I just realized I never even posted part fucking six on here, so here's a read-up before I post chapter VII.
Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Mentions of violence, blood, attempted assault, slight sexual content, one very pissy, overgrown fish and bad writing. It will get worse. Just trust me on this one. I don't write anything without gratuitous smut in it. It's sorta my baliwick.
In other news, several bodies were found mutilated along the south beach early this morning leaving investigators absolutely baffled. At least two women and one man are dead– but how? The police seem entirely unsure. They say it’s too early for a definitive call, but speculations range from-
You’re convinced the world has gone absolutely mad.
Watching the news as you’re grasping at straws to find the motivation to continue living, getting ready for work and venturing outside your apartment again probably isn’t the best call, but given how insane things have been lately, it’s hard not to watch with a macabre fascination. It’s like watching a train go off the rails in real time.
Horrifying, but you have a difficult time tearing your eyes away.
‘-unlike anything we’ve ever seen. They were just left completely bare in the sand 20 feet from the parking lot where kids could have found them. The ferocity of the attack is– well, it’s horrifying. We’ve got officers working the scene who have been on the force for 20 years and haven’t seen anything like this. We’re working overtime to try and discern the nature of these attacks so that their loved ones and the general public can rest assured-’
Things used to be quiet here. Slow and simple and easy. A tad boring at times, but danger was far from most people’s thoughts. The biggest threat one could face on a daily basis was a sudden, violent shift in the tide or a tricky undertow hellbent on sucking you under. Maybe a particularly tumultuous storm, on a really bad day.
But that’s before he arrived, isn’t it?
‘-ruled out any sort of foul play. What happened here early this morning is a tragedy, and we can’t say for certain, but the evidence points toward some sort of animal attack, likely a predator driven from their habitat by-
Separating yourself from the situation has made it seem even more surreal than it did to begin with. Now that you’re not attending your nightly meet-ups with Shigaraki, it’s allowed you some time to reflect on just how odd the entire ordeal really was. Feeling like a fool is a hard pill to swallow, especially when he was so upfront with his intentions from the get-go. Why you ever expected him to actually care is beyond you.
For one measly, shitty little minute, you thought you could have your cake and eat it too. Caught up in the illusion, it was all too easy to believe that this creature with claws for rending human flesh and teeth for gnashing bone could have the capacity to care for you to some degree. The congratulations he’d given you when you told him you found someone seemed as genuine as you could get from him, and he’d listened quietly– albeit with a few eye-rolls– to your endless babbling about how you felt renewed and he’d given you to motivation to start trying again with his weird philosophy of ‘do what you have always done and you will remain as miserable as you always are’-- even if that wasn’t exactly what he’d meant.
But that’s his nature isn’t it? Spinning pretty lies into an ensnaring web of beautiful falsehoods. Luring you in with those beautiful eyes designed to reel foolish humans like you in and yanking you under when you go to reach for him, both metaphorically and literally. He’d told you what you wanted– or needed– to hear at the time and banked on the opening it left and the trust you’d given him after.
Forgiving him for his little flare-up that night had even been easy to achieve after a few drinks and a quick pep-talk. He’d waited the next evening– much like he always did– at your rock, for you to sit with him. It’s not in his nature to apologize, but he was more than willing to carry forward even given your hesitance. Words like ‘patience’ and ‘understanding’ might be a bit far-fetched, but it was more than you thought you could expect from him nonetheless.
It seemed, for one fleeting moment, like everything was okay.
You were practically raised on tales of nefarious sea creatures that lull you into a false sense of security and then feast on your viscera. So why did you think your fairytale ending would be any different?
Heroine syndrome is a fair guess. Everyone wants to be special. Everyone wants to be the weakness cradled in the monster’s ribs– the weight they carry willingly. It’s a stupid little dream a lot of kids have, to grow to become revered in the arms of a titan, to be swept away from the mundane life they’ve come to know.
But the original fairy tales don’t have a happy ending. They weren’t written with happiness in mind. Princes are often fools and monsters are just that– monsters. They’ll rip you apart if you give them the chance and your memory will be used as a cautionary tale. A beautiful beast is still just that: A beast.
Endearing yourself to him had been a foolish venture, and if you hadn’t been so clouded by your own vanity, you might have seen that. You had been toying with a very dangerous, very real predator and opted to treat it like he was a mere fish in a tank, despite how many times he’d almost killed you.
The wound on your arm pulses, and you can’t help but run a finger over the gnarled skin, puffy and barely healed. You’d only recently been able to remove the bandages, and it was probably fair to say that it would scar over something nasty. A constant reminder of your short-lived time with him. One you would carry for the rest of your days. A reminder of what dwells deep in the ocean and why you should keep very, very far away, even as the ache deep in your gut never dulls and the restlessness breeds a garden of misery that suffocates you.
‘-urge all beach goers to exercise caution at this time and try to avoid visiting after dark until we know what it is we’re dealing with. If you have any information, please call-’
Your finger finds the big red button on the remote, flipping the TV off. You’ve heard enough for today. There’s more misery on your plate than you can finish in one sitting, and drowning yourself in it isn’t going to do anything decent for your mental health. Not when you’re mourning a loss you can never speak to anyone about and a betrayal—
Does it really count as a betrayal though?
It sure as hell hurts like one.
It’s probably your own fault, but stabbing yourself doesn’t make the wound any less painful. When you’re lonely, you’ll reach for any driftwood your listless body wades to.
You offered the sea your loneliness and she gave back what she could: a lesson.
You’d like to think you’ve learned from the experience, that you’ll never let yourself be fooled by supernatural beauty and wonder ever again, but if the wendigo or chupacabra knocked on your front door to ask for some sugar, you’d probably give it to them.
Humans just don’t learn. Shigaraki was right. It’s amazing we’ve gotten this far.
You sling your work bag over your shoulder, wondering briefly if he's shouldering the same burden as you; does he feel this hollow ache in your absence?
He’s probably more pissed off that his dinner reservations got canceled.
It’s a pathetic line of thought, but that strange emptiness refuses to listen as you rationalize with it. You’d been dumb enough to count him as a friend– albeit a very licentious, very moody one– even though he’d made a point to never tell you as much. You’d viewed your relationship with him through rose colored glasses and it left you completely incapable of seeing all the red flags, even as he made no effort to hide them.
Now that he’s gone, it’s back to a lackluster existence– minus the sea. The sea that you’re surrounded by and can somehow never touch again. There’s not a doubt in your mind that if you were to touch the water, somehow he would know and find you again, and judging by the world class fit he threw, he’d have no qualms about just killing you this time.
In a way, you had grown to actually care for him a little. Or maybe that was a strange form of Stockholm syndrome. Either way, he still seemed like a friend, and it hurts a bit that he’s no longer a part of your life, though perhaps a part of that is the human arrogance of losing a supernatural buddy.
Who else can say they’d befriended a siren, after all?
Ideally you could take your mind off of it and focus on work, but the sad truth of the matter is that you’re likely just going to fixate on it while your job finishes dead last in the mental race of ‘things I give a good goddamn about right now.’
Tomura would have told you that if you hated it, you should quit. Why force yourself to do something you hate?
But Tomura isn’t here.
The most you can do is pray it’s a slow day and that your boss doesn’t notice you slipping. No way to explain that, after all.
With every last ounce of willpower you can muster, you manage to tie your shoes and lock your front door, slipping out into the streets.
The streets are crowded and filthy and rotten and loud , the tarmac packed with vehicles and the sidewalks blotted with all manner of people. Self-important businessmen shouting into their phones, aimless sightseers, and hoards of shrieking children barely clinging like a thread to their mother’s hands while being herded like cattle to whatever unfortunate restaurant will host them that evening.
He ignores them all, leaving the responsibility to dodge his hulking body wholly on them as he storms forwards towards his destination: You .
Where that is exactly, he doesn’t know, but he follows your scent– still thick on the scrap of fabric he keeps fastened to his wrist– deeper into the city and away from the waters he calls home.
The sensation of shoes on his feet is deeply unpleasant, and the clothes he’d stolen from his breakfast were ill fitting and uncomfortable, leaving him shifting and squirming and resisting the urge to shred it clean off. Anger burns a hole in his gut at having to cover his form simply for their sake, but there’s more important matters to attend to, and as much as he’d like to think that he could, taking on an entire city’s worth of humans outside of his home turf might be a bit of a stretch. Rather than giving into his rage, he keeps the hood firmly yanked up over his silver hair, his features hidden behind the thick curtain of his bangs and his hands firmly shoved into the kangaroo pouch.
From an outside perspective, he looks like a drugged up local with a pituitary problem on a particularly bad trip, but he could care less about what the human infestation around him thinks. So long as none of them bother to look for too long, he’ll leave them be.
For now.
Agony still wracks his bones and relearning to walk on two legs is humiliating in a way he doesn’t care to think on, but the rage carries him through. The human body is disgusting. How you exist like this is beyond him, but it offers you one singular advantage that he couldn’t overcome in his true form– the ability to find shelter away from him on land, far from the reach of his claws. Far away from him.
It’s a testament to how much he hates you that he subjects himself to this.
You dared to defy him not once– not twice– but three times, only narrowly escaping your fate each time, and then you had the audacity to just leave . He should have killed you. He should have. It was a mistake, and one he swears won’t happen again. This time, when he finds you, he’ll do what he should have done from the start.
You won’t talk or enthrall your way out of it this time. He’s going to get what he came for. His pride demands it.
But you’ll figure that out soon enough, won’t you?
Mulder's Alien Baby Baby Trauma In-Depth (Part VI): Bonds Once Forged Are Not Easily Broken
Now, we come to first meetings and (second?) reunions-- and part of that will be focused on Mulder and Doggett's throwdown.
On the one hand, Doggett's poured literal blood and sweat into finding and retrieving this man-- first as a job, then as a friend. Allegations of a crush for Scully (which I don’t buy) aside, he’s a good man that's done good work.
On the other hand, Mulder has primed himself for battle: seething with vengeance for three months of torment and three months of death, and with nowhere to direct this hatred, Doggett has become an easy target. From Mulder’s perspective, sudden helping hands were always revealed to be turncoats; and the newest recruit just so happening to weasel in under everyone's nose at the most opportune (or inopportune) time and being completely "above reproach"? Unlikely.
In short, it’s not going to be a pleasant meeting for the X-Files's newest agent.
Introducing the Buddy Cop
We must devote a short amount of word space to Doggett, since he will morph into a pivotal player in Mulder’s post-abduction shenanigans from here on out.
After his “capture” by Absalom and “rescue” by the FBI, he sits, disturbed, in Skinner’s office while the latter man debriefs him. Both are candid and unguarded with each other-- a dynamic he, Skinner, and Scully developed in Mulder’s absence-- not hiding the fact they're mutually bothered and skeptical over Absalom's claims and needless despite (though for different reasons.)
“It may not be the best way, but it is certainly one way to catch an escaped convict-- I’ll give you that, Agent Doggett,” Skinner remarks, nose still buried in his agent’s report.
“I’d just as soon stick to the old fashioned way, Sir. That shot was a little too close for comfort.”
“You said this man claimed the US Census Bureau had data, information that he was after that connects to this man that was shot on the White House lawn.”
“'Proof', he said,” Doggett nods, adding, “that ‘they were here among us’.” Then, turning away and scowling contemplatively, he adds, “Whoever they are.”
Before Skinner can voice his next thought, the door snaps open and in walks Mulder.
A few interesting first thoughts:
Mulder’s shirt is at least a size (if not two) too large, adding to his disheveled, harried integration back into a normal life. And, yes, Skinner’s shirt is also oversized… but not that oversized. It makes me wonder if the clothing department created the illusion of Mulder’s weight loss and trauma by sizing up his wardrobe; and if so, clever touch. (Will have to keep an eye on the rest of the men’s wear this season to compare and contrast... if I remember.)
His face is very grim and very serious; his posture is rigid; and his eyes remain fixated on Doggett's, even during his cursory “Sir” to Skinner as he closes the door.
Doggett senses his animosity immediately, turning grim as well-- but doesn’t think to take a defensive stance, likely chalking up Mulder’s standoffishness to natural aloofness exacerbated by his inexplicable return.
And his instincts seem to pay off: Mulder collectedly walks up to him, softly asking, “Is this John Doggett?” with an upward head tilt thrown in. All signs point to the returnee being tense but friendly; and the newcomer stands with a hand outstretched to welcome the other man home.
And then, the push.
Mulder barrels past Doggett’s handshake, not breaking form as he immediately shoves the other man back into his chair-- a very pathetic smack, really, despite the force that could have been exerted from his forward momentum (another little tell that Mulder is not physically up to snuff, yet.)
Doggett, collapses, stunned; and Skinner rushes into to grab his former agent as he launches into rapid fire accusations.
“I hope you’re not commending him as a hero for what he did in this thing because he is not,” Mulder insists, maintaining burning eye contact with his adversary while ignoring and talking over Skinner’s commands to back off.
“I’m not about to referee a boxing match,” Skinner warns (hey, an S.R. 819 reference!)
Doggett’s scowl deepens as reality sinks in, his emotions vacillating from utter befuddlement to insulted awe while rewinding the last few seconds. He attempts to recapture the friendly mood; but it fits falsely on his face, making him look even more like a stilted, Consortium double agent.
“Just what’s the problem here?”
Mulder is not convinced-- no one in his shoes probably would be-- and he spells it out for everyone in the room.
“The problem? You occupy an office that used to be devoted to finding the truth and now you’re busy burying it, that's the problem.”
Doggett tries again, a little more animosity seeping out through his voice, shifting posture, and wagging finger: friends he will be, but not punching bag. “Whoa, you musta got your wires crossed somewhere, Agent Mulder.”
“You got that man killed,” Mulder snaps.
Incredulously raising his eyebrows, Doggett snarkily repeats, “I got him killed?”
“Because of what he knew, of what he could expose,” Mulder continues, pushing closer against the boundary of Skinner’s shoulder (who, it seems, is destined to referee Mulder’s fights with or without his say so.)
“You see this, Agent Mulder?” Doggett snipes, pointing at the deep cut across his cheek.
Undeterred, he responds, “I see you sitting there, Agent Doggett.”
After a weighty pause, Mulder ends the interrogation with, “It’s good enough for me”, another haunted pause, a last look at Skinner, and a swift trudge back out the door.
Skinner waits until he leaves before lowering his guard, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to drum up an explanation for Doggett. Slowly turning, he begins, “You gotta understand what he’s been through, I mean, now he’s back and you’re--”
But Doggett is nodding dismissively and leaping out of his chair to the other door before Skinner can finish, unwilling to hear out a string of weak excuses for Mulder's appalling behavior.
More interesting thoughts:
Even though Mulder is biased against Doggett, the latter does seem paint-by-the-numbers guilty, an exact specimen the Syndicate used to dig up and dance around with impunity. Doggett gives very little away, doesn’t justify his position, and uses survivable wounds as "evidence" of his innocence-- all of which have been used at sundry times throughout the show.
Mulder is obviously not in a state to clearly weigh evidence in Doggett’s favor, running blindly around to stop the aliens from abducting anyone else ever again (alluded to in this post.)
Although Mulder is furious for Absalom during this conversation, he is really demanding justice for himself. Every line spoken to Doggett points right back in his direction; and he is conscious of that, trying to avoid his experience and safeguard against it permanently simultaneously.
Skinner is aware of this on some level, excusing Mulder’s bad behavior to Doggett’s face while also understanding Doggett's righteous anger at boss in turn.
But the conflict doesn’t end there.
Doggett has struggled all Season 8 to support, befriend, and be an ally to Scully. He advocated for her, saved her life, and kept her from danger over and over again; yet she didn’t open up to or confide in him unless absolutely forced. Despite that, he still helped safe guard her secret, find her partner, and support her after Mulder’s death-- and all this while battling imposter syndrome in himself.
Doggett never tried to compete with or measure up to Mulder (that was Scully’s struggle); but from day one, he felt isolated and rejected, doing his best to build good relationships with Scully and Skinner. By proving his stripes, he thought it would earn him equal consideration as a partner and a person. However, his insecurity-- that the others would sideline him the minute Mulder came back-- is proven true (and would continue to be proven true the rest of Season 8.) He suspected Mulder curated a type of jealous loyalty, and he was right: even Skinner, whom he formed the closest friendship with, takes Mulder’s side over his own.
Skinner is left alone in the office, pondering how best to tackle both agents’ issues.
Friends in This Life and After (and This Life Again)
Mulder hops over to Scully’s apartment where he is surprised by Frohike opening the door (tilting his head and immediately pulling up his cheeks in a smile.)
It’s a beautiful moment: the man in Scully’s kitchen six years ago is here now to greet and invite him in, rushing over to it before the others could. Not only that, but Frohike is also the first person to make a genuine joke at Mulder’s expense, one so cheery and hearty that it redirects Mulder's sarcasm into sincerity.
“You know, it’s really not fair. You’ve been dead for six months and you’re still better looking than me.”
An interesting note: something strange and morbid begins to happen here as well: Mulder uncharacteristically sticks his hand out for a shake, standing on formalities with a friend who’s been through thick and thin with him.
And while it’s bad enough to view this as an insecure attempt on Mulder’s part to become "reacquainted" with his former friend, another-- and worse-- parallel could plausibly be drawn: his father’s distant overtures in Colony: a way to keep loved ones at a distance so they don't see flaws and scars up close, perhaps.
Frohike ignores the handshake entirely, finishing his joke and latching onto Mulder with a fierce, all-encompassing hug.
And Mulder is euphorically happy: that someone saw him instead of his traumas, that he’s been recognized as “normal” despite his experiences, that his experiences don’t define him in at least one person’s eyes.
Frohike’s lack of reserve and whole-hearted affection frees a part of himself still under lock and key; and he laughs unreservedly, returning the unexpected hug with affectionate back pats and thrilled cooing noises after the former somberly concludes, “Though not by much.”
There is no expectation or agenda or fear or worry between the two, allowing the undead to relax into the moment and fully feel for the first time: he picks up on Frohike’s pain, soothes it by letting the hug last longer than usual, and even settles into the moment with him-- “Melvin…”-- before keeping their dignity intact with a well-timed joke.
Abashed that he might have lingered too long-- but not ashamed--, Frohike steps back, assessing his friend’s mood with a completely serious “Sorry”; then, after Mulder nods good-humoredly and walks off, reaches over to close the door.
An interesting speculation: why would Mulder cut the moment short?
Obviously there’s discomfort he’s still navigating post resurrection, but he was never the huggy, touchy guy with his friends to begin with. Frohike’s hug, while welcome, is more unnatural than normal.
And, personally, I like to think the eagle-eyed staring from the rest of the group is the real reason. (The cut-to is hilarious if you aren’t expecting it, by the way.)
Byers advances with a welcoming “I think it goes without saying that we’re all, uh… tremendously relieved,” too overjoyed to notice Mulder’s polite, tight smile.
Langly’s greeting is tremendously less subtle: “And not just because we had big questions about your involvement in a certain blessed event.”
This next interaction is the second huge make-or-break for this episode: like the first scene back in Mulder’s apartment, this, too, can be easily misconstrued; and is entirely dependent on context.
Caught off guard, he raises his head, freezing his face and darting his eyes over to Scully. He and Scully have not yet discussed the baby, but he knows it’s his (posts here and here.) Are Langly's implications a result of her indirect interference or a natural result of his normal impetuosity? Furthermore, what has Scully told his friends about the baby? Has she told them about the baby? Has Scully rustled up an opportunity to press for more, he wonders.
Mulder knows Scully is not above premeditation, especially about big events in her life (her father’s death, her cancer, her adopted daughter, her distrust of Diana, etc.), and this incident harkens back to another four-against-one scenario in the not-so-distant past (her confrontation at TLG's in One Son.) He and Scully just resynced yesterday, post here; but this comment out of the blue immediately activates his conspiracy radar.
One look at her face, however, dispels that notion (for now): Scully didn’t know this was coming, eyes pivoting sharply from Langly’s direction to Mulder's. Having nothing to hide, she doesn't look down or away; and even betrays a sense of humor in the tilt of her head and tuck of her chin. Her relaxed face invites Mulder to see the absurdity of this strange moment rather than be bowled over by it.
The camera pans back to Mulder right before everything registers-- showing his downfallen face and penetrating gaze--
and captures the split-second of reassurance and quick snap back to good humor. Catching Scully's comedic undertone, he reciprocates with a mock suspicious face-- the same used later in Empedocles-- complete with squinting, glinty eyes, head tilt, and imperceptibly opened mouth.
Scully-- relieved he’s gotten her point, amused at his antics, and intuiting his unreadiness to broach the baby topic-- deadpans, “So much for playing a hunch, Mulder,” while raising her eyebrows and shifting her head level-- a tease back, and a transition to more serious discussions.
“The, uh, Gunmen were able to decrypt the data you found on Howard Salt’s hard drive.”
Frohike joins them in time for Mulder’s roundtable “thank you” nod; and, all together now, the men give their full attention to Scully's synopsis of their findings.
CONCLUSION
Doggett has been shoved, his friends have embraced him, and he and Scully have reengaged their unspoken effectively-- all good things for Mulder. Firing on all cylinders in the company of those that love him helps resurrected man feel back in action, feel alive, feel like himself.
Of course, this is a small bandaid for the bigger, gaping wound of his abduction trauma… and, of course, that problem isn't helped by the confirmation of Scully's (well-meaning) premeditation during the course of the next five minutes.
