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Title: Wishing You Were Here Summary: A postal carrier delivers a series of bizarre postcards while Mulder and Scully investigate an X-File in a small, upstate New York town. Forty-seven years later, Mulder finally solves the mystery. Archive: Anywhere, so long as it's always postmarked "Vesalius". Disclaimer: I didn't invent The X-Files -- they are the creation of Chris Carter, etc. etc. etc. please no lawsuits etc. etc. etc..... Okay Bis, you win. This isn't a happy story. But it *is* supposed to be uplifting...if I've done my job right. And I took the bleepin' stopwatches out, just for you m'dear. Dedicated to my friends Redlummai, Chelsey and SSB -- in sympathy for the losses that came with autumn this year. Laurens, New York "This isn't an X-File." Scully was rather startled to hear her partner announce his verdict. They had arrived in Laurens just that morning to interview the parents of a teenage boy who had allegedly been abducted by aliens repeatedly since he was eight. The boy was missing again, and all of the circumstances were identical to his previous disappearances. Local high-school students buzzed with speculation about another abduction, with rumor feeding upon rumor, to the point that the local law enforcement official had contacted the FBI for advice. Although the sheriff had made no request for the FBI to open its own investigation, the details of the case -- although vague -- had lured Mulder into the field once again. Yet after a few hours with the parents, Mulder had drawn his conclusions. "That boy has never been abducted, Scully," Mulder grumbled, irritated at having wasted time on yet another false lead. "How can you be so sure, Mulder? We just got here, and aside from speaking with Evan's parents you haven't had a chance to consider any available evidence," Scully asked, a bit baffled by her partner's abrupt pronouncement. "Call it instinct. I've been investigating the paranormal for nearly ten years, Scully. I also know something about the mind of a teenage boy who is desperate for *any* sign of affection or concern from his parents." "So, you're saying he's been faking his own abduction all these years just to get his parents' attention?" Mulder nodded absently, and turned to look back at the house they had just left. There was little physical resemblance between the home of Evan Truman and Fox Mulder's childhood abode. The Truman house looked like it was straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting -- as did all of the other residences in this quiet, rural hamlet. But after only a few minutes with Mr. and Mrs. Truman, Mulder felt as though he were reliving a scene from his youth. The cold, indifference that husband and wife demonstrated toward each other...the impatience that Mr. Truman expressed toward his son's most recent disruption of the normal routine of life...all of it was painfully familiar to the son of Bill and Teena Mulder. Although she hadn't quite made the connection between Evan Truman's alleged abduction and Mulder's memories of his own family, Scully perceived the darkening of her partner's mood. Her voiced softened out of sympathy. "Mulder, are you okay?" He turned back to her and shook off his melancholy. At the moment, Mulder wanted nothing more than to wrap up the investigation and head back to Washington. Something about this case...about the town...made him feel out of place. The Truman family drama *did* feel like it could be a chapter out of his own life, yet this made him all the more uncomfortable being involved. "Yeah, I'm fine. Let's drive out to the site and take a look around. I'd hate to spoil a historic moment." Scully cast a perplexed look at her partner. Taking solace from his troubled memories in a bout of jesting, he quipped: "*You* having to drag *me* kicking and screaming to investigate the possibility of alien abduction." "Spooky, isn't it?" Scully agreed, smirking. They crossed the street toward their rental car, and passed an elderly postal delivery worker who offered them a friendly greeting. "Afternoon, folks. Mighty warm for November, isn't it?" "Yes...actually, it *is* a nice day," Scully replied, almost as though she were surprised that she hadn't noticed the weather earlier. She paused by the passenger side of the car to admire the shades of autumn on the surrounding hills, brilliantly lit by an unseasonably warm sun. For a moment, she entertained the notion of taking a vacation day and relaxing in the region, even if the case proved to be a hoax as Mulder suspected. But just as quickly, her memories jarred her back to reality and a ghastly look flickered across her face. She had had her fill of vacations in New England. Home of Sadie Devereaux Malcolm Fine let himself through the gate, as he had for forty-five years, and ambled leisurely up to the front door of Mrs. Devereaux's house. He thumbed through her mail and raised his eyebrows at a rather odd postcard. Granted, it was a nosey thing to do -- looking through someone else's mail. But it was an occupational hazard as the local mailman, and by now folks were used to him. He was fully aware of the ethical issues involved, and never crossed the line between curiosity and invasion of privacy. And in the end, his tendency to keep track of who received what kind of mail from whom often meant that he was sought after as a favored source of local gossip. He rang the doorbell and then fingered the postcard delicately. It was like no other he had ever delivered. Unlike the standard, printed postcard with a photograph of a monument or idyllic beach, this one was no more than a strip of freshly-peeled birch bark. Mr. Fine delighted in the tactile sensation of the soft, smooth bark and admired the pinkish hue which had not yet begun to fade. After a few minutes, the door opened and Sadie appeared, her white hair pulled up in a very practical bun, and reading glasses still perched on the bridge of her nose. She smiled at him and said: "Right on time, as always. How are you today, Malcolm?" "Well you know I'm just Fine," the postal carrier replied impishly with a quip known to everyone in the community as his trademark pun. "Anything interesting today?" Sadie inquired without hesitation, certain that he had already given her mail the once-over. "As a matter of fact, there is," he acknowledged as he handed over the birch bark postcard. Sadie held the postcard out in front of her and squinted at it through her reading glasses. "This *is* unusual...I haven't seen anyone make a postcard from birch in years. Gracious, I think the last time was when a friend from college sent one to her beau back home." "College, eh? Then it can't have been that long ago," Malcolm grinned. "Oh, never you mind," Sadie smirked at him, shaking her head. She turned her attention back to the postcard and began reading it aloud. "Dear Sadie...The leaves are turning again, and it reminds me of...how much I miss our walks. No one knows the trees the way you do...Wishing you were here...Almira...oh!" Sadie grew very still and her eyes remained fixed on the postcard, her face a blend of delight and disbelief. She traced her fingers across its soft, suede-like surface very gently, as though it were her most precious possession. Malcolm Fine's curiosity got the better of him. "What is it, Sadie? Who's Almira?" It was a few moments before she answered him. When she did, it was in a distant, reminiscent voice. "Almira was my dearest friend in college. She and I would set aside an hour each afternoon when classes were finished, and take walks along the trails in the woods near campus...it was our time alone, to talk or just enjoy an hour of peace....Oh, but those were wonderful times..." "Well, maybe it's time you paid her a visit," Mr. Fine suggested. Sadie looked bewildered for a moment and said nothing. But just as Mr. Fine turned to leave -- suddenly feeling awkward about having poked through her personal affairs -- she said quietly: "Thank you, Malcolm. Thank you for this." "You're welcome, Sadie," he reassured her sincerely, "And I'll see you tomorrow." "Good-bye, Malcolm." Gilbert Lake State Park, New York "I'm not detecting any significant levels of radiation, Scully." Mulder sighed as he lowered his equipment and perused the surrounding woods. His enthusiasm for their investigation had waned even further. "And there certainly aren't any visible signs of damage to the vegetation or super-heating of the sand near the lake," Scully confirmed. "Would you like to hear my theory?" Mulder asked. "You think he just ran away?" Scully replied, anticipating her partner's direction. Mulder nodded, looking around at the thick forest that began twenty or thirty feet away from the lakeshore. Scully followed his gaze and remarked: "I guess this is as good a place to hide as any." Still scanning the surrounding trees, Mulder was struck by the rich, fiery hues of the canopy created by leaves that were on the verge of falling from the branches. The breathtaking array of yellow, amber, scarlet, maroon and ochre prompted an insight which he shared with Scully. "He may also have come out here to find a little beauty...something more inspired than what he sees at home..." Scully raised her eyesbrows and waited for him to elaborate. "Did you notice his sketchbook, Scully?" "Yes, he seems to have some talent. Some of his landscapes were pretty impressive." "So impressive that he kept his artwork hidden in the closet. Did you see *any* of his sketches up on the walls in their house?" "No...no I didn't," Scully acknowledged, "But adolescents often guard their privacy very jealously and don't necessarily want to share their creative projects with their parents. I think Evan is a bit past the stage where he would be comfortable with his mother pinning his latest drawing to the refrigerator with magnets." "Something tells me that the refrigerator in that household was never covered with crayon masterpieces. I think that's the source of the problem, and the reason that Evan disappears so often. He doesn't feel valued for who he is..." Scully reflected on Mulder's theory for a few moments as they began the brief trek back to their rental car. A sweet smell of damp, fallen leaves that was vaguely reminiscent of nutmeg permeated the air. As she looked down at the rough grey stones that paved their path, she continued their discussion. "I'll agree with you that Evan is most likely unhappy with his home life. But why fabricate such an elaborate cover story as alien abduction?" "I don't think it's just a cover story, Scully. I think he invented a new family, one that fit his ideal of what he wanted his own family to look like." "So...you're saying he wishes that he and his family were greyskinned extra-terrestrials?" Scully prompted her partner dubiously. "I think Evan has created a very exotic and personal portrait of extra-terrestrials. To him, they're beautiful, unique...everything his family isn't. Think of it -- his parents have ordinary lives, and they made it plain that they're indifferent to *hobbies* like art so long as he isn't distracted from finding a good, solid job he can settle into. So what does he draw? His own alien family portrait. Over and over, he portrays three aliens in an embrace with their foreheads resting against each other. He's imagined beings who share an unspoken empathy on some sort of higher plane of existence because he feels it's lacking in his *human* family." They arrived at their rental car, and for a full thirty seconds, Scully said nothing. She stared at Mulder with arms folded and a bemused expression on her face. Then she conceded: "Well...while I'm not sure that Evan's drawings are that transparent, I think we're agreed on one point. We both think Evan Truman's disappearances can be explained by something other than abduction. It looks like today is our day for historic moments." "Guess we'd better enjoy it then," Mulder quipped, tired but grateful that Scully was at least willing to banter with him on this one. "So how should we mark the moment?" Scully countered without missing a beat. "Interview the park ranger about unexplained sightings in the Gilbert Lake area, or canvas a few more Laurens residents about Evan Truman's record of alleged abductions?" "Scully, has anyone ever told you you're a real party animal?" "Nope." She grinned. "I didn't think so." He grinned back. U.S. Postal Service Malcolm Fine sat in his usual place behind the counter at the post office and stared numbly at the poster on the facing wall which advertised the new stamps. Although his gaze had been fixed on that same wall for nearly half an hour, he hadn't noticed the wildflowers, berries, or historical figures that an anonymous artist had captured in miniature. He registered nothing in his outward field of vision. How could he, when his insides were collapsing? It occured to him that he could just close fifteen minutes early and go home. Mechanically, he stirred from his introspection and began to move toward the entrance in order to lock up. But as luck would have it, he would be denied his chance to retreat and grieve privately. The two FBI agents whom he recognized from earlier in the afternoon, and who had spent their day asking questions about Evan Truman, were headed straight up the walkway to the post office. Mr. Fine acknowledged their approach with a wave, but he couldn't muster a smile. The lady FBI agent seemed to notice the change, and gave him a curious look as they entered the post office. Her partner spoke first. "Mr. Fine? I'm Agent Mulder and this is my partner, Agent Scully. We're investigating the disappearance of Evan Truman and we've been told you know a great deal about the local community. We'd like to ask you a few questions." "Although, if this is a bad time..." Agent Scully added, still regarding him oddly. Mr. Fine saw her partner glance at her questioningly. "I'll tell you what I can...." Mr. Fine stammered hoarsely, struggling to maintain his composure. "It's a small town, and I've lived here my whole life...I guess that means I know as much as anyone does about the people in Laurens. The only other person who's lived here as long as I have...she...Sadie...Sadie Devereaux died, not three-quarters of an hour ago..." After a brief, uncomfortable pause, Agent Scully said, "We're sorry for your loss." "I just spoke with her this afternoon...she was telling me about her college days, on account of her old roommate sent her a postcard..." Mr. Fine continued softly. The two agents looked at each other again. Then Agent Mulder asked: "Mr. Fine, would it be easier for you if we came back tomorrow?" Lost in thought for a moment, Mr. Fine shook himself and answered: "No, I can talk to you now. There's not much to tell about Evan, anyway -- not anything that you haven't figured out, most likely. In spite of the stories, my guess is that Evan just ran away again." "You guess?" Agent Scully repeated his choice of words. "He's pretty good at disappearing, so there's no way for anyone to tell what he's really up to." "But have his disappearances corresponded to any unexplained or unusual phenomena?" Agent Mulder pressed him. "Unusual?" "Some of the townspeople claim that there have been strange lights in the sky near Gilbert Lake on past occasions when Evan Truman has disappeared. Have you yourself ever seen anything similar in this region?" Agent Mulder explained. "With all due respect, you can see just about anything in the night sky up here. I've seen comets, meteors, more stars than I could count...maybe there have been lights near Gilbert Lake, but nothing I've ever seen made me think the Martians had landed." "Do you recall *any* significant or noteworthy events that coincided with the dates of Evan Truman's previous absences?" Agent Scully probed further. "No, they were just ordinary days...like any other. Maybe that was part of the problem." The two agents glanced at each other briefly as if this was a conclusion they had already anticipated. They seemed to have heard all that they needed. Mr. Fine could see in Agent Scully's stance an impatience and eagerness to depart that was just barely contained by the dictates of professionalism. Agent Mulder nodded awkwardly at Mr. Fine and said: "Thank you for your assistance. And...our condolences..." When the agents left, Mr. Fine carried out his nightly routine of closing the post office. Gathering up his own, few pieces of mail, he switched out the lights and made his way next door. He crossed the unkempt lawn and stepped up creaking wooden steps to the expansive front porch in silence. He let himself into the house and sat down on his couch, still numb. It was hard to accept. He had known Sadie for nearly forty years. They had been good friends, nothing more...and yet 'friend' seemed so inadequate to describe the place she had held in his life. Especially when he considered what it felt like to know that this place was now empty. Mr. Fine would have preferred to sit alone that evening, and reflect upon his memories of Sadie Devereaux, but the closeness of small-town life encroached upon him. It wasn't that the people themselves were unwelcome. He appreciated the fact that Velma Gordon brought him dinner, and that Pastor Phelps called to check in on him. He knew that he would be touched by the concern that his neighbors had for his sensitivities... if he could feel anything. It was just the intrusions themselves that were tiring. At last, around 8:30, Mr. Fine found himself alone. With a slow and measured step, he went to his hall closet and opened the door. Greeted by years of accumulated clutter, he searched through a few dusty cardboard boxes until he found a black, leather-bound photo album. He eyed his tome of memories as wistfully as if it were a long-lost friend. Clutching it against his chest with his left arm, Mr. Fine made his way back to the couch in his living room. Only the creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet disturbed the silence in his house. Once settled on the sofa, he lifted open the cover of the photo album and gazed down at the black-and-white images that were distilled moments from his past. On the very first page was a portrait he and his wife had had done shortly after their first wedding anniversary. He felt his heart beat against his chest, as if it were straining to reach out of his body toward his wife's image. Several pages of their early years together followed, evoking memories of holidays, gatherings with friends, and the trials of establishing their household as a young couple. And throughout so many of the photos, Sadie's face mingled with the others that beamed out at him. Again, the beating of his heart surged out of grief. He turned yet another page and was greeted by the smiling faces of men with whom he had served in Korea, posed outside the small Tokyo hotel where they had stayed while on leave. Two had never made it back from Korea. Poor Jimmy! He'd had to fight the prejudices of the day to be able to enlist, and his reward for that effort had been...well, Mr. Fine didn't consider it a reward at all, although some soldiers still believed it was an honor to die for one's country. Beat....beat... As for the others, Mr. Fine realized that besides himself only one man from the photograph was still alive, albeit happily settled in Arizona. He stared distantly out his window into the darkened night sky, and was vaguely aware of the labored humming of the refrigerator in his kitchen. As he glanced back down to the photo album, he was struck by something curious on his coffee table. He focused with greater attention, and was struck by an oddly-familiar image peeking out from beneath his monthly phone bill. Tentatively, he nudged the bill off of the top of the stack to have a better look. There amid his usual, mundane correspondence rested a brightlycolored postcard advertising none other than the Hotel Sakura in Tokyo. He could hardly imagine that the place was still in business...it had been over forty years... Beat. Beat. Beat. With trembling hands he turned the postcard over to learn who had sent it. Had Morgan's family been willing to let him leave Arizona for a vacation in Japan? And if they had, why hadn't Morgan called to invite him? It could have been an honest-to-goodness reunion. But as he read the message inscribed on the back of the postcard, he was jolted out of his wistful musings about a reunion by a realization that shook him to the core. "...Wishing You Were Here...signed...Jimmy Wong..." "...oh my God..." Home of Malcolm Fine "According to the coroner's initial examination of the body, there were no signs of wrongful death or suicide, Mulder, so I'm not sure what we're looking for here." Mulder continued examining the space where the old postal worker's body had been found that morning after he had failed to show up at work. As he scanned the furniture, the light fixtures, the floorboards, windows and ceiling for evidence of anything unusual, he addressed his partner's reservations. "Don't you think it's odd that within the space of twenty-four hours, two residents would die in a town with a population of 1,200? Isn't the timing coincidental -- right when we arrived to investigate a possible abduction that one of the victims insisted was a hoax?" "Victims? Mulder, while I'll admit that Mr. Fine's death followed unusually quickly after Mrs. Devereaux's, in both cases the evidence points to natural causes. Most likely what we're looking at are two close friends, both of advanced age, and the death of one caused a shock to the other that ultimately proved fatal. I know the explanation may be unsatisfying, but in most efforts to determine cause of death there are usually unresolved questions." Mulder paused amid his scrutiny of the materials on the coffee table, left as they had been when a fellow postal worker had found Mr. Fine that morning. He cast a plaintive glance over his shoulder to Scully and asked: "Aren't you the least bit curious? This investigation is only just starting to get interesting." "Whether or not either of us is curious isn't the point, Mulder. Let me put it this way: do *you* want to write the field report that explains to Skinner why the demise of two elderly residents of a small town, whose deaths have been attributed to natural causes, merits an FBI investigation?" Scully prompted him. "Oh sure. It sounds bad when *you* say it," Mulder replied in impeccable dead-pan. The irreverent bravado with which her partner often approached their disagreements elicited a smirk from Scully, and she sighed: "All right. Do you have a working theory...some sort of idea about what you think you'll find by investigating Mr. Fine's home....?" Mulder grimaced in frustration. Leave it to Scully to bring logic into this. But even *he* was forced to admit that his gut feeling about the timing of Mr. Fine's death was waning. When he didn't reply, she pressed her point. "I know that some of the circumstances surrounding Mr. Fine's death may seem strange. But in this case, I think we should leave it up to his friends and family to try to place it in perspective. The only X-File here is human mortality, Mulder...and I think that's beyond the purview of our investigations." Mulder straightened up and stared down at Scully in mock defiance. "Maybe," he conceded, then added stubbornly: " *This* time." Scully rolled her eyes and made her way toward the front door, knowing that Mulder had relented. As he moved to follow Scully out of the room, Mulder brushed against the coffee table and inadvertently swept a postcard onto the floor. He bent down to retrieve it and spent a fleeting moment admiring the vivid tableau. Flipping it over, he saw the Tokyo postmark and remarked to himself with quiet chagrin: "Even a dead man gets more interesting mail than I do." He set the postcard back down on the coffee table and lingered a moment more in Mr. Fine's living room before leaving to catch up with his partner. She was already poised to open the driver-side door when Mulder noticed a brooding figure approaching from down the road. He gestured toward the solitary youth and said: "Hey Scully...does he look familiar?" Scully directed her attention toward the individual approaching slowly along the sidewalk. Although it was difficult to see his face because he trod forward with his head hung low, there was no mistaking his resemblance to the photograph of Evan Truman that was included in their case file. The two partners glanced at each other briefly, and then moved to intercept the young man. Mulder addressed him when they drew closer. "Excuse me, are you Evan Truman?" The youth nodded silently, with a somewhat muddled, disoriented expression on his face. Reaching into his jacket, Mulder withdrew his badge and flashed it briefly at Evan. He continued: "I'm Agent Mulder and this is my partner, Agent Scully. We're with the FBI, and we'd like to ask you a few questions." Evan seemed completely dumbfounded. "What did I do?" he stammered. Scully stepped in and explained gently but firmly: "A lot of people have been worried about you, Evan. Where have you been for the past five days?" The panicked expression that had crossed his face when Mulder had identified them as FBI agents now wilted into an awkward sheepishness that seemed to betray a guilty conscience. Evan struggled unsuccessfully to answer Scully. "I...uh...I was..." "Evan," Scully interrupted him, in a patient tone of voice that nonetheless conveyed a hint of reprimand, "Were you abducted by aliens?" Mulder turned his head aside momentarily as he strove to prevent himself from betraying a bemused smile. He knew this tone of voice all too well, and doubted that Evan was made of the stuff to be able to withstand it. Evan grimaced uncomfortably and shifted as though he might flee in the opposite direction. But after a few moments, he replied simply: "I just went away for awhile." "Did you tell anyone where you were going?" Scully continued, since Mulder seemed content to let her handle the interrogation. "No." "Why not?" "Because if I did...my dad would just say 'Not on a school night' and ride my ass about my grades," Evan muttered, and then added, casting an apologetic look at Scully, "Oh, uh, sorry. I mean he'd yell at me." "So...why the story about alien abduction, then?" Scully asked. "I dunno," Evan mumbled and cast his glance downward once again. Scully sighed and turned to her partner. The look in her eyes suggested that it was about time he stepped in. "When we interviewed your parents, we had the chance to look at some of your artwork," Mulder remarked lightly. "You're pretty good." "Uh...thanks," Evan managed to reply, in spite of the fact that he seemed uncomfortable with the thought of a stranger perusing his sketches. "How do you decide what to draw?" "I dunno...I just draw stuff I see..." Mulder raised his eyebrows slightly. "Have you ever seen an extraterrestrial?" Evan paused for awhile, before admitting reluctantly, "No." "But you wish you could?" "Uh....no. I guess not. Well, maybe. I don't know, really." "Then why do you draw them?" For a brief instant, Evan seemed confused, and then he realized which sketches Mulder was referring to. An expression of overwhelming embarassment spread across his face, and he explained sheepishly: "Oh, those...those are kind of family portraits." "Do you wish your parents were different...that they were extraterrestrials?" Mulder inquired gently. "My parents *are* aliens. They're totally from another planet or something. I just wish they'd listen to me," Evan declared in exasperation. At this point, Scully decided that their involvement in the matter was no longer warranted and that it would best be handled by local officials...and perhaps a good counselor. She drew out her cell phone and said to Evan: "I'm going to let the sheriff know that you're okay, so that he can contact your parents. Maybe if you talk to them, they'll listen." Evan merely shrugged, unhappily resigned to the prospect of confronting his parents. Mulder observed him with sympathy. His training in psychology summoned up a diagnosis of the family's problems, and his own personal experiences flooded his mind with a thousand possible words of advice. None of which, Mulder knew, would achieve the intended effect. Not when delivered by a stranger about to leave town. The sheriff pulled up beside the curb within five minutes. As Mulder and Scully prepared to depart he voiced his thanks for their assistance, and assured them that the folks in Laurens would look after Evan. Moved by memories of the oppressive sense of estrangement that had haunted his own family, Mulder allowed himself to offer one, sincere insight to Evan: "Things might not seem very good right now. But someday you might recognize that there are people who are as important to you as your family...and in time, they might even help you to understand your parents...and yourself." As Mulder had expected, Evan appeared to be unimpressed by the statement. Scully, however, looked over at him intently. As Mulder turned his eyes toward hers, the expression on her faced softened as if it were a gentle caress. He knew she would understand. They started back toward their vehicle, and for awhile neither spoke. At last, Mulder attempted to lighten the mood. "So, Scully...did this qualify as getting out of the damn car and having a normal life?" he asked. "You ask right as we're about to get back *in* the car and start all over again..." Scully noted ironically. "Well, for a little while, then." As they continued toward their rental car at a relaxed pace, Scully considered the question silently for a few moments, before murmuring thoughtfully: "Yes, actually it *was* a nice departure from the usual fare of mutants and conspiracies. We may not have accomplished anything here, but as a detour into the ordinary, it was kind of refreshing." Mulder nodded slightly, his eyes fixed somewhere in the distance ahead of them. They proceeded in a comfortable silence for several moments before he added a final, heartfelt remark: "Hey Scully...thanks for coming along for the ride." EPILOGUE Home of Fox Mulder After jiggling his keys in the stubborn lock for a few minutes, Mulder succeeded in opening his front door, glad to be back from his visit to the Smithsonian. Although he always found it edifying that there was now a complete wing on extra-terrestrial anthropology (his work with Scully had achieved some vindication, at least), he cringed every time he heard a pre-schooler squeal with joy at the Abduction Simulation ride. A very dark period in human history had been converted into Disney-style entertainment the ultimate smokescreen for the truth. People now acknowledged that it had happened...described the exploitative experiments on abductees as "regrettable"...but were already rationalizing the horrors with a less-painful mythology about the "inevitable dislocations and misconceptions" that marred humanity's entry into the 'Interplanetary Age'. Mulder ruefully wondered whether there was anyone left who could understand the events he had witnessed in his life... In the midst of his brooding, Mulder nearly slipped on a thin, Fed Ex letter pack that lay on the floor just inside the entryway. He shook the Fed Ex envelope and its contents fluttered down onto the coffee table: A postcard. An old-fashioned postcard, like those that people used to send to each other in the twentieth century when on vacation. He hadn't thought that these were even manufactured anymore. Mulder bent over, picked it up and examined the image on the picture side. It was an old, black-and-white photograph of Elvis in his early years. Furrowing his brow, Mulder wondered whether it had been sent to him from a museum collection. He turned the card over, and was surprised to see a handwritten message...in an elegant penmanship that was almost as familiar to him as his own. Barely able to believe his eyes, he read along: Dear Mulder, There is so much I want to share with Wishing You Were Here, Dumbstruck, Mulder sat down in his chair. Scully. It had been six months since he'd lost her. He remembered it vividly. On the morning of that day, he had been called back in to the Bureau as a consultant on a case that had left even the best agents baffled. And as he had so many times in the past twenty years, the A.D. supervising the investigation Skinner's successor -- called Mulder for assistance. The last words Scully ever said to him had been her usual, teasing admonition as he headed out the door: "Don't make me come chasing after you, Mulder. I don't want to get a call and learn that you've disappeared at a remote Air Force base." When he had returned in the evening, he had found Scully dead in their living room, in the very chair upon which he now sat, with the latest study on alien immunology in her lap. In *Their* living room. Although they had never married, when they retired from the Bureau they had performed an odd ritual, which began with moving to the same district, then the same street, until finally Scully had just moved in with him. Mulder thought back to one of the first nights after Scully had taken up residence with him in the summer of '32. Without even pondering the question, they had both concluded that they would share a bed. Once they had made the initial decision to share a home, it had seemed less a decision than a matter of course. Yet he recalled how profoundly Scully had touched him by her reply to his jokes about two decrepit old geezers getting naked. Scully had looked down at her wrinkled hands, her body grown somewhat frail and unsteady with age, and smiled proudly. When she had brought her eyes back up to his, her reply took his breath away: "Mulder, these wrinkles and stiff joints are my trophies. They're signs of success. I'm *alive*. I'm *still alive*. Show me a woman who never ages, never suffers from the slightest blemish, and I'll show you a woman who died of cancer before she turned thirty-five." Although he smiled to think back on it all, tears began to form in his eyes. It was as though the warmth of so many fond memories had become a fierce heat radiating out from his brain, and he could not but weep lest the flames sear away his vision. After a few moments, Mulder shook himself out of his reverie and looked back down at the postcard. Was this someone's idea of a joke? Or had Scully found a way to haunt him from beyond the grave? In spite of his belief in apparitions, he couldn't accept the latter possibility. He was fairly certain that Scully would refuse to participate in anything like a haunting, if only because her own visitations would constitute proof of the existence of ghosts. Mulder imagined her rejecting it on a matter of principle, and laughed. Besides, if she *did* agree to come back and haunt him, he would have expected something more familiar, and thus sure to get his attention. When had either of them ever encountered an apparition that made use of the postal service? Postcards. Slowly an even more distant memory began to surface...something about postcards. 1999...Laurens, New York... Postcards...from the dead? "I don't believe it," Mulder murmured aloud, "There *was* an XFile. We just didn't see it." The revelation almost made him laugh. They'd *missed* one. With all of the cases they'd investigated...it had been right before their eyes...and they'd missed it! He began to laugh again. Finally, he understood...and knowing what was to come, he couldn't help seeing the humor in the fact that his first greeting to Scully would involve a theory about an overlooked, long-unsolved case. I dare you to argue with me on *this* one Scully. Fox Mulder grinned to himself, his eyes twinkling as they hadn't in over six months. He had no doubt that she *would* argue...and he couldn't wait. Of all the things that had made Scully dear to him in his life, he knew he missed this the most. Mulder closed his eyes and slept. Home of Fox Mulder William Scully III grew concerned. He had knocked for over ten minutes at Mr. Mulder's door but there was still no answer. Ever since his aunt's death in the spring, he had taken it upon himself to check in on Mr. Mulder periodically. For although it had irked his own father to no end, Bill knew that at some point his aunt's partner had become part of the family. Digging through his pockets, Bill found his keys and let himself in. "Hello? Mr. Mulder?" he announced his presence hesitantly. He advanced into the house but froze when his gaze turned to the living room. There in the same chair that had been his aunt's favorite reading place was the immobile form of Mr. Mulder. Sadly, his heart heavy with compassion for this man who had been so devoted to his aunt, Bill walked over and knelt down for a closer look. From the rigidity of the body, it must have happened sometime yesterday. Noticing something clutched in Mr. Mulder's left hand, he tugged at it a few times until he was able to free it from the dead man's grip. A blank postcard. Bill examined it briefly, then set it down on the coffee table and went to make the necessary calls to break the news. The End "Scully...it's me." |