Author's Note: I've kept you waiting for a while to hear Mulder's theory, and that's because Mulder always keeps you waiting for his theory.
Feedback always appreciated.
For best results, read at night - alone.
Flight 2378 en route to Washington, D.C.
9:13 AM
Another flight, Scully thought, stifling a yawn as she poured some milk into the small cup of coffee in front of her.
There were comparatively few passengers on this flight, as it was too late for commuters but still early enough to require getting to the airport at an unreasonable hour, and they not only had their row to themselves but at least one empty row in front and behind too.
They had left Ross Henderson's apartment not long after Mulder had received the typescript from him last night, telling the local police that they did not consider Henderson a suspect in any current case, and avoiding further questions.
Mulder had immediately arranged the first available flight the next morning to take them back to D.C., but had refused to be drawn on what he was thinking. He had promised to fill her in this morning, however, once they were airborne.
Before they had returned to their hotel, Mulder had called Henderson's boss (despite the late hour), to enquire about the promotion mentioned in the typescript. It turned out that Henderson was indeed going to be awarded it, and that this had been decided weeks ago. Mulder had seemed satisfied by that fact, but again didn't elaborate on his thoughts.
Scully gratefully took a large sip of her coffee and stretched her neck, unaware that Mulder was surreptitiously watching her from the corner of his eye, with a small grin.
Any minute now, he thought.
Scully put down her coffee carefully, then turned to face him.
"Well, let's hear it," she said, and he smiled widely at her.
"Scully, do you know how many people meet their future spouse on a plane?"
"My odds on this one aren't particularly great, Mulder," she replied, without a moment's hesitation.
"Ouch," he said, miming pulling a knife from his chest, and she rolled her eyes, unable to conceal a smile.
As usual, he didn't allow himself to take her remark seriously - it was just their normal playful sparring - but he couldn't entirely suppress a momentary splinter of hurt nonetheless.
This is why she's such a mystery, he thought. She sometimes seemed to show signs of caring for him more deeply than just a colleague or even a friend, but her response to his periodic flirtatious remarks was always the same: she'd shut him down entirely. "In your dreams" was a fairly common response.
In his experience, women who were interested tended to make that fact known sooner or later. They may be subtle, but they weren't often circumspect - and practically never contrary. So the only reasonable conclusion was that Scully simply didn't see him as anything more than a partner and close friend.
But there are still moments, he thought. I catch her looking at me, or she blushes or gets flustered when we accidentally come into physical contact.
He sighed quietly. Maybe it was just discomfort on her part. He'd debated this a hundred times with himself, and he was no further forward.
Scully had glanced round at him after he'd been silent for a moment, and had seen a fleeting expression of pain slip across his face. A small crease appeared in her brow as she wondered what had troubled him, particularly when he had been in good spirits a moment earlier - even joking with her.
Surely not... because of what I said? she wondered, a twinge of guilt darting through her as her eyes widened. But that was just a jibe; a normal part of how they spoke to each other. There was no reason that he'd take it personally; the very idea of it was almost ridiculous.
You can be such a mystery, she thought, feeling slightly queasy at the idea that her remark might have hurt his feelings - silly or not.
She saw him give a small, sad sigh, and she instinctively reached out and took his hand, offering a small smile. He looked up, surprised.
"You drifted off for a minute there," she said kindly, and he tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement. "Is everything alright, Mulder?"
He nodded twice, slowly, his eyes seeming to search hers for something.
What are you thinking? she wondered, determined not to look away. He was clearly pondering something - something about her, and it had obviously put him in a sensitive mood. She could feel a flush rising in her cheeks at the intense eye-contact, but she was resolved that it would not be her who broke away this time.
What are you thinking? he wondered, seeing the barest hint of pink appear on her cheeks as she looked at him. It was unusual for her not to have looked away by now, but he still couldn't find the answer he sought. Her eyes were full of fleeting emotions, but they were maddeningly difficult to read. He was aware that his own pulse rate was higher than normal.
I wish I knew what you're looking for, she thought, still looking back into his slightly sad eyes. It was extremely difficult to think anything at all at this moment, and she was sure that her increased heart rate must be visible. But still she did not look away. There was clearly still something that he wanted - or needed - to find.
With an effort of will which made the flush in her cheeks more pronounced, she gently squeezed his hand.
For a long moment, he didn't seem to react at all. Then, equally gently, she felt him return the gesture, keeping her hand clasped tightly. A warmth chased through her, and her lips parted ever so slightly, his eyes flicking down to her mouth briefly to see it.
There she goes again, he thought. Isn't that a sign? Am I crazy?
Her eyes were moving back and forth but had never left his, and the morning sunlight from the small window behind his shoulder made them sparkle.
Crystal ice blue, he thought, somewhat nonsensically, before his focus again moved down to her lips. Her tongue flicked over them so briefly that he might have imagined it, and when he met her eyes once more they seemed larger and perhaps even a shade darker. She inhaled a thready breath, and as if that had somehow been the missing piece of the puzzle, he arrived at an answer.
I still don't know how you feel, but I think I'm in love with you, he thought.
He released her hand quickly, instead picking up his coffee cup and taking a large gulp to clear his mind, followed by several measured breaths.
She had felt her pulse quicken further when he squeezed her hand, and most of her ability to think rationally had evaporated when she had realised he was keeping her hand held tightly. He had been looking deeply into her eyes, and had even glanced down at her lips not once but twice.
I have no idea what you're doing, Mulder, she thought, but if you try to kiss me I'm going to let you.
But then his eyes had widened as he realised something, and a moment later he'd hurriedly released her hand and focused his attention on his coffee.
She did the same, willing her pulse and breathing to return to normal. Her mind screamed at her to ask him about it, to not let the intense moment slip by, but with the loss of physical contact her nerve had also gone.
I will ask him, she thought, but not now. Not here.
She heard him clear his throat and saw that he was now looking out of the window. She decided it was time to change the subject.
"Mulder, why didn't we put Henderson into protective custody?"
He turned to face her once again, now wearing a knowing smile.
"I don't think he's in any danger, Scully," he said simply.
She sighed, this time in frustration.
"Everyone else who has used that typewriter has - according to you - been murdered. Yet we've left this young man to fend for himself, without even warning him. Why wouldn't he be in danger?"
"If he'd been in danger, he'd be dead already," Mulder replied.
She looked at him carefully. What he was saying was at least plausible; in all other cases, by the time the typescript had been added to and the typewriter removed, the victim was already dead. But there was still the question of the perpetrator.
"So who's adding to whatever these people type, killing them, then stealing the typewriter back and taking it somewhere else?"
Mulder nodded pointedly at her - that is indeed the question - and again glanced briefly out of the window before meeting her eyes again. His facial expression was one that she knew very well indeed.
This is where he'll tell me something I won't be able to accept, she thought. And then I'll argue with him about it, and say that the idea is ridiculous. Then he'll withdraw - respectfully - but stick to his theory.
It had happened any number of times. Always the same dance. She felt the same shiver of sadness she had experienced earlier in the week when contemplating her role in his work. Hadn't he at least earned the right to a thorough airing of his views, after all this time?
He opened his mouth to speak, then gave a small, bashful laugh and dropped his eyes - a clear confirmation that he was expecting her to scoff at his next words.
"I really do want to hear your theory, Mulder," she said quickly, surprising herself. "I might not always agree, but I always want to know what you're thinking."
He met her eyes again. The possible double meaning of her words was not lost on him. After a moment he gave a small smile, and nodded.
"I don't think there's a murderer here, Scully," he began, "at least not in the conventionally accepted sense."
She said nothing but did not look away, silently encouraging him to continue. He paused for a very long moment before finally speaking.
"I think it's the machine itself."
She frowned, tilting her head slightly. He was watching her intently.
"You mean, the... typewriter?" she asked, trying desperately hard to keep the note of incredulity from her voice. He only nodded in response, and she could see that he was perfectly serious.
"The typewriter," she repeated. "It's... killing people. Somehow. Even though they actually die at their own hands, or the hands of another, or in an accident."
Mulder actually smiled, a part of him perversely enjoying the fact that she was clearly trying not to pour scorn on what was admittedly one of his more outlandish theories so far.
"Mulder," she began, raising both her hands, palms upward, as she searched for the words; "How?"
He hesitated for only the briefest moment before replying.
"It grants their wishes, Scully," he said, "but the price is their lives."
Despite herself, she couldn't help but feel a chill chase up her spine as he continued.
"There's a long history of objects imbued with evil intent; cursed to harm the bearer, or twist their desires to work against them. It's a theme we find in every culture, going back as far as any records exist."
He was warming to his topic now, beginning to gesticulate. This time, the effort she expended was to suppress a smile.
"There are stories of pacts with evil gods, or the Christian devil, where the pen used to sign the contract would forever after bring misfortune to anyone who used it."
She nodded, carefully, and he looked into her eyes briefly to see if she was going to interject. She simply motioned at him to continue.
"I think the typewriter is one of those objects - it could even be the same one, taking whatever shape is helpful to its goal. I think it writes itself into people's lives and then uses them to take those lives away. Moving from place to place, down through centuries, always searching for its next victim."
She had to admit, whether the tale was ridiculous or not, he told it well. They were sitting in a brightly-lit airliner cabin in the morning, sunlight streaming in the window, cups of coffee in front of them, and she had chills.
"Even if that's true," she began, very carefully, "it doesn't explain why Mr. Henderson is still among the living."
Mulder snapped his fingers, as if to say that that was indeed a particularly relevant point, and then dug out the latest typescript from the file folder on the seat beside him.
"Look at the first thing it added, Scully - it wasn't a prediction of death this time," he said.
She glanced down at it, though she remembered what it said: I MAKE NO WISHES. She frowned; it was an unsettling parallel with Mulder's theory.
"He was already in line for the promotion!" Mulder said, openly excited now. "He wasn't asking for anything that wasn't already true. He made no wishes, so there was no price to be paid."
His tone was triumphant, and she couldn't help but offer a very small smile. She couldn't bring herself to believe the fanciful idea, but there were few things she enjoyed more than seeing his boyish enthusiasm in full flow.
Suddenly the memory of his hand squeezing hers a few minutes before came flooding back, and she felt a profound sense of loss.
"So why are we heading back to D.C.?" she asked, her tone as neutral as possible. "It's been found twice in Utah now."
At this, some of the colour drained from his face, and he took a shallow breath, glancing down at the typescript once more.
"I think you already know the answer to that," he said, in a quiet voice.
All at once, the sunlight outside seemed slightly too bright, and her spine crawled with the same shiver she had felt late last night when she had first read it in Henderson's apartment. With a great effort, she lowered her gaze to fall on the typescript. The final line seemed somehow blacker and more vivid than the others.
THE MACHINE IS FOUND TOMORROW IN THEIR BASEMENT OFFICE
She glanced back up at him quickly, and he met her gaze. His eyes were a dark and almost muddy brown now, the bright hazel of a moment ago seeming to have gone behind a cloud.
She was a scientist, and she had seen plenty of strange and disturbing things during their work together. She was also rational, and a trained professional. Nevertheless, his next words - spoken in a low, somehow lifeless voice - filled her with dread.
"It's waiting for us."
F.B.I. Headquarters - J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington D.C.
August 22
3:22 PM
Scully walked beside Mulder as they entered the building, showing their IDs automatically, neither of them really focused on their immediate surroundings.
This is ridiculous, she thought. You're too old to be creeped out by ghost stories in broad daylight. The indignant admonishment did not seem to carry the same weight it had each of the ten or so times she'd repeated it to herself over the past few hours.
She glanced up at her partner's face, and saw that his jaw was tense, and that two brighter patches of pink on his cheeks did little to mask his noticeable paleness.
This is dangerous, Mulder thought. Maybe I should ask her to check in with Skinner, and I can at least go down there alone.
But he knew that it would be useless to suggest it. She would no more allow him to go into their office alone right now than she would let him face an armed suspect without her at his side.
Besides, he thought, she probably wants to be able to say 'I told you so' if it's not there. The thought brought no comfort at all.
They had arrived at the elevator, and he pushed the call button. The doors opened instantly, and they stepped inside. He glanced at her briefly before pushing the button for the basement, but she was facing forward, shoulders tense.
The basement corridor was silent, and they were both momentarily startled when the elevator doors closed again behind them. Their office door was visible just down the corridor, and was closed - just as they had left it.
Mulder automatically walked ahead of her, reaching the door first. He tried the handle, and found the door was locked, as expected.
"Want to skip out and get some lunch?" he asked, with a half-hearted grin, but the grin faded as he saw her too-wide eyes looking up at him.
He put his key into the lock, and turned it, and then twisted the handle and opened the door. His skin was covered in gooseflesh.
The barest hint of a breeze issued from the dark doorway, accompanied by no sound. Mulder swallowed, and reached for the light switch, finding it easily from long habit and flipping it on.
The same office. The same filing cabinets. The same posters and clippings. The same clutter which spoke of a man's obsession.
The same, but more. The intimately familiar room was suddenly filled with subtle shadows. Stealthy sounds. The air seemed to be utterly stationary, hanging thickly just inside the door frame.
Every hair on the back of Scully's neck was standing on end. The elevator seemed too far away. Ancient, primal parts of her brain were screaming a wordless alert - ! - and she felt her calf muscles tensing instinctively. A bitter metallic taste rose in the back of her throat, and she felt a bead of perspiration on her brow.
Mulder took a single step inside, and the one area of his desk's surface which had been hidden by the back of Scully's chair came into view.
She heard him exhale, and immediately stepped into the room to stand beside him. Her eyes fell upon the desk surface.
Like a spider, Mulder thought.
It was black metal, with a gleam entirely too dull for the ambient light. A black which was too black to ever be properly lit.
Its levers were the colour of painted coffin-wood, and each one twisted upwards to end in a yellowed disc with a letter inscribed. They looked like teeth, rotted but always sharp, waiting perfectly still.
Shadows criss-crossed its surface - far too many for the sources of light in the office. There was an unpleasant sense of movement in the recesses between the keys, falling into the darkness of the mechanism which presumably lurked beneath.
Though the desk was cluttered, there was a sense that everything else around it - case files, pencils, sunflower seeds - was straining to move as far from it as possible.
Threaded into the top of the baleful machine was a sheet of his office notepaper, headed From the desk of Special Agent Fox Mulder.
Scully's heart hammered in her chest. She had a brief, wild mental image of the machine jumping from the desk across at them, and forced herself to try to regain some self-control. She had a strong sense that she should not take her eyes from it, but risked a glance up at her partner's face.
There was a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his eyes were a stormy grey. He was breathing rapidly.
For the second time that day, she reached out and took his hand.
