to take off her dress. Pastel, linen, and anything with the last name 'Mulder' didn't mix. "You look nice," Mulder said lightly, following her. "Hot date?" "Sweltering," she answered, meaning to draw blood. Years of experience told her she had. He shoved his hands in his blue jean pockets and leaned against the doorframe. "Temporary tattoos come off with alcohol; it's more convenient than laser surgery." "Thank you," she said icily. "I'll keep that in mind." "I should know; I had a clue tattooed on my ass once. I must have had it removed." She unzipped the side zipper of her new dress, letting it fall carelessly to the floor and ignoring Mulder's presence. He'd certainly seen the show before. "Are you sick?" he asked hoarsely, focusing on the floor. "Am I sick?" she echoed, checking that she'd heard correctly. "That's when you usually do this," Mulder mumbled, then bit his lip, not able to say the 'C' word. "I'm not sick." "Okay," his mouth moved, but no sound came out. He turned around and went back to the living room to play with his son. **** She watched as Mulder opened the freezer and pulled out an ice cube tray, then put it back when he saw there were only three cubes in it. Three ice cubes was the absolute minimum before a refill; that was the rule all normal people lived by. He chose another tray, dumped three of the four cubes into a little cup, then returned the sole survivor to the freezer. "Wanna drink buddy?" he asked Will, sitting on the bedroom floor beside the toddler bed. He held the plastic tumbler to his son's lips while he slurped nosily, then wiped his chin and picked up the book again. "Mulder, it's getting late," she said, making every effort not to sound like a bitch. He lowered Dr. Seuss, putting his finger in the book to keep his place. "Do I need to go?" he asked in a tone that could easily break an unprotected heart. "He napped late so he's slept almost all…" Mulder trailed off, closing his eyes in an extended blink before he stared out the window and swallowed uneasily. "And you're leaving again, aren't you?" He nodded slightly, looking at everything but her with those sad puppy eyes. "I think he grows three inches every time I'm away. That can't be right, though – he'd be six feet tall by now." "I'm going to shower before I go to bed. Finish the book before you leave," she said tiredly, picking up her bathrobe and leaving Mulder and William to their book. If sand draining though an hourglass was music, it would have had the melodic rhythm of him reading Green Eggs and Ham to his son. **** He was lingering. He'd put away the toys, washed the sippy cup, and tucked his son in four separate times. She was tempted to point him toward the ironing when Mulder unexpectedly sat down on the couch near, but not beside her. "I don't remember JFK being assassinated," he said out of the blue, staring at CNN with her. "I was too young. But I remember Neil Armstrong walking on the moon – the moment of wonder as I watched him hop across that black and white screen. I was in first grade – Mrs. Edison's class. Third row, second seat; I sat behind Lori Moore and in front of Timmy Norton and there was a rectangle of yellow construction paper with 'Fox' on it taped to my desk. And I know exactly where I was when John Lennon died. I was nineteen years old and sitting in a bar called 'Joan's' that I wasn't old enough to be in. Last stool at the end of the bar and next to the jukebox – that was my favorite. It was one of those places close to campus that didn't look too closely at your ID." "I was in high school. When John Lennon was shot," she clarified, feeling a little late to this discussion. "Phoebe and I took the blanket off my bed and went up on the roof of my flat and watched Halley's Comet. I was twenty-four. I remember how immense the night sky looked, how that blanket felt against my skin, even the smell of her hair. And I was in an airport in Nevada when the planes hit the World Trade Center and I remember praying to God you hadn't chosen that morning to go to the Pentagon. I stood in the terminal with five hundred strangers and watched a TV mounted to the ceiling and prayed and cried," he continued huskily. This was definitely a Mulder mood, but she couldn't tell which one, so she waited and let Lou Dobbs fill in the silence. "I know all that, but I have no idea where I was when you started loving me. I don't think it was that first night," he nodded toward the bedroom where Will was sleeping. "I think it was long before then, but I don't know exactly where I was or what I was doing the moment you started loving me," he paused and murmured even more quietly, "And I don't know where I was or what I was doing when you stopped." "I never stopped," she responded, taking his hand. "Scully, I was a footnote from the beginning. When we invented this family, all you wanted was a baby. Those were your terms – take them or leave them, Mulder. It was 'your baby' – not 'our baby.' I was the platonic friend with good genes. Look but don't touch. You made the rules and I played by them. And then that changed and I got to be a real father. Now, you're still making the rules and you're still changing them and this time you won't even tell me what the hell the rules are except that you don't want me anymore! And because you don't want me, I'm suddenly back to being a footnote!" His jawbone widened as he clenched his teeth, and she wondered how many times he'd not said those words. Mulder ruminated so well he should have extra stomachs. "I don't want to watch you leave," she admitted tensely. "If I let you come, then I have to watch you leave. And so does William. Every time he hears an airplane he wants to know if Daddy's coming home and I have to tell him that I don't know. And every time I haven't heard from you in months and they wheel a John Doe in at Quantico, I say a prayer before I fold back the sheet." He laid his head back on the top of the couch, staring at the ceiling. She hesitated, running her free hand over the white cotton nubs of her bathrobe. "You just have no idea how hard it is to watch you leave and never know if you're coming back." "You should try being the one doing the leaving." He was quiet after that, and still for so long she thought he'd fallen asleep. If he was asleep, she was going to let him stay, she decided, quoting herself the statistics on traffic fatalities involving sleep-deprived drivers. It wasn't the way his heart sounded when she laid her head on his chest or the way he was the only man in the world who had a non-annoying snore. "I thought you had exactly what you wanted." "I thought I did, too," she mumbled, leaning her head back as well. "I have to go, Scully," he said softly. "It's not a choice. But whether I go tonight or tomorrow morning – it's up to you." She was sitting on her corner of the sofa and he was on the opposite end and their interlaced fingers rested in the middle. On his left ring finger was a broad gold band – he wore one, she didn't. It didn't matter that they weren't legally married; 'Legality and destiny are two different things' he'd told her right after William was born when he'd been acting sickeningly romantic. "Tomorrow morning," she decided. *~*~*~* End: Inventing the Mulders