TITLE:  Coolin' My Heels  
AUTHOR:  Zoonr
CATEGORY:  Vignette, MSR (though Scully's not 
really in this one)
KEYWORDS: Mulder POV,  Mulder/Gibson in Hiding
SPOILERS:  The Truth, Trust No 1
SUMMARY:  Mulder reflects on his time in the 
desert with Gibson, and what he thinks of as 
his family.  
FEEDBACK:  I'd love it, and if you're so 
inclined, send it to:
zoonr@hotmail.com

Author's notes at the end.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


"You know it's not safe."

"Jesus, Gibson!"  Startled, I flinched.   The 
chair that I was sitting on, poised in front of 
the computer, creaked with the sudden movement, 
and I stuck my foot out to steady myself.  I'd 
gotten used to it - the boy responding to 
voices that only spoke inside my head.  Well, 
I'd mostly gotten used to it.  But it was 
difficult to ever really be prepared, 
especially when you're trying to act covertly.  
"I was just checking my email.  I wanted to see 
if there was anything from Scully."

I lied.  I knew it was pointless, but I 
couldn't help it.

"You weren't checking your mail, you were going 
to write something, but that's not what I'm 
talking about."  He spoke in that 
contemplative, distant tone that only a man 
twice his age, who has seen far too much - 
perhaps in battle or on the street - should 
have.  It was the tone of a wise, yet brooding 
man, not that of a teenaged boy.  

Sometimes I felt like he was protecting me, 
instead of the other way around.  Hell.  Who 
was I kidding?  Of course he was protecting me.  
From myself, just as much as from the nefarious 
forces trying to seduce me out into the open.  
Wow, I'm starting to talk like a cheap, dime-
store detective novel.  Staying alive couldn't 
be worth that.  Of course, now I was stalling.

"I don't know what you're talking about."  I 
barely heard my own voice.  My eyes dropped to 
my lap, and I felt like a child being scolded 
by their mother for not taking out the garbage.

"You're thinking about going back.  To her.  To 
them."  There was no therapist's empathy in 
that voice.  He was matter of fact.  It would 
have been unsettling even if I didn't know he 
could read my mind.  But what made it worse, 
was that he was right.

"I need to go back.  I feel like Superman stuck 
in a lead prison."

"You're not Superman."  Finally, his lips 
turned up into a wry smile.   "I'd pay to see 
you in the tights, though."  His cracking 
voice, and smiling eyes made him seem like his 
own age in that moment.  It was rare, but I 
knew that just as he wore that melancholy 
exterior like a second skin, the ironic, dry 
wit was a part of him too.  He reminded me of 
myself if you take away the telepathic genius 
and deep scar that stretched across his skull.

"If I could see my family for just a moment, 
I'd stand on Pennsylvania Avenue in those 
tights proclaiming I'm the 'king of the world' 
while riding a unicycle.  I feel useless."  It 
was strange how easy it was to open myself up 
to this child.  It seemed ridiculous to speak 
to him like the boy he was, when he knew every 
thought I had, whether it was appropriate for 
someone under seventeen years old or not.  So I 
didn't.  We talked together like friends.  Like 
old college buddies, maybe.

In hindsight, I probably opened up to him, more 
than he did to me.  It was easy for him to lead 
me in the direction I wanted to go, and I found 
myself following him along.  I would never 
admit it verbally, but without Scully to listen 
to my endless ramblings, I felt hopelessly 
lost.  She didn't take my shit, but she never 
dismissed me.  She would roll her eyes at my 
crazy theory one moment and then be grabbing 
her coat to chase after me to Timbuktu the 
next.  She validated me- she validates me - and 
in a slightly different way, so did Gibson.

But I felt even more protective of him than I 
felt validated.  Aside from the fact that he 
was everything that I'd chased after for the 
better part of the last ten years, he was 
allowing me to be his surrogate father.  He'd 
been without his parents for a long time now, 
and although my son was less than one year old, 
Gibson let me coddle him the way I should be 
coddling William.  We were a symbiotic pair, in 
a very odd way.  Though, in times like this, I 
think Gibson was the lecturing father, and I 
was the petulant son.

"You know that seeing them will only put all of 
you in danger."  

"How can I possibly know that?"  I jumped up, 
huffing in an uncontrollable burst of anger.  I 
didn't know a damned thing.  I was just sitting 
out in the desert cooling my heals, waiting for 
some clandestine note or sign that my son and 
Scully were okay.  That it was safe to go back 
to them.  At least that's how it felt.

"You know it.  You think you're useless, but 
you're not.  If they kill you, how much use 
will you be to them then?  To Agent Scully and 
William?"  He turned to leave.

"Gibson?"  He stopped underneath the door jam 
and swiveled back to look at me.  "Are you 
sure?  Are you sure you can't hear them?  If I 
could just know they were okay, then maybe..."

"I can't.  I'm sorry.  They're too far away."  
He gave me a weak smile, and I returned it.  
"Don't write any more letters, though.  You're 
not so good with the mushy stuff."  He winked 
at me as he backed out the door, and shut it 
behind him.

Once I sent a letter to Scully.  Well, a modern 
letter of the electronic kind.  It was just 
before we had to cut off all contact, after the 
incident on the train with the SuperSoldier.  
I'd addressed it 'Dearest Dana.'  It was my 
attempt at romance, harkening back to the World 
War II epic love stories my mother would make 
me watch with her when I was a boy.  The 
soldier, goes off bravely oversees to fight the 
Nazi's, writes to his new wife in beautiful 
script and sweet prose, and comes home a hero 
to his bride and new baby.  

Based on that sentence, I suppose it's not 
difficult to figure how the letter went.  

Although, I hardly ever had called Scully by 
her first name, I thought that "Hey Scully" 
just didn't sound all that romantic.  And I was 
right.  But at least it would have been me.  It 
would have been us.  After I sent that letter 
off, I heard Gibson snickering in the next 
room.  He hasn't let me forget it either.  So 
kill me for being a sap.  

Maybe I'm not so good with the mushy stuff.   
Though she did reply, telling me she missed me, 
but neither of us really seemed ourselves when 
we were apart.  It was a little like trying to 
live as newlyweds and taking your honeymoon on 
separate cruises.

But that doesn't mean I didn't miss her more 
than I sometimes thought my heart would be able 
to bear.  I missed William too, but it was a 
different kind of longing.  Something strangely 
instinctual.  I knew I loved him, but I barely 
knew him.  It wasn't really 'missing.'  Maybe 
it was just 'missing out.'  With Scully, it 
felt like a piece of my chest had been ripped 
out.  A sucking wound that took away my ability 
to draw breath.  

I know that sounds wrong.  It sounds like I 
missed Scully more than I missed William, and 
that's not it.  It's just different.  Like the 
difference between losing an arm compared to a 
leg.  Both are tragic and traumatic, and you 
feel this phantom itch where the limb should 
be.  But when you lose a leg, it limits your 
ability to walk, compared with losing an arm, 
where your disability is the loss of touch.   
Both tear off pieces of the whole, but from 
different sides of the pie.

I have no idea why I agreed to it.  This 
ultimatum-induced separation from my family was 
absurd.

"Because you didn't want to hurt her."  Gibson 
interrupted me from my thoughts, again.  
Somehow I'd managed to pace into the small 
living room of the trailer without even 
noticing I was walking.  I had been floating 
through existence my entire time while I was 
supposed to be BOLDLY SEARCHING FOR THE TRUTH.  
Gibson was watching television.  For him, I was 
just another character on whatever program he 
was glued to.  His eyes stayed focused on the 
flickering screen while he spoke.

"Who's to say that my being away from her, 
won't put her in more danger?  We've always 
been better when we've worked as a team."

"I meant, you didn't want to make her sad."  
That much was true.  My abduction, death and 
resurrection did things to Scully that I would 
never have known were possible.  I don't think 
anything would have persuaded me to leave her 
before understanding that.  Certainly not some 
mysterious threat against my life.  I'm not 
afraid of dying.  Well, that's not true.  I'm 
afraid, but it wouldn't let it disable me.  But 
the toll the past year took on Scully made me 
realize that I would do anything to not cause 
her that kind of grief again.  If she thought I 
was safer out here in Timbuktu, and it would 
allow her some kind of rest, then so be it.   
I'd learn the local language and buy a hut.  
And that wouldn't mean I couldn't keep 
searching for answers.  

"Oh."

Gibson turned, finally taking his eyes away 
from the tube.  "I know what she means to you.  
I know what they both mean to you.  I know, 
because it's the same as what you mean to me."  
I stood there, gaping at him.  He wasn't the 
type who would hold back his thoughts, but he 
didn't easily give away his emotions.  "I wish 
you were my father."

I should have probably said something besides 
what I did.  I never had another chance to get 
that moment back.  So, instead, I mumbled, 
"Gibson, you're a great kid."  Or something 
equally uplifting.  

"It's for you.  He has something you want."

"Who?"  As I said it, someone knocked on the 
door.  Shortly after I answered it, I was on my 
way back east to learn the truth and to change 
my fate.  Or to finally learn it.  I hope that 
I'll see Gibson again someday.  If only so that 
I can tell him what he probably already read 
out of my mind.  

But also, because William needs an older 
brother who he can learn from and identify 
with.  I need a son who can teach me how to be 
a father and a husband -- and how to control a 
toddler.  Lord help Scully and I with these 
two.  I know someday, we'll have them both.  I 
guess, right now we'll have to settle for just 
the one.  It's enough, for now.  

The End.



Author's notes:  Okay, I know the ending is a 
bit saccharine, and I swore I'd never be that 
cheesy, but the muse is so fickle that I just 
let him have free reign sometimes so as not to 
scare him away completely.  I can only hope you 
didn't need a barf bucket like I did.  If you 
did, I apologize.   Also, thanks to my beta 
Heidi (even if it wasn't actually on this 
particular story, you know what I'm talkin' 
about).
--Zoonr