A/N: I don't own them, but IF I did, we'd have an XF3 by now.
The Red-Head in the Coffin
He received the call from Assistant Director Walter Skinner. Apparently, the new partner would not be coming because of another opportunity. He scoffed into the phone, and bid his goodbye to the Director before the man could continue about him needing to answer his phone more. His work was the most important, although Mulder would like to meet the man who attempted to re-write Einstein. Poor sap deserved better than sitting in this basement office anyway. Besides, he'd already been cursed with the name 'Dana,' the man really didn't deserve to be shafted with the title of 'F.B.I's Most Unwanted' too. Maybe he'd try to track him down, talk to him about his thesis- it really was fascinating.
He never tracked down Dana Scully.
A few years later, he found himself with the general population of the F.B.I. After budget cuts along with narrow escapes of death and ridiculous bills, the X-files was shut down. He'd argue that they were just covering the conspiracy but that didn't change the fact that he was working in Violent Crimes again. Despite his moniker of 'Spooky,' he was generally well-received in this department, called in frequently to profile. It wasn't the work he loved, but the women were easy and the work day ended at 5pm. Something was missing, but he'd figure it out. He placed his briefcase on his desk and made his way over to the coffee pot. Over the sloshing of coffee, printers, and mindless chatter he could hear two women gossiping, and he decided to indulge himself in their conversation.
"It really is a shame about Dana Scully."
"So young to die from cancer. And no one even knew."
His eyebrows rose to his hairline and he moved back to his desk before the women noticed he was listening. Dana Scully, his possible partner. Dead. Should he pay his respects to the man who could have been his partner but wasn't? The man who he could have shared a beer with but never had? That didn't feel right, and yet he felt like he should be there at least to meet the man once. There was a brief email sent out later that evening. A viewing would be held the upcoming Sunday.
When someone dies, people are expected to mourn. They host funerals where some people cry as if they will never stop while others shift nervously and clear their throats. Some sit in the back with tear tracks down their faces, while others read through the religious materials placed sporadically throughout the venue. He however, was not one of those people.
He hung back for a moment in the doorway of the house that belonged to Dana's mother, Margaret Scully. Dana Scully happened to have a sister Melissa, and two brothers, both of whom were dressed in their military garb and keeping strong faces for the family. From his vantage point in the doorjamb he noticed that he didn't know any of the faces in this room. No one from the F.B.I. had shown for the viewing. Didn't he have friends? He chuckled briefly, thinking that he was one to talk. Maybe he and Dana would have gotten along a lot better than he thought.
He saw photos strewn and realized he made a terrible mistake. Dana Scully wasn't cursed with his name after all. In fact, Dana Katherine Scully was a woman and a pretty one at that. A little short, based off the pictures and not his type, but pretty nonetheless. Suddenly, he felt a uncanny fascination with seeing her alive in the flesh, although he'd have to settle for 'in the flesh.' He walked over to the casket and realized that he pictures had not done her justice. Her hair was titan-like, emerging from the roots in thick copper ropes forming into a perfect bob. He didn't like women with short hair, but he had to admit hers was beautiful. As he examined the pale skin of her face (what color were her eyes?) and traveled further to the cross delicately placed on her neck he felt wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Dana Scully died from cancer, they said. But this woman simply looked as though she'd been sleeping. Albeit she was a little thin but so were all the other women after that popular show 'Ally Mcbeal' gained popularity. She didn't look dead, just a little cold. She would wake up and roll over and tell him to 'stop hogging all the covers.'
He shook his head, dispelling the thought. Why would a dead woman be in his bed? What was he thinking and why did everything suddenly feel out of its natural order.
He immediately knew what he was thinking and how impossible it was. He wanted her to open her eyes. He wanted to hear her voice, hear her say his name. Again he shook his head, and this time he ran his hand through his hair. He needed to get out of here and he did
—
Over the next few days he thought about her; his life with Dana Scully was filled with what ifs. From the gossip mill he'd found that she was a brilliant Doctor and pathologist. If she'd been assigned his partner would she debunk all of his theories with her science? He wished he knew what her voice sounded like so he could hear something in his head besides his voice feminized.
At night he dreamed of her. In his dreams she'd open her eyes and he would see such expressive blue orbs. It was like he was living another life in his dreams. One where they were partners. He would look at her and she would look back at him so lovingly and he knew it was meant to be. She would place her hands on her hips or quirk an eyebrow and he knew his argument was officially dissolved. And yet, whenever it was her turn to speak, she didn't.
Please, speak.
He awoke just before her lips produced sound.
He'd explored a case-file once about people who believed they would be reborn, but was never able to follow up on the case. What would they say about this? Better yet, what would the psychiatric hospital say when he told them he had fantasies of ravishing a dead woman he'd never actually met. He wouldn't explore that. It was perverted and yet it felt right, like it had already happened. Maybe he was falling into delusion.
Something in his mind shouted that Dana Scully would have never believed him. He could see scenarios rolling like a movie reel in his mind of her disputing whatever he said. Even in silence, she was breathtaking and in each scene he saw he fell more and more in love with her. But he wanted to listen to her voice, even if she was yelling at him.
The desire to hear her grew and grew. It swelled and he began to notice his obsession. He needed to know this woman, despite the impossibilities. Despite his better judgment, he looked her up in the F.B.I. database, pleased to see that he information was still intact, although she was listed as deceased. He easily found her number and wrote it down in his chicken-scratch writing.
The number sat on his desk. And sat. and sat. What if the number was disconnected? Or what if her voice didn't convey the vibrancy that he'd seen in that coffin, now since buried under 6 feet of Earth. He would be fine with the dreams, dreams that made him feel closer to this woman he;d never met. Except he wouldn't be fine. Was her voice smooth or rough? Was it low, or unnaturally high like so many of the women in the office that tried to put on a show. Was it nasally like Sarah Parkins in the administrative office or artificially valley-girl like Susie Fitch in accounting? Or was it a drone like Rudy Johnson?
He dialed the number. One ring. Two. Three. Four. And the voice-mail clicked on.
"Hello. This is Dana Scully. Please leave a message and I'll return your call as soon as possible."
He could hear her. He could hear her speak to him and he could see her as she lifted her shirt and asked him to examine mosquito bumps. He saw her crying and holding him and loving him like no one else had.
Poopyhead. Shut up, Mulder. It's not all about you, Mulder. I gave him up. Don't give up. I'm a Medical Doctor. What are you trying to say, Agent Mulder? That's essentially what happened.
I love you, Mulder.
I love you.
He hung up the phone
It wasn't real, all of these images and situations his mind had created but what if it was. What if there was only one choice and all the other ones were wrong? What if they were supposed to be partners. What if they were supposed to argue and bicker and become friends and then more than friends? What if she wasn't supposed to die but live? What if they were supposed to save each other?
What if you meet your soul mate after they've died?