Memorable Hallway Moments
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

Classification: V, MSR, Mulder first-person
Rating: PG-13 
Spoilers: Fire, The Walk, Syzygy, Herrenvolk,
Small Potatoes, Memento Mori, ReduxII, FTF,
Triangle, The Unnatural (whew! - think I got them
all)
Summary: Mulder muses on hallway memories.

Distribution: Yes, go for it, just let me know
where, okay?

Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully and Fox
Mulder are the property of Chris Carter and 1013
Productions.   There, got that out of the way.

Author's Note: This came to me while lurking on
Haven's Shipper Message Board.  The consensus was
that hallways seem to be very bad luck for our
duo.  I figured it was all a matter of
perspective.



August 19, 1999


Call me weird, but I am *not* especially fond of
hallways.  And if you ask Scully, she would
probably agree.

I'll bet I'm the only person in this entire world
that has ever seriously contemplated such a
tedious subject.  There is nothing particularly
noteworthy about any hallway.  Generally, they
all look alike.  Plaster walls, usually drab in
color.  The floor may be wood, tile, or, in the
places we frequent, cold concrete.  Considered by
most people to be simply the connection between
point "A" and point "B", they are never given
much thought.

However, I've thought a lot about hallways; I've
done a lot of thinking *in* hallways.  I've had
my share of life-altering hallway moments.  Not
all bad;  most of them unforgettable, to say the
least.  I call them my "memorable hallway
moments."

I had one of my first sexual experiences in a
hallway.  Her name was Sharon Maygarden - a tall,
cool, blonde I met in England just before I
became involved with Phoebe.  We shared a love of
classical literature, as well as an incredibly
clumsy joining in the west wing passageway of her
father's country estate, surrounded by the gilt-
framed portraits of her glowering ancestors.  She
dumped me not long after that, eager to find more
seasoned entertainment.

Later that year, a very naked Phoebe slammed the
door in my face for the last time, leaving me
gaping in shock and disbelief in the foyer of my
best friend's apartment building.  The English
flair for drama makes the most mundane of
hallways a stage.

My apartment hallway has seen its share of drama,
some of which I never even witnessed.

A man whose name I never knew died in my hallway. 
Can't say that I liked him much, but nobody
deserves to die in such an undignified place.  I
think of him sometimes when I walk the sixteen
steps from the elevator to my apartment door.  I
think about what strength he must have had, to be
able to drag himself with blood-soaked hands down
that slick pine-planked floor.  Just to leave me
a message - "SRSG".  Now and then I imagine I can
still see the faint finger painting on the floor. 
There are many ghosts in my hall;  if I let
myself dwell on it, it would scare the hell out
of me.

That is not, however, my scariest hallway memory. 
To this day, I find myself gasping for air when I
think of the waves of white-hot flames covering
the walls of the upstairs hallway in that Cape
Cod vacation home.  Come to think of it, Phoebe
was there for that too.  Maybe I'm doomed to bad
luck when it comes to Phoebe and hallways;
another good reason to leave that bitch alone. 
The only good thing about that whole experience
was that Scully was there.  

Of course, Scully hallway moments are among my
favorites.

Once, in the hallway of a VA medical facility,
she sharply asserted her authority over an
uncooperative army captain.  She was totally
pissed; Scully very seldom loses her cool.  That
was fun; her voice resounded up and down the
corridor while I watched in utter fascination.  
She had no idea how much I wanted to - well,
let's just say my thoughts at the time were very
unprofessional.  Good thing there wasn't a broom
closet nearby, or I would have dragged her into
it with lustful intentions.

Actually, Scully is a prominent figure in the
corridors of my life.  It's amazing how much time
we've spent communicating, arguing and
reconciling in these enclosed spaces.

In Comity, she knocked me down a few pegs while I
was busy sniffing her neck.  Even though it's an
uncomfortable memory, it always makes me smile
when I think of it.  To this day, we don't speak
of it - way too embarrassing.

One thing we do speak of is the tackle I put on
Eddie Van Blundht in a West Virginia fertility
clinic.  We share a laugh over this, my impromptu
flying squirrel imitation.  In our reminiscing,
the rest of that adventure is conveniently
forgotten, thank goodness.

Yet another place Scully and I seem to frequent
with regularity are hospitals.  Hospital hallways
are bright, white places.  Too bad there are so
many unfortunate things that happen in them.

Scully wept in my arms in the sterile passageway
of an Allentown hospital.  She made the decision
to fight in that eerie predawn silence, and it
was there that I began to surrender to my true
feelings for her.

Those feelings were solidified in a chair outside
of her room at Trinity Hospital, later that year. 
In the midst of my despair, something clicked
into place for me.  A revelation of sorts.  I
knew that I loved her that day we found out about
her remission.  See, I do my best thinking in
hallways.

Yeah, I may do my best thinking in them, but
certainly not the best verbalizing of those
thoughts.  Once again, I stumbled before Scully
in my apartment hallway, trying to tell her how
much she meant to me.  I was getting somewhere,
too, until a fucking bee put an end to the
discussion.  Not my finest hour, let me tell you.

My finest hour was the night she accepted my
marriage proposal.  In the deserted concession
stand breezeway of the baseball park where I
presented her with a belated birthday present, I
got down on one knee and finally told her just
how much I loved her.  Okay, so technically it
wasn't a hallway, but all it was missing was the
walls.

You know, my timing really sucks sometimes. 
Several months before I had tried to tell her I
loved her, but she chalked it up to the drugs and
it took me forever to muster the courage to try
again. But she didn't seem to mind.  With
shimmering eyes, she accepted me, bad timing and
missing walls and all.

We've not made our engagement public knowledge. 
Aside from occasional handholds and sweet kisses
in empty hallways, we've been very discreet.

There haven't been any hallway trysts in our
relationship, not that we haven't explored the
excitement of making love in unusual places.  One
of those belongs on my "memorable elevator
moments" list.

Why am I wasting time with this train of thought? 
Because it's keeping me sane, in yet another
hospital hallway, awaiting Scully's return with
the test results that may change our lives yet
again.

She hasn't been feeling well, and after several
weeks of waiting for an appointment, she finally
got in to see her oncologist today.  I don't
think I could stand another deathbed vigil;  if
she leaves me this time, I would have no choice
but to follow her into that dark tunnel.

I'm sitting in this awful chair, separated from
her, because I couldn't take the waiting in the
office.  They wanted to run the usual blood work,
along with other routine tests.  Scully told me
she wanted to wait for the results, so we are. 
But if I had to thumb through another "Living
With Cancer" brochure, I would have gone mad.

Scully's been out several times to check on me. 
She stays for a little while, holding my hand and
trying to draw me into meaningless conversation. 
After brushing my cheek with a reassuring kiss,
she always goes back inside.  I like to handle
stress my own way; she knows this and is resigned
to it.

Two hours pass before she comes out for good, her
purse hanging from her shoulder and paperwork in
hand.

"Come on, Mulder, let's go," she says, already
heading for the elevator, the clicking of her
heels echoing back to me.

It doesn't take me long to join her in the fourth
floor lobby.  She's pressed the down arrow before
I even join her.

"Scully, what's going on?" I ask, placing a
trembling hand on her arm.  Please, don't let it
be.....

The elevator dings its arrival and we step out of
the way to let the passengers off.  "I'm being
referred to another doctor, Mulder," she says
calmly.

"Another doctor?" I ask, grasping her hand as we
step into the car.

She finally glances up at me; despite my obvious
worry, she has a glint of mirth in her eyes.

"Yes, Mulder.  Her name is Janet Broussard."  She
pauses a moment, then states matter-of-factly,
"She's an obstetrician."

An obstetrician?

She shows me the paperwork, one well-manicured
nail pointing out an unusually high amount of
human chorionic gonadotrophin hormone in her
blood.

I'm dumbstruck.  Scully answers my unspoken
question with a nod and a brilliant smile.

On my list of memorable elevator moments, this
just soared to number one.


END


Author's Notes:  Okay, so according to CC and
company, Scully is unable to get pregnant.  But
how will she know if she's never tried - miracles
do happen, especially when you least expect them!


Feedback cherished at mish_rose@yahoo.com