Title: Wish List Author: Agent L Classification: V, post-ep Rating: G -- nothing objectionable Spoilers: DeadAlive This is a Doggett-free zone. Distribution: Anywhere, as long as my name is attached. Disclaimer: To Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, Fox, and now Robert Patrick: I know they're not mine, and no money, gifts or even chocolate would be expected or accepted for this. Summary: Mulder thinks about what he wants. Feedback: Yes, please! LHoward388@aol.com "You can't always get what you want." The Rolling Stones I want to go running. I want to wake up and dress in the dark, stumble outside in the chilly pre-dawn air. Do a few stretches, feel the slow burn as my muscles wake up and obey my mind's commands. The shock of the pavement against my shoes, the concentrated effort of mind and body working together until the rhythm is comfortable, familiar. Autopilot at a quarter of a mile. Sometimes I focus on the run, on how my body feels, trying to regulate my breathing or push myself a little harder, a little faster. Sometimes I operate on muscle memory and my mind leaves my body behind to do its own workout. Free association. Stream of consciousness. Last night's game. The latest case. Life. Love. Death. The usual. At this point, I'd settle for walking. Or even sitting up without assistance. I want some seeds. A hot dog. Pizza. Ice cream. Something salty or tangy or sweet or sour, not this wallpaper-paste-looking, sweat-sock-tasting gruel they insist on giving me. A cold beer instead of ice chips or tepid water. The slow burn of a jalapeno. At least I can feed myself now -- although to be honest, I miss Scully feeding me. It should have been aggravating and embarrassing, but it was kind of erotic. Especially when she touched her mouth to the spoon first and made those fake yummy noises to try to get me to eat. I want some freedom. I'm sick of this damned catheter, the humiliation of the bedpan, the tubes and wires and needles sticking in my skin. I want some privacy, away from doctors and specialists and medical students all poking and prodding and taking notes, asking me questions I can't answer. I want to burn this stupid hospital gown and wear my own clothes again. I want to feel the sun and a fresh breeze on my skin instead of staring at the trees budding through a window and breathing recycled institutional air. But it's better than intubation. I *am* thankful for small mercies. I want some answers. But I'm not sure what questions to ask. I would like to know when Scully is going to talk to me about her pregnancy. It's like the old joke about an elephant in the room -- and that's not a reference to her weight gain. Do they think I haven't noticed? That I'm not strong enough to handle the news? I'd also like to know when John Doggett is going to introduce himself and if he's completely destroyed my work over the past year. I wonder when Skinner will quit peering in through the door and come in and talk to me. I want to know if anybody bothered to tell Frohike, Byers and Langly the news of my resurrection...And if somebody fed my fish while I was gone. I want my life back. Sounds selfish for a guy just raised from the dead, I know, but I've never been one to be satisfied with the status quo. The door opens and Scully walks in. I still can't get over the change in her -- not just her body, but her eyes are softer now, she's more quick to smile. And to cry. She touches me a lot -- a hand on my shoulder, or playing with my fingers, brushing the hair off my forehead. I worry about her, about how sleeping in a chair and eating hospital cafeteria food might affect the pregnancy, but she waves off my questions. She's fine. As she sits down in the chair and pulls today's paper out of her bag to do the crossword puzzle with me, all those things I thought I wanted fade away. I think I could be content even if I could never get out of this bed again, as long as she was here beside me. I may not have everything I want, but I have everything I need. The End