TITLE:  LOOK BACK, LOOK AHEAD


AUTHOR: Blackwood


E-MAIL: entreamis@yahoo.com


CATEGORY: MSR, Vignette, Post-ep "Millennium"


KEYWORDS: MSR, Blackwood


SPOILERS: One Breath, Redux II, FTF, Amor Fati, Millennium


RATING: PG


DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, you're my hero.  You own 'em, I don't.  No


infringement intended.


AUTHOR'S NOTES: Mulder reflects on the nature of things with a


friend.





LOOK BACK, LOOK AHEAD (1/1)


by Blackwood 





It's late.  Or early, depending on your viewpoint.  2 a.m.  Scully


dropped me off about 30 minutes ago and I'm awake, watching CNN,


trying not to move.  After my encounter with the 'undead', real-life


terrorism and law enforcement look appealing.  Strains of reggae


vibrate through the wall as my neighbors continue to ring in a new


year and a new century.  I'm tempted to knock on their door and


invite myself in, but I promised Scully I'd get some rest.  Jesus,


I'm exhausted.





By the time we got to the hospital, I was half in shock.  Scully was


her typical take-charge self, for which I'm grateful.  Seems like


every weirdo in the city was on the loose for the big night and


without her there to grease the wheels, I'd probably still be sitting


on a blue plastic chair, my ass getting numb, waiting to be called to


the FastTrack Trauma Area.  Dr. Scully managed to get me seen ahead


of at least ten other people and discharged under her supervision. 


The ache in my arm is just tolerable under the effect of the sedative


the ER doc gave me, but I don't expect much sleep.





I'm laying here, thinking about Black, still bothered by something he


said to us.  I mean, it annoyed me that he wouldn't help us, at


first.  It annoyed me how sorry he felt for himself.  It annoyed me


that he wouldn't fight for the one thing that meant something to him:


his kid.  What was up with that?  What really got to me, though, was


his diatribe about how he'd lost everything because he was too


wrapped up in conspiracies to pay attention to what was really


important.  What I wanted to do at that particular moment was reach


over and smack that poor-me look right off his face.





I didn't and he did help us, eventually; but my hostility has me


thinking.  Like most psychologists, I believe that people are bugged


by the things in others they most dislike in themselves.  It's a way


of distancing yourself from an unpleasant truth.  I know Black was


referring to himself in his speech, but it felt like he was talking


about me.  He was a man with a mission who nearly lost it all because


of his fixation.  I can relate.  In a way, I don't blame him for


withdrawing from the field.  I nearly did the same.  A few weeks ago,


lying on a cold platform, arms outstretched in some perverse


caricature of a crucifix, I was prepared to roll over like a dog. 


Hell, I *was* Black at that moment--oblivious to the reality at hand


and unwilling to take action to change anything.  And like him, I


just wanted to be left alone.





The difference is Scully.  I don't know what would have happened if


she hadn't been there to pull my head out of the sand.  I don't want


to know.  I'm just thankful she's still with me.  Black wasn't as


lucky and he blames himself for his wife's murder at the hands of the


Millennium Group. I can understand that, too.  Consortium, Millennium


Group, Heaven's Gate--call it what you will; all cults are cut from


the same cloth of petty tyranny, their leaders stopping at nothing to


maintain power.  I've learned that through hard experience.





During the early days of my partnership with Scully, I ignored the


Corsortium's subtle warnings.  The first time she was taken from me,


I was nave enough to think that if I shouted loudly enough, they'd


buckle.  They returned her to me, outwardly whole but inwardly


damaged.  Later, with Scully lying frail in a hospital bed, her body


riddled with cancer, I began to understand their methods.  Hurt me, I


bridle; hurt Scully, I fold.  I was ready to deal with the devil to


find her cure.  They granted me favor with the chip that holds her


illness at bay, an example of their "clemency" and I realized her


disease was a second, more serious warning.  It doesn't matter.  Her


cancer has been in remission for over two years.  Then, last summer,


I nearly lost her for good under the Antarctic ice, encased in a tomb


for what vile purpose I don't want to consider.  We barely escaped


with our lives.





That was when I fully acknowledged the reality of the Consortium's


influence.  I wouldn't surrender my search for Samantha, or my


efforts to uncover the truth about the aliens among us, but I


resolved never to allow my personal feelings to jeopardize Scully's


safety ever, ever again.  The prospect of a future without her was


too bleak to dwell on.  I begged her to leave the partnership.  She


refused.





My emotions were new and raw as a wound, so I did what any


red-blooded, American male unable to express their true feelings


would do.  I buried them deep in my psyche.  When Diana reappeared on


the scene, I was grateful for the distraction.  Scully was suspicious


and I counted on it, letting her play devil's advocate.  I held my


own suspicions about Diana, but we did have history together.  There


were no awkward pauses.  It was comfortable and it was tempting.  It


was also a cop-out.





I'm deep in thought when my cellphone rings.  I sit up and grab the


phone off the coffee table, hoping it's Scully.





"Mulder!  Hey, buddy.  Happy Millennium!"  It's Frohike, sounding a


little too happy for his own good.





"Yeah, you too," I grouse.





"Hope I didn't wake you.  Where are you?  And more importantly, where


is the bonbon of the holiday, Agent Scully?"





"Scully is probably at home, by now, and so am I."





"By now?  You guys out partying?"





"Yeah, a real wingding.  I've got twenty-seven stitches in my right


arm."





"Ouch!  What happened?  Scully have her way with you?"





"You could say that."





"Huh?  Seriously, Mulder, what happened to you?"





"Long story."





"I'm not going anywhere.  Byers and Langley are deciding between


watching 'Hackers' with the delectable Angelina Jolie and the


director's cut of "Alien," with the equally lovely Sigourney Weaver


in her debut film.  Care to join us?"





"Thanks, but it's been a long day and I promised Scully I'd get some


rest."





"Anything we can do to help?  I'm a good listener."  For all their


weirdness, the Gunmen and Frohike, especially, have been good to me. 


It's pleasant to have some male camaraderie, so I fill him in on all


the gory details, leaving out what happened in the waiting room.





"It's too bad you lost your mind-reading abilities," Frohike


comments.  "You could've seen right into Frank Black's head from the


outset.  Maybe even those zombies."





"Telepathy isn't what it's cracked up to be.  Most people's minds are


crammed with useless information."





"Except for me, of course."





"You?  You're a wellspring of genius."





"I try."  We both chuckle at that.  "But, really Mulder, it must have


been pretty fly to read old Smokey's thoughts, huh?  And what about


Scully?  Any hidden fantasies involving a short, but sexy computer


hacker?"





"Even if I could remember, Frohike, I wouldn't divulge my partner's


innermost thoughts."





"No, I suppose not.  But it would be fascinating to read her mind. 


Or yours.  I'd wager you've got an interesting cache of experience to


share."





"Nothing you want to know about, trust me.  Besides, given a choice


of extraordinary powers, I'd rather be Janus."





"Janus?  Who's that?  Some David Copperfield wannabe?"





"Hey--I'm already injured.  Don't make me feel worse.  I'm talking


Janus, the god.  You know, the one who could see the past and the


future at the same time?  Now there's a talent that might actually be


useful."





"You mean, you could hack into a high level, fire-walled program by


looking back to the day they set the security codes and know, in


advance, if you're hack was a coup?  Cool."





"You're a sick man, Melvin."





"Guilty as charged."





"I can think of other uses."





"Such as?"





"Such as knowing exactly what happened to my sister and whether or


not I'll ever find her." 





"I see your point.  Sorry for being so glib back there."





"Forget it.  That's just one of the things I'd want to know."  What I


don't tell Frohike is that I'd also love to know where the detour


Scully and I have just taken will lead.  What I say is "Guess I'm


wondering if Scully and I will have better luck in the future than


we've had in the past in bringing the truth to light."





"It does seem," he says, suddenly serious, "that you two have had


more than your fair share of trouble in this century.  Maybe the gods


will be better to you in the next."





"I could live with that.  Who knows?  New Year's Eve ended pretty


well."  There's a cryptic tone in my voice that he picks up on


immediately.





"Really?  I'm intrigued.  What exactly did happen after you got


stitched up at the hospital?"





"Nothing to get yourself into a sweat over.  Black's little girl


arrived before we left.  It was pretty amazing to watch this ghost of


a man return to life just by seeing her.  Scully was obviously moved.


 I know she was thinking about Emily and probably everything else


she's lost."





"Sounds tough."





"Funny thing, it wasn't.  It was nice the way they left together. 


Like things had finally turned out the way they were supposed to."





"And you and Scully?"





I hesitate for a few moments and he gives me time to choose my words.


 Fox Mulder is making New Millennium resolutions and "being more


open" is one of them.  "Well," I begin, "we're watching that stupid


ball drop on television and I'm thinking how unique this moment in


time is and all that crap.  I look over at Scully and, suddenly,


there's only one thing to be done.  I lean over and she meets me half


way."





"You kissed her?"  The incredulity in his voice is only slightly


overshadowed by his subtle irritation.





"It was midnight at New Year's.  All the kids were doing it.  You


wouldn't think twice about it if you saw us."





"Whatever you say, Mulder, and may I add it's about time; although


I'd kill you if you weren't my friend, big guy."  About time?  Before


I have a chance to reply, he continues.  "So, if I may ask, how was


it?"  He's really not a voyeur, but Frohike has made a small career


out of scrutinizing my partner at every available opportunity and I'm


certain he's categorized his Scully fantasies alphabetically.  He's 


slightly more compulsive than I am--my fantasies are in no particular


order.





"'Fraid my mother raised herself a gentleman," I console him.





He sighs.  "I was afraid of that."





"I will say this: Now that we've crossed the proverbial line, I don't


think I'm gonna to be content leaving things at 'platonic.'"


 


I do believe I can hear the wheels spinning in Frohike's fevered


imagination.  He's smart enough not to ask for details.  Instead, he


says, "Who could blame you?"





Who, indeed?  I have no answer for him, so I say good night.





"'Night, Mulder.  If you change your mind, you know where we are."





The line disconnects and I lay the phone on the table, leaning back


into the sofa, the memory of Scully's kiss in my mind.  It was a


natural.  A rocket scientist couldn't have planned the trajectory or


timing better.  I didn't even know I was going to act on the impulse


(I've had them before) until she turned towards me.  That was new.  I


wasn't even trying and I couldn't have stopped myself any more than


the new year could have stopped itself from happening.  It was


inevitable.





We've maintained the status quo, Scully and I, fearful that a


personal relationship would ruin the professional one.  But,


conspiracy or no, millennium madness or no, nobody lives forever. 


Black, at least, had some happiness with a woman he loved and then


there's his daughter.  Have I been too absorbed by my own obsessions


to see my happiness standing beside me, waiting?





I love Scully.  Our kiss tonight was only a crudite and I'm a


starving man finally allowed at the banquet table.  Is using food to


describe my incredible partner inappropriate?  I don't think she'd


mind, as long I remember my manners.  I *am* a twisted soul and


Scully knows it.  She knows it and she looks at me like I'm a hero,


anyway.  Go figure.





The meds make me thirsty, so I stand to get a glass of water from the


kitchen.  My computer monitor is signaling I've got mail.  Probably


junk, but I check it anyway.  Turns out to be a message from Scully,


the text of which reads:





>"Mulder--





>This is your doctor speaking.  Your cell was busy and it's 3 am.  Go


>to sleep.  I don't need you getting into any more trouble.  BTW, I


>taped the ball drop on my VCR.  Any time you'd like to see a replay,


>just let me know.  I plan on keeping it as a memento of the way


>things change.  G'night, Mulder.  You're in my prayers.





>Scully





>p.s.  ...and my dreams."





I don't need superhuman powers to know that the future looks


promising.





END