Disclaimer: I do not own the X-Files.
Spoilers: "Fire," and other episodes that talk about Mulder and Samantha's backstory ("Conduit," "Little Green Men," etc.).
A/N: I know there are several different accounts of Samantha's abduction, some contradicting others. I have done and will continue to do what the show's writers seemed to do: pick and choose details to suit the story.
Three-bottle Problem
October 13, 1982
Flames surrounded Mulder as he tried to move. He stood completely immobilized, unable to escape the white-hot licks of fire that leapt out at him. His face was frozen in a rictus of horror, his body refusing to obey his mental commands down to the smallest muscular twitch.
The flames glowed luminescent white, bathing the whole room in blinding light. Somehow, Mulder was able to make out a door about ten feet in front of him. The door slowly swung open, revealing his best friend floating above his bed.
"Fox!" Jake screamed. "Help me, Fox!"
Mulder tried to reach out to Jake, tried to make it to the door, but he could not move.
"Fox!" Jake yelled, screaming in terror as he began to slowly levitate toward the window.
At least he's going to escape the fire, Mulder thought. But this is all wrong! I'm supposed to open the window and he's supposed to jump out. That's how it happened…will happen?
The window opened by itself, and Jake pivoted in midair as if rotated by invisible hands. His feet facing the window, he began to inch toward the safety of fresh air.
"No!" Jake yelled. "Save me, Fox! Fox! Fox!"
Mulder fought against his invisible restraints, knowing somehow that Jake was safer inside the burning building than he would be if he floated out that window. His struggles were in vain, and Jake disappeared in a final, blinding flash of incandescent light.
Suddenly, Mulder was being smothered. Flames and smoke pressed in once again. He could not breathe. His lungs were paralyzed. He was going to die, just like Jake. Just like Samantha. Just like…
His eyes opened and settled on the woman sitting in his lap. Presumably, this woman was responsible for his shortness of breath, her lips depriving him of much-needed oxygen. Mulder knew better than to complain.
"How's your head?" the woman asked in her British accent.
"Hurts a little," Mulder said, grinning mischievously.
"Your stomach?" the woman replied, grinning as well.
"Empty as a football," Mulder responded.
"And your love life?" the woman asked, arching an eyebrow suggestively and leaning in.
"Not too active," Mulder replied, winking and wrapping her in his arms.
"Anything else bothering you?" the woman asked.
"Uh-huh," Mulder replied, "Who are you?"
"Reading from top to bottom," the woman said, standing up, "Phoebe. Sherlock. Greene."
"Since when is your middle name 'Sherlock'?" Mulder asked Phoebe.
"Since I decided to figure out what's been bothering you," Phoebe said.
"And what have you deduced, Sherlock?" Mulder said.
"I love a man that can segue from Hitchcock to Holmes so seamlessly," Phoebe said. "That's why I keep you around."
"I thought you kept me around for my boyish charm and brilliant mind," Mulder said.
"Neither of which has been a hundred percent today," Phoebe said. "So what's bothering you, Mulder? You know you can tell me anything."
Today's my birthday, Mulder contemplated telling Phoebe. I never mention it to anyone because it's been a meaningless date since my sister was taken years ago. So now I try to avoid celebrating not only my birthday, but others' as well.
"I haven't been sleeping well," Mulder said instead.
"I'm disappointed, Mulder," Phoebe said. "If you're going to employ evasive tactics, at least make them inventive."
"Sorry to disappoint you," Mulder said. "I'll lie more creatively next time."
"Seriously, Mulder. What's bothering you?"
"I've been having nightmares," Mulder said, telling the partial truth. "I go through phases where I sleep fitfully and lapse into nightmares. The phase works itself out, I go back to sleeping well, and the nightmares go away. Nothing to worry about."
"What kind of nightmares?"
"The usual," Mulder said. "I dream I show up for class late and naked. I dream I get to class and I have a presentation due for which I'm unprepared. I wake up on the couch in my flat with my beautiful girlfriend sitting on my lap and interrogating me."
"Liar," Phoebe said. "Have you always been so secretive?"
"Ever since I discovered that "trust no one" was a good credo."
"Well, it just so happens that I brought the solution to your three-bottle problem," Phoebe said, walking to a bag she had placed on the floor.
"I remember Sherlock Holmes referring to a three-pipe problem, but never a three-bottle problem," Mulder said.
"I didn't get the idea directly from Sir Doyle, but I was inspired by him."
"And I know what happens when you get inspired by Sir Arthur," Mulder said, grinning lasciviously.
"Obviously, the solution to a three-bottle problem," Phoebe said, pulling a six-pack out of the bag, "is three bottles."
"Elementary, my dear Phoebe," Mulder said, taking one of the bottles and sitting on his couch.
He picked up the bottle opener he always kept close by and opened both their bottles.
"You're always prepared, aren't you?" Phoebe said, sitting beside Mulder.
"Given the nature of my friends, having a bottle opener on hand is always a good idea."
"To Holmsian solutions," Phoebe said, clinking Mulder's bottle.
"To Arthurian inspiration," Mulder said, doing the same.
"You mean Guinevere?" Phoebe said.
"Are you my Guinevere?" Mulder asked, taking a swig from his bottle.
"Maybe," Phoebe said. "Depends on which facet of Guinevere's personality to which you're referring."
"Perhaps I should instead ask you who plays Lancelot?" Mulder said.
"None of that, or I'll take away the other bottles."
"Cruel, heartless woman," Mulder said, continuing to drink from his bottle.
Mulder had always held his alcohol well, so he was still in control of himself after two and a half bottles. Phoebe had engaged him in the witty banter to which he had been drawn from the moment he had met her, and the evening had passed happily.
This hasn't been such a bad birthday, all things considered, Mulder thought drowsily, relaxed by Phoebe's three-bottle solution.
"So, Mulder," Phoebe said. "Tell me about your nightmares."
She's trying to get me drunk so I'll spill my guts, Mulder thought, noticing she had only finished one bottle. I should've known that was her goal. What was I expecting? That she'd spend so much time with me without getting anything in return?
"I already told you, Phoebe," Mulder said. "They're just normal nightmares involving class, friends, and varying states of undress."
"Those sound like my dreams, except they're not nightmares," Phoebe said, smiling.
Trying to put me at ease, Mulder thought. If nothing else, being Phoebe's lover is excellent job preparation.
"I don't even want to know what you dream about," Mulder said, smiling back.
"But I want to know what you dream about," Phoebe said, staring intently into Mulder's eyes.
Maybe if I give her part of the truth, she'll leave me alone, Mulder thought.
"My dreams are about…fire," Mulder said.
"Fire?"
"Yeah," Mulder said, fidgeting. "When I was a kid, my best friend's house burned down. He and I had to escape the flames, and I stayed on the back porch all night guarding against looters. Even though this happened years ago, I still have nightmares about being trapped in a burning building; I'm also still terrified of fire."
"I never knew that about you," Phoebe said, looking both satisfied and sympathetic.
"I've never told anyone else," Mulder said. "I'd appreciate it if you did the same."
"Of course, Mulder," Phoebe said. "I won't tell anyone."
Mulder drained the last of his third beer, glad the alcohol was silencing the question that had been raging in his mind during his entire conversation with Phoebe.
Why have my fire dreams been changing so drastically over the past several years?
Mulder had a few ideas, the most likely of which both terrified and exhilarated him.
I'm remembering. Sometimes, Jake is Samantha and Samantha is Jake…Maybe if I talked to someone…
"Have you considered seeking professional help?" Phoebe asked, her identical thought startling Mulder.
"I've thought about it, but I'd feel silly. I mean, they're just dreams, right? It's not like they're going to kill me."
"If they keep you from sleeping, they might," Phoebe said.
"I'll be fine," Mulder said. "I probably won't have another one for a month or two. I'm more likely to have a nightmare about Professor Janeway showing up to class naked."
"Nobody wants to see that," Phoebe said, nose wrinkling in disgust.
"No amount of alcohol could make that dream sweet," Mulder agreed.
"So what else is bothering you, Mulder?" Phoebe asked. "I know you haven't told me everything."
"What makes you say that?" Mulder said.
"I've noticed patterns over the past few months. Some days, you're fine, others, you're not. Something deeper is bothering you, something worse than fire."
"You are fire," Mulder said.
"Is that a compliment?" Phoebe asked.
"Fire can be both mesmerizing and destructive, so you choose," Mulder said.
"Don't you trust me?" Phoebe said, flashing that beguiling smile.
"Not a bit," Mulder said.
"If that's how you feel, I'll just leave," Phoebe said, standing up.
"Wait," Mulder said, clumsily getting to his feet. "I'm just a little hungry. Let me go get some food and I'll feel better."
Mulder walked into the small kitchen, relieved that Phoebe could not see him from the couch. He strode to the refrigerator, but instead opened the cabinet above it. He withdrew a bottle of whiskey he kept for such special occasions and stared at it, trying to decide if he wanted to take a few swigs.
The best way to keep from spilling my guts is to get so drunk I won't be capable of doing so, Mulder thought. Or maybe I won't be able to get drunk enough and will end up telling her everything. If I drink enough, I'll at least be able to silence my mind for a few hours so I won't have to think about…
Mulder quietly opened a drawer and took out his corkscrew, opening the bottle as silently as possible. The strong scent assaulted his nose, as sharp as the acrid smoke from his nightmare.
She's not dead, Mulder thought, remembering his jumbled thoughts from his dream. I'll find her. Someday. I'll remember…
Maybe I could talk to Phoebe, Mulder thought, staring at the now-open bottle. I could tell her the truth, and maybe she would help me find a professional who could help me remember the details of Samantha's disappearance. Or maybe she'll take the information I give her and use it for her own ends.
Without further thought, Mulder brought the bottle to his lips and tipped it upside down, the whiskey burning a trail down his throat. He gasped softly, the fiery feeling reminding him of the searing air from his nightmare.
To lost time, he mentally toasted, lifting the bottle and clinking it against an imaginary other. He took another swig, and then another, anticipating the oblivion that would soon follow.