"She was there when I came out of the washroom, sitting with Fox. I think she had some of my drink because there wasn't much left. I didn't know they could have women policemen. Fox says women can do any job they want even being firemen. He makes it sound like a good thing but I'm pretty sure I never wanted to be a fireman. Maybe a dancer or a teacher."
Scully hates clandestine meetings at diners in the middle of the night. She always has. There is never good news. Only bad. Or mysterious. Or mysteriously bad. Scully is tired, she is still getting over her bout with the flu and she hopes Mulder is all right but, damn; it's the middle of the night and does he have to drag her from a deep sleep so early. Or late. She can't even tell which adjective that 'three-thirty in the morning' qualifies as. The only fact that registers is that it's Monday morning and that is enough of a struggle.
Scully gets out of her car and allows her common sense to return before she climbs the stairs to Bobs Eats, a Mulder favourite, which irritates her even more.
She can see him through the window. He is hunched over one of the cracked linoleum tables, stirring a cup of coffee. She knows that posture - he is wiped. She hasn't seen him since the Monday before. She still doesn't know half of what he gets up to on their days off. He is wearing a suit, however, and this is even worse than wondering. It means he has been spending his time in the office or following potential new tips.
"Hey," she says, putting a hand on his shoulder before dropping into the chair across from him.
When he looks up at her, she knows it is bad.
"Thanks for coming so fast," he says.
"No problem. What's up?"
As if the answer suddenly appears, she notices a second cup on the table. Half of an Orange Crush remains in melting ice. There is someone else in this story.
"Mulder?" Maybe he has had one too many orange crushes and needs her to drive him home before the sugar rush kicks in.
He nods towards the cup. "You aren't going to believe it."
"No, not if you don't tell me I won't."
He absently nudges the cup of Crush with his thumb.
"Is that your drink?" she asks.
"No. Hers."
"Her? Her who?"
Finally, Mulder takes his tired eyes from the table and looks at Scully. "My sister."
"Your…." And dread takes over. Not this again. Not the Conspiracy's attempt to reunite him with the one thing desperately missing from his world.
"She was waiting for me outside my apartment when I got home. I couldn't believe it - I still can't."
"Where is she now?"
"In the bathroom." He nods towards the cup. "She had a few of these."
Scully thinks he means the thirty-something version who has been here before. Who was never real. And who turned his life upside down. She won't believe him until she sees for herself. And then she will deal with Mulder and his delusion. This scares her more than anything.
"There," Mulder says.
She looks over. The door to the women's washroom has opened but the only person leaving is a young girl. She has long, dark braided hair and is wearing a pair of jeans and a tee shirt with large petal flowers all over. Scully is looking at Samantha Mulder, Age 8.
"Mulder, I don't understand."
"Join the club." He stands up and waves the little girl over. "Samantha. It's okay."
Slowly the girl walks towards him but her worried eyes are on the new person at their table.
"Samantha, this is my partner. Dana Scully. She works with me at the FBI."
Cautiously, the girl glances very quickly at Scully. She shifts her chair a few inches closer to her brother.
"Hi Samantha," Scully says, not quite believing these words are stumbling out of her mouth. "It's good to meet you."
Samantha can barely look at this woman who is her mother's age; older, probably. "I'm still hungry," she says to Mulder.
He leans back and pulls a ten dollar bill out of his pocket. "Get whatever you want. No, it's okay, I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here."
Scully waits until the little girl is out of earshot then leans across the table. "Mulder, will you please tell me what is going on here."
"I don't know. I … it's Samantha. She somehow found her way to my door. She thought she was going to find our dad - she had 'William Mulder' and my address written down on a scrap of paper."
"But she hasn't aged a day."
"I don't understand either. But maybe you can run some tests under the radar. Blood, DNA, anything else you can think of."
"Did she know who you were?"
He shakes his head. "She said I looked like her father. I brought her inside and tried to explain that I'm her brother. I'm not certain if she believes it. I'm not certain I do."
"But where has she been?"
"She doesn't remember. She just remembers holding my name and address." He drags both hands through his hair and tries to make sense of his own words. "It's her, Scully. I don't know how or why but.. it's her."
They watch the eight-year-old talk to the waitress. She is pointing to the various chocolate bars behind the glass counter.
Scully nudges his arm to get his attention. "Hey - are you okay?"
"No. Yes."
"We'll take this slowly. I'll arrange some tests off the record. You have some vacation time, right?"
Both of them have Duh splashed across their faces. He has nothing but vacation time. He is being nagged by Personnel to take them by the end of the fiscal year or he will lose them. What Personnel doesn't realize is they are dealing with a workaholic who doesn't care about vacation time; so their idle threats are not going to lessen the paperwork they will have to do to expunge the days from his record.
Scully looks at the time. She needs to be up in mere hours to meet with Skinner. Mulder is supposed to be there too but she will have to cover for him. "Let's go."
He isn't listening. His mind and eyes are following the girl as she wanders back and forth in front of the chocolate bar case. He wonders if Malteezers or Snickers are still on the market. They were her favourites. Hershey Bars should still be around. God only knows what else is out there these days. Mulder is not a chocolate fiend. Not the way his sister was. Or how Scully occasionally is. He has seen Scully in well-planned, calculated moments, buy, unwrap and devour an entire chocolate bar in one go.
Her voice slips into his thoughts.
"What?" he asks absently.
"Were you at the office again?"
"Since this morning." Sunday morning.
"Do you mind if I ask how much sleep you've had lately?"
Now his attention returns to her. "Yes. Don't."
"I don't know why but you have been going at this pace for the last few weeks and you can't keep it up. You need to look after yourself, especially with this latest development. Mulder? Are you listening?"
He is not. He has now noticed Scully's clothing. "Where did I take you from?"
"Home, Mulder. Bed. Where most people are at this hour."
"Oh," he replies vaguely as Samantha returns to the table with a plate of fries and a Kit Kat. "You have enough there?" he asks.
"You told me to get what I wanted-"
"I know, I know. Let's go home."
They get the food bagged. Mulder takes Samantha by the hand. From behind, Scully thinks how much they look like two long lost survivors from a very lonely ship wreck.
Ten minutes later, Mulder follows Scully and Samantha into his apartment. The living room is fairly tidy; the kitchen sink is almost empty, give or take. For some reason, the bed is made. He tries to jog his memory as to when the hell he actually did this. It couldn't have been this morning because he slept at the office last night. Then he remembers - two mornings ago. That was when he last made the bed.
"Here we are," he says swiping a pair of sweatpants from the couch and lobbing it into the bedroom. "I'll show you around." With a very tentative hand inches away from her shoulder, Mulder gives Samantha the tour. It is short and full of various bits of useful and not-so-useful information.
Scully waits on the couch and listens to his kind voice and wonders what in the hell he is going to do and where this story is going to go. She isn't sure how many more kicks to the head he can handle with the issue of his sister. Maybe there won't be a kick this time. Maybe, as implausible as this entire situation is, maybe this is for real and forever. Maybe she doesn't grow. Maybe she does. Maybe, maybe, maybe…..
And maybe not.
They return from the tour; her hand is lightly in his. He looks like a stunned, sudden father.
"Scully, I'm going to put Samantha to bed."
She can hear his voice talking calmly from the next room. The light goes off. He appears and closes the door halfway.
Mulder drops a pillow and blanket on the coffee table and sinks into the couch next to her. "I can't believe this is happening."
"It is, though."
"How is it that she is exactly how I remember her?"
She should be Scully's age. Scully's height, have her own career. Hell, for that matter, Scully could be the grown up version of his sister. Maybe she is his sister. Maybe Scully is the real one and the retro-carbon-copy in the next room was delivered over twenty years too late.
"Mulder?" her curious voice interrupts. She has caught him smiling to himself.
"I was thinking ... When we first met - you and me - I. You and I…" When Mulder corrects his own grammar, he is tired. "And as I began to trust you - as I've never trusted anyone else in my life - I used wondered if you were a cosmic do-over for Samantha. If you were sent to me to make up for her loss. You think that's possible?"
"Well, Mulder, as flattering as that is to hear, it's awfully … predetermined. My life brought me here based on my family's choices and my own choices, which had nothing to do with your or your family. Couldn't the fact be that we did end up at the FBI and we developed our mutual trust because of the work each of us has put into the partnership and our jobs. I think we end up cheating ourselves if we lay any successes at the feet of fate, instead of those decisions we made individually and as partners."
"Party pooper," he says knowing she is right. So he will keep his magical thinking to himself. "You and she were - are - so alike.. You'd be about the same age, give or take a year or so." Would Samantha have grown up to be as analytical as Scully? Or as open to theories of all descriptions as Mulder?
Scully needs to put an end to the fantasy scenarios in Mulder's delicate world. "You need to sleep and I need to go home. We can hash out your Who-Begat-Whom theories tomorrow," Scully tells him. "Do you have enough food in your refrigerator?"
"I think so. I'll do a shopping run tomorrow."
"I'll pull a few strings at Quantico and get some tests going for her. I'll need some DNA from you, too."
"Regression Therapy," he suddenly adds. "That will give us some indication of where she has been, whether it's in reality or her reality. I can take her to Boston to see….."
Scully's hand lands on his arm. "Not so fast, Mulder. The basics first. What do you want to tell Skinner about the meeting tomorrow morning - today?"
"I'll leave a message and say I'm sick but that you'll be there. After that …. I don't know."
"We could always tell him the truth."
He crunches the factors in his head. Too many corners for something to go wrong. "Let's not involve him until we have to."
"Okay," she says. "We will talk tomorrow and take it from there."
"Thanks. I know this is whole thing is a bit … odd."
"I'm getting used to 'odd', Mulder."
Mulder surprises her with a personal question; these have been unusually rare lately. "You still sick?"
"No. Back to normal."
She called him last Monday morning to let him know he was on his own for a few days. Flu, she told him.
"Thanks for the heads up," he had said before launching into a description of a case Skinner wanted them to look into. And he kept talking and talking. He finally ended the call with a reckless suggestion. "Don't come in until you are no longer infectious."
She glared at the phone before hanging up and crawling back into bed.
"Are you okay to drive?" he asks now. "I can always scoot over"
She isn't sure if he is serious or just over-tired. Maybe it is too late for either of them to be expecting coherent sentences. When children return from the hinterlands of your life, maybe the first thing to go is rational thinking.
end of Ch1
