So Let It Be Written by Mish mish_rose@yahoo.com Classification: VA, post-Milagro Rating: PG Spoilers: All over the place. You'll see what I mean. Summary: In a world of extreme possibilities, might we not turn to the implausible? Distribution: Yes, go for it. Just let me know where, okay? Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and Samantha Mulder are the property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. Sadly, they will never belong to anyone else. Dedicated to Dana - may Pookie live on forever in our hearts and minds. Yes, I know Milagro aired two weeks ago, but I was not inspired until I read this line in Jori Remington's fabulous "Broken Sound" - "Maybe I would write it so we never even met." Many thanks to her for letting me quote it here. Author's notes at end. Prologue The E-mail message on the screen snidely informs him that the evidence he demanded from the DC police arrived two hours ago. That piece of evidence, overlooked by all but him, is the key. He sits in the semi-darkness, occasionally munching on a sunflower seed. A half-empty bottle of scotch sits on the foot-high stack of unopened administrative mail. The collection of newspaper clippings, photographs and other memorabilia stare back at him, making the decision easier to make with every second that passes by. He closes his eyes, blocking out the hideous yellow-green eyes of that monster, his revulsion removing the cowardice. Reason number one. A flash of sympathy combined with hatred for this man who was a pawn like so many others wells up in him, taking the fear away. Reason number two. No feelings at all, really, aside from the remembrance of wild-eyed panic and hopelessness. And of Scully sobbing in heart-breaking relief. Reason number three. Massive guilt explodes in his chest and he wraps his arms around his waist protectively, bending into a tightly wound ball of despair. He'd never realized before just how many reasons he could actually identify. Number four sends waves of pain radiating from his heart to every end of his body; they multiply tenfold with the names that surge with ease through his tortured mind. And finally crashing to a halt with He lingers on the floor, kneeling in prayer-like supplication with those two words reverberating like a death knell. After a time, he slowly rises and mechanically brushes the dust from his suit and the wetness from his face with shaky hands. He now knows what he must do. ********** "Agent Mulder," Finley says, with the owlish appearance of an employee that has spent way too much time in the evidence locker. "What can I do for you?" He's cool to me, although I shouldn't be surprised. Spooky Mulder is not exactly a welcome face in anybody's office. "I just need to take a quick look at something, Finley, if it's not too late," I reply in a carefully controlled voice. He checks his watch, then slides the sign-in clipboard across the counter to me. "Nope, you still have fifteen minutes til closing time," he replies, not even noticing my obvious pallor in the weak fluorescent lighting. There is an unblemished sheet of paper on the top of many others; it seems I get to start with a clean slate, in more ways than one. My hands have steadied enough to sign my name, badge number, time, and reason for visit. Reason for visit - . Realizing I can't very well write that, I simply scribble in "P. Padgett - typewriter". I pass the clipboard back to Finley, and we don't exchange as much as a passing glance before I move in the direction of Bay 56. "Don't be too long, Agent Mulder," he calls after me. Without stopping, I answer, "I won't." The battleship gray metal shelves tower all around me, forming a maze of unforgiving monoliths that whisper the same sounds over and over. Bay 56 is just to my left, so I turn and slowly walk into the hallway of exhibits representing man's inhumanity toward man. Every two footsteps there is a halo of diffused light, much like the morgue corridor from many years past. As it was then, time slows and my peripheral vision blurs until all else is obscured except for the typewriter that beckons me with a siren song. The beige IBM Selectric is perched on the second shelf from the floor, obviously too large to fit into a storage box. I bend slightly, noting the white lettering on the black keyboard, faded e's, t's and n's marking its apparent overuse. There is still a single sheet of onionskin paper wrapped around the platen, though the shadow from the shelf above obscures the top portion. It appears blank, awaiting the words that will once again determine future history. And change the past, I instinctively feel. Call it a hunch, but a voice within me is telling me that if I punch it into this machine, it will be so. I will be able to make things right again. Why not? I've witnessed things more infinitely weirder than this. Yes, I will. How could I not? My eidetic memory, always a curse, will in this case be a blessing. I will remember every telephone call, every wistful sigh, every infrequent laugh and every hot dog eaten while en route to another crime scene. The sweat on my brow makes it difficult to see, so I wipe it away with the hands that will soon change my life and hers. I swallow hard and reach for the power switch, flipping it on. Nothing. With hysterical laughter threatening to bubble forth, I realize it needs to be plugged in. The cord is curled on the shelf like a snake waiting to strike. I grab it fiercely and jam it into the socket built into the base of the shelving. The typewriter comes to life with a buzz and pop of the carriage return that sends me back a step. Not even bothering to crouch in front of it, I reach out with both hands and type in the only words that will perform the transformation I seek. *Dana Scully has never met Fox Mulder.* I hit return and the simple line of prose becomes fully visible in the fingertip of light. Unable to bear looking at the words not etched into the paper, I hit it return again and they disappear into the shadow. Yanking the power cord out of the socket, I retreat down the corridor, sign out, ignore Finley's grumbled "It's about time," and drive myself home in a mind-numbing fog. ********** I awaken on my couch, still fully dressed. The pounding in my head refuses to go away; I stumble to the bathroom to splash water on my face and gobble down three aspirin. Halfway through shaving, I realize that it's no use going to work today. She won't be there. Or will she? Dimly remembering downing half a bottle of sixty-year-old scotch in the basement office yesterday afternoon, I can see why I've got such a tremendous headache. Although the lingering effects of the alcohol make it difficult to concentrate, another memory assaults my brain. Padgett's typewriter, collecting dust until I enabled it to breathe again. Of all the asinine things I have done in my life, this has to take the prize for most ridiculous. My ego must have over-inflated to the point of physical discomfort for me to actually believe that I could change the past. This beats the drug-induced fantasy of Scully leading a mutinous Jamaican crew back to the mainland, thereby saving the world. Beats it by a mile. Laughing at myself in the mirror, I complete the morning's pre-work routine and am about to walk out the door, when the telephone rings. "Mulder," I answer, cradling the telephone in the crook of my neck while I search my desk for my car keys. "Fox?" "Yes?" I say, slightly irritated at this person who obviously doesn't know how I dislike my first name. "Where have you been?" the female voice demands, angry now. "What?" "I've been waiting at the cafe for forty-five minutes now. You were supposed meet me here for breakfast, remember?" It can't be. "Samantha?" "Of course, silly. Who else would it be?" she laughs. I don't know how I know, but it's her. "Where are you?" I cautiously ask, not sure if I'm being set up again. "At Julia's, on the corner. Do you want me to wait or not? We can do this tomorrow, if you can't make it today." "No!" I practically shout, then lower my voice to add, "I'll be right there, okay?" "Sure. Fox, are you okay?" she asks with some concern. "Fine. I'm fine," I assure her. "I'll be there soon, don't leave, okay?" God, please don't let her leave. "Okay, just hurry. I have to be at work soon, you know." The click of her hangup snaps me out of my moment of disbelief. Without stopping for anything else, I rush out of the door, keys in hand. It takes me four minutes to run down the stairs, out the building door and to the end of the block. I'm breathless, though not from overexertion, by the time I spot her in the window. She waves with a broad smile and motions me in. "Good morning, sleepyhead," she states affectionately as I approach. I pull her into my arms and bury my face in her curly long brown hair. "Whoa, Fox," she says. "What's the matter?" Unable to face her with eyes full of tears, I whisper, "It's just been a long time since I've last seen you." "I wouldn't call last week a 'long time'," she replies, rubbing her hands up and down my back. Sniffling and trying desperately to compose myself, I ask, "Last week?" She pulls away and sits down at the table again, eager to return to her coffee. "Of course, Fox. We met for lunch at your office, remember?" It suddenly dawns on me that I do remember that day. I was too exhausted from a morning of tracking down useless leads and Samantha was kind enough to bring Subways down to the basement, instead of the usual Wednesday meeting at the Reflecting Pool. "Yes," I breathe, overwhelmed by the memories flooding my mind. Samantha's prom night, college graduation, first day of residency at Bethesda. "Sit, Fox. We don't have much time, you know." Gaping at her with total exultation, I am shocked into immobility. Until other memories flicker, moving backwards like a film playing from a projector set on reverse. A woman, tiny in stature. Bright blue eyes - short, light, hair - strong, sensuous mouth, speaking those words to me. Another flash quickly follows the first. I rack my brain for a name to put to this glorious face.... Shit! What gives with this "It's Your Life, Fox Mulder" crap? Not that I mind the vision of this beautiful woman dominating my thoughts, but it's becoming damned inconvenient. "Fox, sit, please, you're making me nervous." Samantha tugs on my arm, and I settle down into the seat opposite. We exchange in small talk about our jobs, her fianc‚ and my total lack of a love life over fresh fruit and decaffeinated coffee. Some time later, it hits me again. I know I've zoned out completely, because the next thing I know, Sam is waving a hand in front of my face. "Fox, you okay?" Reaching over the table, I grasp her hand and apologize. "Sorry, Sam, but I just remembered something at the office I need to take care of right away. Do you mind?" She squeezes my hand and acquiesces. "Okay, Fox, I understand. This isn't the first time and it won't be the last, huh?" I smile sheepishly and rise to give her a quick peck on the cheek. "No, guess not. Call me later, okay?" "Okay." I'm out the door before the next wave strikes. Who's Emily? Damn, it's getting harder to keep the pieces together. I know I'm supposed to know this woman. It may be I'm bordering on delusion, but my fingertips are tingling with the memory of touching her skin. My nose is twitching with a lingering scent. And that husky voice is sending shivers up my spine. Scully? I stop at the door of my car. My stomach sinks to my knees and a cold sweat breaks out all over my body. Scully! It wasn't supposed to happen this way. I believed I would have those memories forever. But they're drifting away, one at a time, like ripples on a crystal clear lake. God, she was dying! Did she die? Panicking now, I fumble for the keys to my car. No, please, no. The car roars to life. I force my way into traffic, totally pissing off the driver of the black BMW I just cut off. Relief flows through me momentarily; if these scenes are playing out in reverse order as I suspect they are, then she shouldn't be dead. "Get the hell out of my way!" I yell at the cab driver double-parked in front of FBI Headquarters. Slamming my fist on the horn, I no longer have patience. What is her name again? Scully - that's it! I hurry into the parking garage and park in the first available spot, which happens to be handicapped. Like I really care. If I'm losing my mind, I guess that would qualify me. "Scullyscullyscullyscully," I mumble over and over, running to the elevator. Several other employees have joined me for the wait; they're looking at me like I'm a nut, but I don't give a shit. "Scullyscullyscullyscully...." I gasp at that one. I didn't really kill her sister, did I? Yes I am. I know I am. But the memories and feelings draining out of me are scaring me shitless. At last the elevator arrives and we all board, although I notice everybody is pretty much glued to the walls, as far away from me as possible. I get off on the third floor, and, while trying not to run, make my way to the freight elevator at the other end. "Good morning, Agent Mulder," a pretty blond greets me, all smiles. I don't answer. "Hey Mulder! Pick up game after work today, okay?" A pleasant-looking fellow calls to me from the corner office. This elevator arrives much faster than the other one did. While waiting for the doors to close, I notice several people, all of whom I can name, waving a good morning to me. I wave back absently. Groaning and creaking, the elevator slowly descends to the basement. They're coming slower now, becoming more indistinct. My office is empty, as I knew it would be. Scanning my desk for something, anything that would explain this LSD trip I'm on, I notice that my computer is on. The screen saver has kicked in; I guess I left it on all night. When I touch the mouse, the starfield fades into an open E-mail message. TIME: 1545 TO: fmulder@fbi.gov FROM: lfinley@fbi.gov SUBJECT: typewriter Hey, buddy! Just wanted to let you know the typewriter you requested from the DCPD arrived a few minutes ago. I'll be here until 5 if you want to come check it out. Yeah, and don't forget - we're all watching the game at your place Sunday afternoon. Larry Yeah, gotta remember that and stock up on the beer. Those guys can really put it away. I went to the evidence locker yesterday afternoon? To look at a typewriter? Why? Dammit, what is her name again? Spurred on by a sudden rush of panic, I waste no time in going to the evidence locker. That typewriter has something to do with this, I can feel it. "Mulder, back so soon?" Larry asks with a grin. "Yeah," I answer, really not up for small talk. "Listen, Larry, you think I could get in a little early today? I'm kind of in a hurry." My watch tells me I still have ten minutes before the locker is officially open. "Sure, buddy, let me just start a new sign-up sheet for today, okay?" I nod, impatiently tapping my fingers on the muddy brown formica counter top. My ears are ringing now and I feel dizzy, grabbing the edge of the counter for support. I have to stay calm, stay in control. I'm almost there. "Here you go," Larry says, and I reach for the clipboard with sluggish arms, flipping to the previous day's page. It's there, like I knew it would be. Fox Mulder - 4:45 p.m. - Padgett - typewriter. I vaguely recall the case; would-be writer murdering his victims for inspiration. Out of curiosity, I lift the page to scan the names of the other agents that visited here yesterday and one neatly printed name jumps out at me. *D. Scully. 4:15 p.m. P. Padgett - typewriter.* She was there. One-half hour before I was. Scully. Dana Scully. "Isn't it nice to be so highly regarded?" I murmur, the page blurring before me. Larry is startled at the sudden onset of my obvious sorrow. "Hey - you okay?" he asks, but I ignore him and turn to enter the gate. "Mulder, you didn't sign in, buddy." "Let me in, Larry, please," I whisper. To my surprise he complies, opening the gate with a buzz. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, I find Bay 56 and the mysterious typewriter that apparently started it all. I drop to my knees before it, and my heart shatters. There, framed in a thin line of light - *Dana Scully has never met Fox Mulder.* In slow motion, I reach for the knob of the platen and turn it towards me, revealing the top half of the sheet of paper that is still resting in shadow. *Fox Mulder never lost his sister Samantha.* Two more clicks of the knob and another line appears. *I love you - Scully.* Who is Scully? END Author's notes: Okay, so the ending isn't exactly upbeat; but I choose to believe that the possibility still exists for a meeting between our duo. I also cannot quite comprehend this alternate universe thing, so I try not to dwell on it. And, before I get ripped for it, the quotations used here are probably not word for word. I tried my best, what can I say? feedback accepted at mish_rose@yahoo.com I'll answer all, I promise!