For Tara and Patty.

Thanks again to Michelle for the beta.

Feedback: it's what's for dinner! <[email protected]>
 

"I've got electric light
And I've got second sight
I've got amazing powers of observation
And that is how I know
When I try to get through
On the telephone to you
There'll be nobody home

I've got wild staring eyes
And I've got a strong urge to fly
But I've got nowhere to fly to
Ooh, babe, when I pick up the phone
There's still nobody home..."

     --Pink Floyd, "Nobody Home"
 

THERE'S STILL NOBODY HOME
By: Jennifer Maurer

It has been eleven weeks, two days, fourteen hours and nine minutes since Scully was abducted.

It feels like much longer than that.

Mulder's first feeling, after the numbness wore off, was one of denial. This came as a surprise to him. He was usually all about the truth. But this time, he just wanted to pretend none of it had ever happened.

Even though he and Scully had already been separated professionally for some time by then, he still looks for her everywhere. In the hallways at headquarters. In every redhead that passes him on the street. Once he snuck upstairs to her office and put a post-it note on the picture of her sister on her desk, then waited for hours in the parking garage.

You never know, that might be the magic charm to bring her back.

Mulder has developed a lot of these little superstitions lately. He calls her cell phone once a day and leaves her a quick message, just to say he's thinking of her. It's ridiculous -- obviously she's not getting any messaages, not least because he has her phone. But he can't help himself. He never listens to the messages himself; when the voicemail box is full, he deletes them and starts over.

Mulder's own phone is never far from his side. The ringer is as loud as it will go, and he even takes it to the bathroom with him. At any minute the call could come that Scully has been found. He has calmed down a little; he no longer jumps a mile every time it rings. He talks to Scully's mother every day. She's kind to him and he gets the feeling she would like to talk for awhile, but he keeps the calls short. It kills him to tell her there's no news.

Oddly enough, Mulder hardly ever checks his email. If it's something about Scully, someone will call. Other than that, it's mostly just a lot of crap in his inbox. Frohike sends him every scrap of information he can find that seems even remotely relevant, but nothing has come of any of it.

Mulder still has the last email Scully sent him. She'd dropped him a line just to say hello, and when he saw her he'd yelled at her for being so careless. Had she forgotten they were always being watched? What was she thinking, contacting him in a way so easily traceable? He stomped away when she looked like she might cry, and they didn't speak at all for a week afterwards. Now he could kick himself for wasting that time being angry at her. In his mind he's composed a thousand replies to that email, each more apologetic than the last.

Mulder goes over to Scully's apartment every day to bring in her mail and water her plants. Her mother offered to do it, but he insisted, perhaps too strenuously; he's afraid he might have scared Scully's mom a little bit. It's important to him to keep everything in her place just as she left it; he's not sure Mrs. Scully could do it exactly right, although he knows that makes him seem obsessive-compulsive.

When he arrives at Scully's, Mulder always knocks and waits a polite interval before he lets himself in with his key. He tells himself it's because Mrs. Scully might be there, and he doesn't want to startle her by just barging in. The truth is, though, somewhere deep inside he's hoping that one day, Scully will come to the door herself. She'll quirk that eyebrow and ask him what he's doing there. Maybe she'll invite him in and they'll order a pizza.

Sometimes he stands in front of her door for a long time, smiling at these daydreams. Scully's neighbors think he's a little odd.

He accidentally over-watered one of the plants. When it started turning an unhealthy shade of yellow, Mulder threw it against the wall, shattering the pot. He couldn't stop screaming. That was the first time he felt afraid for himself. When he came back the next day, the mess was gone and he assumes Mrs. Scully cleaned it up. He wonders why he's never run into her here, wonders if she's avoiding him.

The mail gets lined up neatly on Scully's desk: junk mail in one pile, bills in another, magazines and catalogs in a third. The junk mail pile is the biggest; he knows if Scully were here, she'd say to chuck it all in the trash. But she's not here, and it's not his mail to throw away.

Mulder usually stays at Scully's place longer than he needs to. After his small chores are done, he wanders around her apartment. From the few times he's been here with her, he knows she has her favorite spots, and those are the places where he looks for her first. The comfy chair in the living room, the window overlooking the park where she would stand and drink her coffee, the far corner of the couch; they're always empty, and it still surprises him a little.

Sometimes he ventures into her bedroom and looks in her closet. He feels kind of creepy about it, but he wants to see some of her clothes. He flips through the neatly hanging suits, arranged by color, of course. Mulder remembers when she wore most of them. Some might be new since they were separated. Hidden in the very back is the most hideous bridesmaid's dress he has ever seen. Trying to imagine Scully wearing it brings a rare grin to his face. The next time he sees her, he is so going to tease her about it.

His smile fades when he remembers he doesn't know when that will be. He has no doubt, though, that there will be a next time.

One of worst days was his birthday. He's only had one birthday with Scully -- last year she got him a goofy card and a book about UFOs he suspected she'd picked at random. He still enjoyed it, though. She's had two birthdays since she met him, and he forgot them both.

This year the Lone Gunmen invited him over for cheese steaks and some funky poaching. When Frohike handed him a can of iced tea, Mulder started sobbing. Frohike shooed the other two out of the room and sat with his hand on Mulder's shoulder until he cried himself out. When Mulder looked up, he was surprised to see tears in the man's eyes. Frohike was always obvious about his lust for Scully, but Mulder hadn't realized he also genuinely cares. They exchanged watery smiles and then Byers came back in bearing a cupcake with a candle on it. It wasn't the same as Scully's off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday," but it helped.

Mulder thought he really might be losing his mind when he went to Mass one Sunday. He's hated organized religion all of his adult life, and yet he found himself drawn to the little church in Scully's neighborhood. He didn't know for sure if this is the church she attends, but it's close enough. He'd never been to a Catholic service before.

He sat all the way in the back and hoped no one would think he was a new parishioner and want to welcome him to the flock or anything. The words of the priest, softly echoing off the high ceiling, were oddly comforting to him. He rather liked the smell of the incense. Afterwards he put a $20 bill in the collection box and lit a candle for Scully. All the other worshippers knelt at the altar to pray after they lit their candles, but Mulder just stood there, asking God and whoever else might be listening to please, please bring Scully back.

Everything is too quiet now. Scully has never been a chatterbox, like he can be, but he has grown accustomed to the sound of her voice weaving through his days. Even after they were separated, they'd talk as often as he thought was safe. She was always there with a "Mulder, you're nuts," or "Mulder, that's impossible," or his favorite, "Mulder, it's me." Now all the spaces in his life that she occupied are empty. There is so much damn silence. Even when other people are talking to him, he's always listening for the sound of her voice. At night the silence makes his ears ring.

This afternoon Scully's mom called him about a memorial stone. Mulder was completely horrified at the suggestion. He barely managed to stop himself from shouting something rude at Mrs. Scully. Instead he stammered his way through a conversation that didn't make much sense to him; she said some things about closure and wanting Dana to be at peace, while he let the guilt eat him alive. This, too, was all his fault; if he'd been able to present Mrs. Scully with one scrap of evidence that her daughter was still alive, they wouldn't be having this conversation.

In the end he agreed to accompany her to the stonecutter tomorrow, to pick something out. He wondered why Mrs. Scully didn't ask one of her other children to go with her. He wondered if she asked him as a secret punishment for losing her daughter. Mulder can't think of any other reason why. God knows he's not exactly a joy to be around these days.

Mulder wishes he still smoked. Maybe that would help him cope. He thinks about all the implications of the memorial stone. It's not just about marking a grave -- an empty one, at that. It means her own mother thinks Scully's never coming home. Mrs. Scully will want to pack up all her daughter's things. What will happen to all of Scully's books and furniture and shoes? How will she ever be able to come back if she doesn't have any shoes?

Mulder considers the idea of packing her a bag. They used to keep overnight bags in each other's cars, just in case.

Everyone else may have given up hope, but he's not going to.

It has been eleven weeks, two days, fourteen hours and nine minutes since Scully was abducted.

It feels like much longer than that.

~* End *~