by Madeleine Partous
email: [email protected]
A bit of a variation on a classic X-File fanfic theme. If you feel
like it, let me know what you think -- I'd appreciate it with
this one. Rated R for lots of bad language.
DEDICATION: This is dedicated to male GA fans everywhere.
Any man who relishes Scully's sex appeal -- one that's based
primarily, although not exclusively, on intelligence -- is a
sexy guy in my book.
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DISCLAIMER: All X-Files characters and concepts property of
Fox and Chris Carter. Used respectfully without permission
and without intention to make a buck.
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The thing is, Mulder warned me about this. I thought he was
just being overly protective, you know? Like a big brother.
Deep down, though, I suspected he was jealous all along. He
wouldn't admit it, but I'd always known he had the hots for
her.
Hell. Who could blame him? You'd have to be dead not to have
the hots for that woman. Or not male or something. And even
then. You'd have to be alien. Yeah. Maybe if you weren't
human.
As for me, as surprising as it seems some mornings, I ain't
dead yet. I'm human -- at least marginally. And yeah: as far
as I can remember the difference, I'm male.
So all in all it makes sense that I took old Mulder's words with a
grain of the old NaCl. I even told him once. Jeez. I told him
more than once. "Look," I said, "Go for it, buddy. You never
know."
In my shrivelled-up old hacker heart, though, I was glad he
never had. Even though I couldn't imagine why he hadn't. I'd
seen the way she looked at him. Mulder's big fat genius brain
doesn't seem to grok the most obvious things sometimes.
I think he's insecure. I don't think it's got anything to do with
how he felt about her. But he's been trashed too many times,
you know? It's made him cautious. Hell. Trash is my middle
name. But I'm an optimist -- what can I say?
Fact is, I love the guy; I really do. When we thought he died
that time, I was more devastated than all of them rolled
together. Well, except maybe her. Sure, I lusted after his
video collection. But not *that* badly.
Well, when I told him to go for it, all he did was quote
regulations at me in full sentences with that incredibly
hypnotic voice of his, you know? No inflection at all. I swear
he'd put us all to sleep if what he was saying wasn't always so
fucking fascinating.
Mulder's a hell of a smart guy. I should know. I ain't no mental
slouch myself.
Sometimes, though, it makes me crazy that he's good-looking
too. It just doesn't seem fair, you know? Man -- with his looks
I'd never get out of bed.
I'd hate him if I could, but he's too nice. Integrity up the
wazoo. What're ya gonna do? You just can't hate a guy like
that. Anyway, he doesn't even know how good he looks. He'd
be a royal pain in the ass if he did.
So he went on about how they were partners and all, that this
meant she was out of bounds, that he didn't see her that way
anyway. The funny thing was, there was definitely some
menace in his voice. Like he was saying don't even try it,
asshole. Don't even dream of trying it.
Hey. A man's got a right to dream, am I right? It's in the
goddam Constitution.
So I just sat there like a clam and thought, okay Mulder.
Whatever you say.
But I was working on a plan.
I know what you're thinking. I'm almost old enough to be her
father. Well I say so what? And you're probably thinking just
look at you, for fuck's sake. You look like a reject from a
Deadhead convention. I still say so what. Jerry Garcia got
laid, didn't he? And the chicks he had weren't all Grandma
Moses, I'll guarantee you that.
And fuck you anyway. You don't know the first thing about
me.
I got feelings. I'm a sensitive guy. So I spend most of my time
diddling computers. At least they don't try to tax my ass off.
At least they don't make me feel like a total shithead. The
thing is, I mean well. I've spent my whole life doing what I
think is right. I don't trust the government, but neither do
most of you. That doesn't make me a monster. I want the
truth, just as much as Mulder does.
Just as much as she does.
Sometimes I swear to God I feel like the fucking Phantom of the
Opera. A fucking ugly freak playing around in the basement.
So my instrument's a computer, not a damn organ. Both have
keyboards, right? I'm doing all this stuff, exposing
conspiracies, helping guys like Mulder find the answers to the
fucking universe, and meanwhile no one gives a shit about my
fat ass.
Yeah. Well. Sorry about that. I don't usually feel sorry for
myself. Fact is I like what I do, so it's not as bad as I'm
making it out to be.
But you get my drift. Maybe it was stupid of me to think I
could get her to notice me. It's not like I thought she'd fall for
me like a ton of bricks or anything -- I'm not an idiot. But I
thought, you know, if I could just show her what a nice guy I
was. Gently. Without letting her know straight off it was me.
And then, if I managed to dazzle her with my sensitivity and
intelligence and all that other crap, she wouldn't care so much
that it was just that old pervert making googly eyes at her
from his cellar lair. That there was more to the package than
the wrapper, you know?
Look: I told you I was an optimist.
But Mulder knew, that son of a bitch. He warned me. He said
"she'll break your heart, old son. Forget about her." I wanted
to say, why, so you can have her all to yourself without giving
her a damn thing in return? I wanted to say, fuck you,
Mulder, you're playing with her; she's given up everything
for you and you just keep handing her fucking files.
It was true, too. If I hadn't been so hot for her, it would've
broken my heart. But she's a hell of a lady and she wasn't
about to crawl. Hell. I was sure she didn't even know how she
felt about that goofy beanpole.
She didn't then. She does now. And the two of them can thank
Frohike the fucking matchmaker for it.
I hope they're happy forever in hell.
Well. That's not true. Part of me would like to see them suffer,
but it's the selfish part. I'm an optimist, it's true; I'm also a
hopeless romantic. Christ. I love them both, you know? The
damn thing is, it couldn't've happened to two nicer people.
To hell with it. With them.
Anyway, they've suffered enough.
I'll just keep playing my fucking keyboard in the basement,
laughing like a fucking lunatic. No one's ever gonna come
down here long enough to pull off *my* mask, and I just ain't
the kidnapping kind.
Here's how it happened, though, in case you're interested.
Don't know why you would be; I guess I just gotta get it off my
chest before I go stark raving freakoid... you know?
I don't know if you've ever seen her. Christ. Hot doesn't even
begin to do her justice. She's tiny. Hell, she's shorter than
*I* am, and that doesn't happen too often. She's got this
incredible little bod, all hips and legs and breasts, although I
try not to be obvious about looking. In my own way I'm a
gentleman, believe it or not, an old-fashioned kind of guy.
But she's perfect. A tight little made-for-Frohike package.
Or at least that's what I pretended to myself on good days.
And her face. Man alive. Holey fucking Moley. A face off a
beauty queen, a classic movie star from the silent screen, I
swear to God. All pouty and regal, wreathed in fire-coloured
hair. With a little mole over her lip that she covers over with
makeup most of the time, I'll be fucked if I know why -- it's
sexy as hell. After a long day it peeks through, you know?
When her foundation's gotten smudged and her lipstick's gone.
And don't even get me started about her lips. God help me
remain sane, because even when she's eaten all her lipstick
her lips are as red as goddam fall apples in the rain.
Then there's this indifferent grace of hers, this presence
she's got, all five feet of her, as though she was fucking 10
feet tall. She strides into a place like she owns it, you know?
Even Mulder looks short next to her sometimes, like he's an
afterthought, trailing behind her like a memory, an
absentminded ghost everyone's forgotten about except her.
She never forgets Mulder. She walks like he's next to her at
all times, even when he's not.
But she's all fire, that one, just like the colour of her hair.
And her blue eyes blaze and say don't you even dare think
about fucking with me, asshole, because I'll take you down and
rip your nuts off while I'm at it, just because I'm bored and
it's a Thursday and I hate fucking Thursdays.
I've seen grown men, big muscle-bound motherfuckers, cringe
and whimper at her feet, you know that?
It's an incredible turn-on.
Which brings me to the sexiest part of her, her brain, her
fucking mind. She's got a mind like a goddam steel trap and
she spouts this incredible stuff with a high husky whisper that
just makes you want to donate all your money to charity and
follow her wherever she goes.
So I'm a guy and it's true I think about that mind wrapped in
that body and moaning next to mine.
I ain't a saint.
But I think to myself, God, to make that woman moan you'd
have to be Lucretius of Fucking Borg with appendages of metal
and the ability to rotate them at 40 miles an hour as your infra-
red eye aims true while you expound on the obvious fallacies of
relativity.
(I can do the last part. The first part is a problem.)
Either that. Either that or you'd have to be Mulder.
That fucking bastard.
So my plan went something like this. I'd send her e-mail, I'd
write her letters, I'd FedEx her flowers and theories, I'd blind
her with science, the thing I do best, the thing I know she
loves.
I figured she's a scientist and that's one thing Mulder can't
give her.
Mulder's got a mind like a girl's, you know? No offense. It's
probably the reason I like him so much. He's all intuition and
feeling. Hell, he can't even add any number greater than 10.
He's earthy and rich like a chick on her period.
I'd quote Shakespeare at her, the Song of Songs, tasteful
stuff, stuff with class, you know?
She's a chick. Okay, she's a scientist, but she's a woman all
the way.
Equations might work to a point, but they wouldn't be enough
to push her over the edge.
But the idea was, the crux of the matter, the brilliance of it
all, was that I'd be anonymous about it.
In my dreams, I'd get her all softened up, break down her
resistances one by one, until she didn't care who the hell I was
as long as she could meet me.
So that's what I tried to do. Here's the first e-mail I sent her:
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
>>I've wanted to tell you this for a long time, but I haven't had
the courage. My days are made golden by your presence.
Without you, the basement's just a basement redolent with the
mess I've made of my life. You don't have to do anything. You
don't even have to reply. Just promise me you'll be around --
always. I'll be able to read your answer in your azure eyes.
A friend.<<
Okay, so I'm no poet. In retrospect, I find it hard to believe it
had any impact on her at all. I mean, hey: this was my first
attempt, right? I got better at it as time went on, what with
reading this kind of shit for inspiration and all.
But don't forget: she's a scientist. She wouldn't recognize
good prose if it came up behind her and bit her on the ass.
God. That's not an image I wanna dwell on, you know?
In retrospect, though, I can't believe I was stupid enough to
mention the fucking basement.
The basement!
What the fuck was I thinking?
I sent her more e-mails, a few cologne-soaked letters as I got
better at it. I figured she hadn't read enough stuff to
recognize the blatant plagiarism, and anyway I was smart
enough to reword them a little, just in case.
It took me a while to remember that Mulder had given me that
cologne one Christmas.
"A chick magnet," he'd said. "It's always worked for me."
Get it? Christ. It's like my brain had gone on a goddam
holiday.
I sent her flowers. Once I sent her a dozen roses, one at a
time. Ten red roses over 10 working days, a rose a morning,
so she'd find them waiting for her on her desk every AM. And
then the last two on a weekend, at her place.
I knew where she lived. I'd found out her address that time,
when we thought Mulder was dead.
Believe me. When you do what I do, finding out someone's
address is as easy as bouncing a Twinkie off an icy pavement
in the dead of winter.
She'd made me coffee.
It was true I was as drunk as a fucking skunk at the time. But
she was so nice about it. She just sat me down at her kitchen
table, her immaculate table, pristine and white, pure, just like
her somehow, and she let me spew it all out, how I felt about
the fucking son of a bitch.
I'd gone there because I loved her, because I needed to be
with her, but that one time, I turned to her because I was
pissed and I missed the bastard and I knew she'd understand.
That one time, I went to her because I loved him too,
goddammit, in spite of myself, in spite of her. And maybe I
knew that she'd be able to deal with my pain, my incoherent
rage.
And maybe in my heart of hearts I also knew that she needed
to hear it from some other source than her own heart and body
and mind.
That she needed to validate her own love somehow.
And if I hadn't been as drunk as I was, it would've set my
teeth on edge. That night, though, it just made me feel like I
was in touch with some kind of archetype.
Because take my word for it, guys. In her own way, she was
keening for the bastard like some Irish sailor's wife who knew
her husband was dead and gone, swallowed by the sea.
And in spite of her own pain that time, she comforted me. She
didn't touch me. She stayed in her bubble, her eyes dry as a
bone.
But she didn't try to take his place. She knew I didn't have
any room left for what she was going through, even though I
knew it was eating her alive.
She left all the space to me.
What a woman.
What a fucking broad.
So all this to say I knew her address. I delivered those last
two roses by myself, skulking around her fucking shrubs like
a total asshole until I was sure she wasn't home.
Those last two roses sealed my fate. And theirs.
I was so blind. Fuck. I did the whole thing and never clued in
for a goddam second.
Well. You know what I'm about to say, don't you?
Yeah. You're smarter than I am. Well, screw you. Everyone's
smarter than I am when it comes to this kind of shit.
So what. I'd like to see you try to decode a twice-encrypted
message in Mac machine language that you've pulled off the
Pentagon internal mail system by figuring out the password
the long way.
I'd like to see you do it in 30 minutes flat.
To each his expertise, asshole.
So I'm a loser at love. But I get paid big bucks, and I ain't
about to tell you by whom, to do what I do.
Let's just say some people would suck my dick in a second for
the information I can give them.
Let's just say some people have.
Women. I just reread what I just wrote and I should stress it's
always been women.
I've always had a thing for powerful women.
But you've figured it out, right? She thought it was Mulder all
along.
In a way, I did him a hell of a disservice.
He told me so himself, much later.
"Christ, Frohike. I'd never write anything this lame, for
God's sake."
"Fuck off, Mulder. You got her, didn't ya?"
Even he'd been forced to smile at that point. "Who knew she'd
fall for this crap?"
I just shook my head.
"You're an asshole, Mulder. You always have been. You just
don't understand women."
I'd looked at him a little smugly, because don't forget: I'd done
all the dirty work.
He'd smiled again. He smiled a lot at that point. I hated to
admit it, but it was nice to see. I'd never seen him smile much.
He'd shaken his head kind of ruefully. "You know, it took me
months to figure out the looks she was giving me."
"Asshole."
"Too true, too true."
He'd looked at me then and I knew he was saying hell, I never
dreamt I could get her. I never dreamt she'd ever want me.
He also tried to tell me without words that if he'd thought he
had a shadow of a chance, he'd've gone for it in a second a
long time ago.
That I believe.
Poor old Mulder. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
Boohoohoo.
I swear -- I'll never understand why he sells himself so short.
Hell. I'm short and I don't even do it, you know?
Well, I never did get all the sordid details out of them, but I
was able to glean this much.
As I think I mentioned, she thought it was him all along. She
started acting different around him, I gather, although he had
no idea why.
It never occurred to her for a second that he wasn't the source
of all this lovey-dovey stuff.
I blame myself. I didn't think the fucking thing through and I
can't crucify either of them for that.
One day, as far as I can tell, she confronted him shyly about
the whole thing during a stakeout.
You can say one thing about Mulder. This is a man who thinks
on his feet.
He didn't know what the hell she was talking about, but being
a red-blooded male who'd been in love with her anyway since
almost the day they'd met, he responded like a trooper.
The bastard never told her that none of it had come from him.
That all of it had come from me.
I'd've looked like a total pathetic jerk if I'd brought it up with
her myself, right? A delusional pathetic jerk.
"Why stir up trouble now, Frohike," he'd grinned at me
apologetically. "Anyway, I oughtta beat you up, right? You
had designs on my woman."
I just stared at him, thinking evil thoughts about interesting
ways to kill him and seamless ways to get rid of the evidence.
"The least you can do, Mulder," I said through my teeth, "is
make me the best man."
He shrugged. "Maybe one day. Marriage is out of the question
right now. Anyway, neither of us are the marrying kind."
What he was really saying was that they wanted to work
together for a very long time, and both of them were willing to
do whatever it took to make sure it happened that way.
Even if it meant sneaking around for the rest of their
professional lives.
It killed me, but you gotta admire that kind of dedication to
the truth, right?
I told you: I'm an old-fashioned guy.
So I nodded. And then he dropped a huge fucking box on my
desk.
"This is the least I can do." He smiled again, and by this point
I wanted to reach up and wipe the grin off his face. In a big
way. With my fist.
But I've learned to stay out of fist fights. They wreak havoc
with my complexion.
I already knew what I'd find in that box. The door closed
behind him and I sighed, sitting back in my flawlessly
ergonomic hacker's chair.
His video collection.
All 278 tapes, as I later discovered.
I'm still going through them systematically a year later.
Hot stuff.
Hell: I've still got my career, right?
And for a guy like me, they're not such a bad alternative.
Especially since at least half of them feature tiny little
redheads.
Hey. Welcome to the '90s.
END