Author's Note: Not being Chris Carter, I own nothing.
Beginnings
Special Agent Fox Mulder was nervous and trying desperately to convince himself that that was all right. After all, what was the world coming to if a man couldn't be nervous in his own office? He stubbed his toe against the foot of his desk, swore silently, gave up pacing and sat down, fingers carefully pressed against his temples. He had been nervous for the better part of six hours now, and he was beginning to develop the makings of what promised to be a fine headache. He didn't like being nervous. Impending migraines aside, it reminded him that as hard as he tried, he would never truly be in charge of his circumstances. Circumstances such as the one he was currently in.
The phone call had come in at exactly 9.08 that morning. Mulder knew this because he had been on time for once, and 8 minutes was how long it took him to walk from the car park to his office in the building basement. Eight minutes, he marvelled. Eight minutes, and just like that, his life had been turned completely upside down.
He did not want a new partner. No, he amended, fingers still covering his eyes. He did not need a new partner. He had survived the past one year just fine working on his own, and he was fully confident that he would survive the next fifty or so still flying solo. It had been rough going for a while when Diana first left, but he had grown accustomed to entering an empty office every day. In time, he had even learned to enjoy it. Being alone was… well, lonely sometimes, but Fox Mulder was a man who valued his privacy, especially since most of the Bureau thought he was insane anyway.
He had devoted his life to investigating cases that every other self-respecting agent tossed aside without a second thought. Cases that involved aliens, crop-circles, spaceships, chasing after shadows in the dark, and anything else the Bureau conveniently labelled under "paranormal". Cases that led him all over the country in pursuit of strange sightings and dubious suspects. Cases that steadily reinforced his belief that the government knew of things - he hated using vague terms like that, but lacking any concrete evidence, it was the best he had come up with as of yet - which they kept secret from the American population. Cases that he personally referred to as "X-Files". Cases that he was very sure his new partner would neither understand nor support. In fact, now that he thought of it, this new partner of his was probably nothing more than another attempt by his superiors to debunk his work, to shut him down for good, to spare themselves any further embarrassment that might spring from his… unconventional investigations.
He rubbed his eyes wearily and let his hands drop to the desk in front of him. As if that wasn't enough, his soon-to-be partner was apparently a woman. He didn't have anything against women, not personally, anyway. He seriously doubted, though, that she would be happy sharing his office space with him. To begin with, he worked in the basement - a far cry from her cosy little office over in Quantico, he suspected. To add insult to injury, his office was a perpetual mess. Even he had to acknowledge as much. Looking around, he noticed afresh the unsteady piles of books stacked haphazardly on every available surface, the week's collection of Styrofoam coffee cups assembled at his elbow, and the crumpled paper balls lying around the almost-empty trash bin. Personally speaking, he was perfectly contented with the way things were. Despite the eternal mess, he knew exactly where everything was, and contrary to popular opinion, if he was unable to find what he was looking for, it was usually because someone had moved it, not because he had misplaced it. As a general rule, most men understood that. Women, on the other hand… women took his mess as a personal insult. He wasn't too sure why, but he was quite certain that Dana Scully would prove no exception.
At least she had a nice name. Mulder had no idea what she looked like - the less professional part of him was hoping for long legs and lots of curves - but he knew that she was smart, to say the least. The phone call had come through at 9.08 a.m., three digits that were now irrevocably emblazoned in his brain. At 9.11, he was frantically calling everyone he knew who was even remotely friendly towards him, as well as some who weren't, trying desperately to convince someone - anyone - who was in any position to pull strings that he was quite capable of taking care of himself, thank you very much. By 10.30, he had run out of names and was seriously contemplating breaking Bureau protocol and buying himself a drink with a substantial amount of alcohol in it. He compromised with two cups of the strongest, blackest coffee he could coax from the coffee machine on the ground floor. By 12.30, he knew they had him beat, at least for now. The headache began shortly after. At 1.30, he picked up the phone again, dialled Archives, and requested a copy of Special Agent Dana Scully's senior thesis or the equivalent, anything that would give him some idea of how the woman's mind worked. He spent the next two hours reading through the copy of her thesis that the lady at Archives had obligingly faxed over. By 4.00, he knew for sure that whatever else she might be, Dana Scully was no bimbo.
Fox Mulder was a very intelligent man. He had graduated from high school a full year ahead of the rest of his class. Three years later, he entered Oxford University to study psychology and graduated suma cum laud with First Class Honours. That same year, he entered the FBI academy in Quantico, Virginia. Upon graduating, he began working with the Behavioural Science Unit, specializing in the Violent Crimes division. By 1990, he had become something of an intra-Bureau legend. He was always three jumps ahead of the others, his supervisors would say, shaking their heads in admiration. It was deemed a huge blow to the Violent Crimes section when he made the sudden and very unpopular decision to concentrate solely on the X-Files.
Bad PR aside, though, Mulder was still one of the most brilliant agents to ever darken the Bureau's doors. He knew quality when he saw it, and Dana Scully's work was of the very highest. It was the most intelligent piece of writing he had read in a long time. He finished reading through it, then leaned back in his chair, idly tapping his pen against his temple. She was good. For one fraction of a moment, he reconsidered all the running around he had done since 9.08 that morning. Then he shook himself briskly, running one hand through his thick, dark hair.
If she was coming, she was coming. He'd already wasted nearly the entire day worrying about it. There was nothing he could do about it anymore, but he certainly wasn't going to let that stand in the way of him getting at least a little work done that day. Rolling his sleeves up to his elbows and fishing his glasses out of the top desk drawer, he turned to his projector and began carefully arranging his newest series of slides, making sure that the sides were evenly aligned so that they would move smoothly from one to the next.
He was on his second-last slide when he heard the knock.
Shit. Expecting it didn't make it any easier.
He took a deep breath and let it out again.
"Sorry," he called, "nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted."
Well, it was worth a shot. There was a slight pause, and for one glorious yet strangely wistful moment, he believed she'd taken him seriously and left. Then, the door eased open, and he knew he had no choice but to turn around.