He remembers reading Of Mice and Men and crying at the end. He was 15, maybe, and little naïve Fox Mulder still thought the short novella could end happily.
He was reading to escape his unhappy home life; he didn’t want other people’s problems. But all the classics he read were about characters with a fate worse than his: unrequited love, revenge, forbidden loves, life ruined by adultery or greed, characters finding themselves amidst corruption and hopelessness. He wanted happy endings, goddamnit. He wanted the underdogs to win, the tragic hero to win, the poor orphan to marry well...
He wasn’t naïve to think that was what the world was like; he was just naïve to think that people would write about sad subjects with happy endings.
Mulder laughs at himself with this now. The little naïve Fox shedding tears for Lennie getting shot; how the best-laid plan fails miserably. Damn those rabbits, he thought as he wiped his tears away, sympathizing with losing a best friend at his own hand.
Mulder doesn’t know what a best friend really is until he's met Dana Scully.
There were those dark days when he sat by her side, keeping her company while telling her stories after stories to keep her mind off the pain. Her treatment was relentless and torturous, and he did voices like he was doing radio plays of the classics he read.
Mulder thought of playing Hamlet to her Ofelia. He thought of playing Hamlet to avenge the death and betrayal if she dies. He wanted to be buried next to her so badly that he calculated the time down to the days that he would have to kill all those bastards in time for his and her burial. He thought of writing a letter to Mrs. Scully, indicating his dead man’s wish. He was never drunk enough to share this plan with Frohike, the one man Mulder deemed would understand what he meant, but something in Byers' eyes told him that his three buddies would try their best to make sure his wish gets carried out.
Scully liked Hamlet.
He told her stories of the constellations, myths from the East and legends from the West. Folklore and fairy tales, and vivid descriptions of mythical creatures. Sometimes Mulder thought of himself as Scheherazade from One Thousand and One Nights, telling stories to keep her alive. He wanted to believe that his piety in making all the efforts towards her would touch some deity who would take pity on them and just let them be, let Scully live, let her thrive and be healthy and be loved like she deserves.
Mulder becomes the storyteller again when she has been shot in New York. Night after night, he showers her with kisses and stories on her bed. Her head rests on his arm, and he tells stories to keep their minds off what they truly want to do.
He tells her the best-laid plans, and wonders if he plays George to her Lennie by painting a picture of their life ahead, would it be a bad omen?
He is awfully superstitious for someone without a religious faith. He cannot bring himself to tell her the life he envisions for them. Also, there are way too many fantasies, and they all sound like the best plan.
“Scully,” he says softly, thinking that she is about to fall asleep, “I’ve been thinking, now that you’re immortal...”
She scoffs and presses her forehead against his arm. She’s dying to be spooning with him, he knows.
“I have the best-laid plan for us. We can become ghosts and haunt a place for eternity.”
“God, Mulder,” she murmurs softly, “was that why you took me hostage last Christmas?”
“I didn’t take you as a hostage, young lady. You came after me.” That’s his version of the story, and he’s sticking with it.
“You. Took. My. Keys.”
“You admitted wanting to be with me out there, baby.” Mulder reminds her. It pleases him so much that she had admitted that to him, and he never feels bad throwing it back in her face.
“I don’t want to haunt anyone. I also don’t want to share my final resting place with another couple.” She says sleepily as her medication kicks in.
“Are you saying you don’t mind spending eternity with me?”
“As ghosts?”
He wonders if she will tell him that ghosts don’t exist, to which he will respond by saying they are called apparitions. But she doesn’t.
“Mulder,” she begins with a serious tone, “if you’re telling me that your best-laid plan is to find a big house and have a suicide pact with me so we could live together forever as two ghosts haunting some misguided souls like you and his clueless girlfriend, I’d suggest you rethink your offer.”
“You’re my girlfriend...” Mulder echos, more as a statement and less as a question, though he had intended to say it as a question to get her confirmation.
“Only if you admit you’re the misguided soul.” Her drowsy voice replies, “But let’s live for five, six more decades before we do that.”
“We’d be retired by then.” He whines.
“Let’s hope that, yes.”
“Will we live in a house?”
“Yes.”
“A nice one with a fish tank? Maybe a Japanese garden? Big spacious backyard so we can stargaze on the grass?”
“Mmm-hum.”
“And once in a while we’ll go look for Bigfoot? Werewolves in Michigan and Frogman in Wyoming?”
“Mulder...who else is going to save your ass when you get in trouble?”
He chuckles and feels a little sleepy, too. “And...Scully, you’ll love me forever?”
“So Scully,” he gives his best boy scout grin, “Does this mean Clyde Bruckman was right?”
Scully swats at his hand playfully, “Didn’t we already have this conversation? I’m not immoral. I will die one day. Clyde was just trying to make me feel better.”
“But he’s even right about his own death,” Mulder adds. “There’s a saying that soothsayers can’t predict their own future correctly, but Clyde’s got to be the real thing.”
“Mulder,” she calls his name softly, almost like the whine she uses with him on weekend mornings. “Fellig wasn’t immoral either; he did die.”
“What if he just took your place? And now you’ll take on after him, and live hundreds and hundreds of years, looking exactly the way you do right now.” Mulder wets his lips. “You’ll be 35 for the rest of your life. A very good age to be; they say that’s the peak of, you know.”
“Mulder!” She chides him but cannot keep her face serious. “Don’t make me laugh now, it hurts when I laugh.”
“Oops.”
Mulder brings her hand to his lips for a chaste kiss. He feels more at ease that they’re in a hospital in New York, so the chances of running into people they know are slim. However, maybe Kersh or Skinner will stop by, and they shouldn’t risk it by being too open about the new level of their relationship. The last thing Kersh needs is more ammunition to use against them.
On the other hand, the nurses and the doctors all know that they’re more than partners; the way he marched into her room and the ruckus he raised on the first day had established that loud and clear. Nurse Betty thinks he’s the regular Romeo, but Dr. Patel eyes him as if he were a nuisance that would hinder his patient’s recovery process.
No strenuous activity, Mr. Mulder. None until she is fully healed. You must promise me that. The good doctor’s words still ring in his ear.
“I found a loophole in this. If you are always with me, I’ll never ever have to engage in that for the rest of my life, so I won’t die, and I’ll get to live forever with you.”
He says as he bats his eyelashes at her.
“You mean to say if we stay away from kinky sex for the rest of our lives, I’ll get to keep you with me for as long as I live?” Scully decides to throw a bone to the puppy because she’s heard Dr. Patel’s warning, too.
“I don’t want to get too technical, but I think it’s me staying away from solo kinky sex, with your help, of course.”
With my help, she repeats his words soundlessly, and he nods excitedly with a foolish grin.
“If you do your part, I’ll be sure to do mine.” She flashes her best girl scout grin at him, and Mulder thinks the future looks so much brighter.
