A FRESH START
by Blackwood
entreamis@yahoo.com

RATING: PG-13
CATEGORY: Vignette, Pre-Scully!Mulder
SPOILERS: Pilot, Lazarus, The End
ARCHIVE: Gossamer, Ephemeral, Others please ask. 
SUMMARY: Mulder gets a new partner...like it or not.
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to 1013 Productions and Chris
Carter.  No infringement intended.  No profit made.
   
~*~*~

March 1992

I hate Blevins.

A kiss-ass all the way through his uneventful career, he uses 
people like toilet paper and gets away with it.  Everybody knows 
it.  When Blevins says he wants to see you, you can be sure you're 
gonna get shafted, one way or the other.

Maybe it's the job.  You gotta be tough to work Violent Crimes.  
Some say he used to be a crack analyst back in the day -- a big 
dick, so to speak. And V.C. agents are a tough bunch, the brawlers 
of investigative work.  They see it all and still sleep at night.  
Sure as shit I don't fit in there.  I get squeamish real easy and 
nightmares are routine.

Everybody saw my transfer to the section as a promotion, but I 
knew better.  Used to say, "Mulder's the name, Behavioral's my 
game," which is jack stupid, but true.  Behavioral was home.  It's 
where I made my mark and planned to stay.  Sure, I hated 
Patterson, but I admired him.   Scratch that.  I wanted to top 
Patterson and he knew it.  That's when it got ugly.

So here I sit, one foot pumping the floor while I puff an aimless 
tune through pursed lips, waiting for permission to head down the 
hall.  Blevins loves head games.  Insists on punctuality, then 
always makes you wait.  I'm already losing patience waiting to see 
a man I despise.  This is not good.

Add to that the rain pounding the windows -- a hard, driving rain 
that still carries winter's sting.  Good thing I wore my trench 
today.  It's new; a consolation gift to myself after getting the 
divorce papers.  They arrived a few weeks ago -- February 14, 
1992, to be exact.  Terrific Valentine's Day gift, Diana.  I would 
have settled for dinner and half-hearted sex, just for old time's 
sake.

Six years together isn't a lifetime, but it was my one and only 
marriage.  We met at a party.  Diana was writing her doctoral 
thesis, teaching Psych at American.  I liked her.  She was older 
and seemed to have it all together.  I liked that, too.  She cut 
through my usual pick-up lines with laser-like precision which 
impressed the hell out of me.  We were living together within a 
matter of weeks.

A J.P. married us a week before she entered the academy. We were 
assigned different sections, but we helped each other out.  I 
reviewed the profiles on *her* terrorists and she; she kept me 
sane.  My zeal as a profiler meant kudos for the Bureau, but left 
me an emotional train wreck.  Diana supported me through the worst 
of it, days when I wouldn't eat and couldn't sleep.  She was the 
one who suggested we might find something useful in the basement 
archives while I was writing the Occult Monograph.  When we 
stumbled on the X-files, she was more excited than I was.

I met Heitz Werber at a conference and once I started regression
hypnotherapy, I admit things with Diana got wonky.  Still, you can 
imagine my surprise when she turned to me over dinner one night 
and said, "We need a break from each other."  What are we?  
College kids?  We're married; took the vows 'til death, not until 
we need a break.  She moved out.  A month later she was in Europe.  
Did she really need to put an ocean between us?

I'll say this for Diana: she always lands on her feet.  In a 
little over six months, we'd ironed out a property agreement and 
our bed and board divorce was executed.  Virginia law says I can't 
remarry, but it also says I'm technically single.  Go figure.  I 
bought a new sofa and donated the bedroom set to Goodwill.  In 
short, I was a bachelor again.

Zippity-doo-dah.

Blevins' secretary, Renita, turns to me after hanging up the 
phone.  "He'll see you now," she says.  I unwind myself from the 
chair and fix my tie.  As I pass her desk, she calls my name.  I 
stop and look her in the eye.  She gives me her "get serious" nod.  
Great.

I note the title "Section Chief" on the door before knocking once 
and letting myself in.  Gotta stay cool.  "Have a seat," Blevins 
invites, though it sounds more like an order.  I comply.

Scott Blevins is middle-aged, though he looks older.  A native 
Texan, he used his college deferment to avoid Vietnam, graduating 
in the bottom half of an ivied class without distinction.  Family 
strings landed him an administrative stint at the Pentagon where 
he acquired a taste for bourbon and firearms.  He entered the 
Bureau in his late thirties, gaining some notoriety and respect as 
a Bulldog who got the job done.  Word is his hair did a Steve 
Martin in his twenties and his ass blossomed after he became a 
desk jockey.  He doesn't smoke, but I know he keeps a bottle of 
J.D. in a locked cabinet in a corner of his office.  Loves golf, 
his Jag, his mistress and his wife -- in that order. 

"Agent Mulder," he begins, saying my name as if he doesn't know 
it, which is bullshit because wide-eyed cadets at the Academy know 
the name Spooky Mulder.  I have to say I'm a legend in my own 
time.  The fact that no one would trade places with me for a day 
tells you something though.  "We've been reviewing your work as of 
late."  He pauses, trying to appear authoritarian.

"We?"  He still waits, prompting me to add, "And?"  I mean, get 
with the program.  Speak your piece and let me out of this 
pissantine office.  He, of course, only hears my monosyllabic 
questions.  And yeah, I do run on in my head like this.  It's 
nonstop Mulder, 24/7.

"Your work on the X-Files, while filling a certain niche within 
the framework of Federal investigations, no longer appears to be 
meeting guidelines for maintaining its operational status."

Is he speaking English?  All I hear is the drone of a worker bee.
"I've solved a number of cold cases, sir."

"Yes, but that's only because developing technology has provided 
means to do so."

I shift in my seat and exhale.  "This is a problem?"  And just 
what serial killers have you brought to justice?  I, on the other 
hand, have done so not once, but several times.  That's what makes 
me valuable.  You?

"We have departments cleaning up cold cases on a regular basis, 
Agent.  The Bureau certainly appreciates your freelancing with 
V.C. and Behavioral from time to time."

"My work with Behavioral is substantial.  The monographs--"

"You're an excellent profiler, which is my point, exactly."

I just sit, staring at him while biting the inside of my cheek.  
What the fuck does he want?  "I can do more work with other 
departments."

"I'm afraid that won't be sufficient."

For what?  "My latest reviews from co-operating SAC's have been
excellent."  I lean forward, hands splayed towards Blevins.  "I 
assisted in the capture of Mackensie Abrams and helped close the
kidnapping case on Bade Patrick Wilson."

"I'm aware of your latest successes.  It's your current choice of 
assignment that's the issue."

"Sir, I was offered my choice of assignment just last year."

"Your solve rate with Violent Crimes warranted that the offer be 
made."  

"And I personally requested the X-Files."

Blevins sits forward in his chair, the hands clasped in front of 
him sliding towards me.  "Quite frankly, we had hoped you'd grow 
tired of that division and put your full-time talents to better 
use elsewhere."

"It's still a bona fide division of the Bureau."

"A very tiny division."

Tiny -- as in one agent assigned: me.  Tell me something I don't 
know.  "I have an interest in the subject matter."

"Yes, of course, but your skills could be better used towards the 
greater good."

"The greater good?"  Is he kidding?

"Yes.  I assume you joined the Bureau to serve society."  He tilts 
his head and arches a brow at me.

I'm supposed to feel guilty, but I don't.  I sit back in my chair,
look away and back, steamed at what I know is coming.  I've heard it
before.  "My work serves a purpose."

"And what would that be?"

Heat is rising in my face, but I hold my temper and his gaze.  I'm
thinking about Samantha -- how this agency couldn't or wouldn't do
whatever it took to find her.  Blevins is watching me, waiting.  Yeah,
you'd love me to blow my cool, wouldn't you?  Spooky Mulder loses it
and decks a Section Chief.  That would make this entire conversation
superfluous.  Instead, I look down at my hands and with deliberate care
remind, "You said I had free rein.  I thought you meant it."  

"Agent," Blevins says in an ameliorating way, "I know the terms of 
our agreement.  I'm not planning to dishonor it."

"Good."  I return my gaze to his.

"There does, however, have to be a change in the way your investigations
are carried out if you are to continue."

I flash him my 'oh really?' look.

"Frankly," he continues, "Some of your 302's are highly questionable."

"Then why do you approve them?"

"I'm simply saying that we have an obligation to the taxpayers to 
demonstrate that the expenses incurred during your investigations 
are legitimate."

My mouth, like my patience, is pressed thin.  I pause before 
asking, "Are you suggesting they're not?"

"I'm suggesting that your reports for the X-files follow the same 
guidelines as those for other divisions."

"You mean, by the book."
 
"For your own good."  He sounds sincere, but I know better.

"Fine," I say and begin to rise.  "We're done, right?"

"One more thing."  Blevins tone is actually assertive.  Okay, so 
he's caught me by surprise.  Nice move, actually, catching Spooky off
guard.  He opens a desk drawer and pulls out what I know to be personnel 
folder.  I stay standing to keep things rolling.  "Ever since Agent
Fowley left on assignment to Europe, you've been on your own."

"I don't mind."

"It's not usual."

"I *said* I don't mind."

"Agents are paired for a reason."  Thick as brick, this one.

"I get that, but like I said, I prefer-- working-- alone."
 
Blevins scowls.  He gives a little snort and picks up the file on 
the desk.  He stands and holds it out towards me, his mouth set.  
Now I get it.

"Who?" I say with open disdain, eyes narrowing.  Anyone who would 
accept an assignment with me and my rep is gonna be unbearable.  
Of course, if they're green enough, they won't have a say in the 
matter.  Sounds like fun for someone wanting to watch Fox Mulder 
go off on an unsuspecting fellow agent.

"Her name is Dana Scully."

I grab the extended file and turn without looking inside.  At the 
door, I pause.  "When?" I ask without turning my head.

"Tomorrow.  She's finishing her assignment at Quantico.  Then 
she'll be properly assigned to the X-Files."

"She doesn't know yet?"  I turn at that, my surprise and annoyance 
clear.

"She's been told an assignment is being secured on her behalf.  
She'll be given the details at her briefing."

"Does she know anything about para-science?"

"She's a forensic pathologist.  Came into the Bureau out of 
medical school."

I chuff at that. "Has she worked in the field at all?"  I'm in no 
mood to break anybody in, let alone explain why I do what I do or 
how I do it.

"Some.  She's a trained investigator with a good record at 
Quantico."  

Record of what?  How many A.D. hand jobs she can offer on her way up
the ladder?  "Why her?"

"I'm not aware of how Agent Scully was selected for the 
assignment."  That's unlikely.

"Does she know what the X-Files are?"

"I'm leaving it to you to explain.  I think you have the most at 
stake, if you take my meaning."

Yeah.  My chain is being yanked.  "There's no room down there," 
I say, shaking my head while vying for control.

"Agent Scully will be given a desk in the bullpen.  She will 
accompany you on all X-file investigations and provide reports on 
your progress."  

"I'm sure she will."  Like a good little spy.

"Don't misunderstand, agent.  This is a gift, not a punishment.  
The Director wanted the unit dissolved, but I was given some 
latitude to assist you."

"By who?"  The file in my right hand is tapping impatience into my 
left.  Blevins is a soldier, a high-ranking soldier, but a soldier 
nonetheless.  Matheson?  Doubtful.  His support is limited and, 
always, incognito.

"Someone in the Bureau.  Someone who's asked not to be named."

"A silent benefactor."  

"It's not unheard of."

Of course not.  Happens every day in every organization, every 
company, every school in America.  Favoritism.  But I'm nobody's 
favorite.  So...who wants me indebted?  That's the question.  
Sharp little pangs are beginning to eat at my insides.

"So, it's set," I say.

"You can always opt for another division."  Fuck that and fuck 
you, you prick.  Blevins stands straighter and looks me dead in 
the eye.  "Now we're done."

I pull the door behind me harder than I intend.  When I reach the 
outer office, I run a hand over my face, waiting for the latest 
stomach churn to subside.  Renita looks up.

"You okay?" she asks.

She's not to blame -- just a hired hand with a foul boss.  "Yeah,
I'm great," I reply.  "You got any antacid?"

She looks at me over the top of her half-frames with those soulful 
eyes black women always seem to have.  She opens a desk drawer and 
pulls out a mother of a container.  "Agent, after you've worked in 
this place as long as I have, you learn to be prepared."  She pops 
open the cap and shakes out a number of tablets into her palm.  
"Take 'em. You need 'em."

"Thanks," I respond, letting her tumble the pills into my hand 
before I leave the suite.  I down four immediately, crunching them 
between my teeth as I head towards the elevator.  They taste 
chalky, like stale candy.  The rest I shove in my pocket.  

I step into an empty elevator, punch the S1 button and move to the 
back.  I roll my neck just to launch the mini string of Chinese 
firecrackers that resides there.  God help me.  What I absolutely 
do *not* need in my life right now is someone poking around my 
space and reporting back to Blevins.  Or whomever.

The doors slide open and a group of women enters.  I recognize a 
few as agents in V.C.  One, whose name escapes me, asks, "How's 
life?" and I reply, "Couldn't be better."  Mercifully, that's the 
extent of our conversation.  All but one leave at the cafeteria 
level.  Cute, but young.  Probably an intern. 

"Hi," she says, flashing a smile at me.

"Hey," I reply with a brief smile and nod, then look away.

She leaves at the lobby and I breathe a sigh of relief.  Women are
attracted to me.  I know that.  Only, frankly, they confuse me like
nothing else.  Even an Oxford education hasn't enlightened me on that score.

As a profiler, I'm adept with both male and female criminal 
mindsets.  It's a heinous gift and it's all mine.  But ordinary 
women?  No clue.  I'm drawn to them, but have no idea how to keep 
them happy.  Diana is just the latest example of my incapacity for 
relationship.  She called me Puer Aeternus once -- the Eternal 
Boy.  Maybe she's right.

I walk into my office and stand dead center.  I've always been 
territorial and the feeling in this space comforts me.  There's 
definitely not enough room for two agents.

I toss the folder onto to my desk where it skitters across and 
beyond, onto the floor, papers flying.  Damn.  A single sheet 
flies under the desk and in front of me, slipping neatly under the 
tip of my shoe.  That's when I spot the photo stapled to the 
Personal Information page.  I stand looking down at a pretty 
woman.  The fact that I can say she's pretty from the standard mug 
shot you get when you enter the Bureau says a lot.

I stare at the face staring back at me.  She's not my type, but 
I'm curious just the same.  After all, as Billy Crystal once said 
in that chick flick, "You pretty much want to nail 'em all."  
Ain't it the truth?

I gather the papers and sit at my desk, going through them in 
random order.  The phone rings and I pick up.  "Mulder."

"Hey man, how's life at the bottom?"  It's Purdue.

"Don't bust my chops, Reggie."  I prop my feet on the desk and 
lean back in the chair.

"You know I love givin' you a hard time."

"Back 'atcha."   Reggie may have been my supervisor, but he 
turned out to be a pretty good friend, too.

"Amen to that."  He's quiet which means he's got something on his 
mind.  

"You calling just to socialize or is there something you want?"

"Nothin' special.  Denise mentioned she saw you.  Said you looked 
like shit."

"Thanks for the pick me up, Purdue.  Nice of you to call."

"I just want to know if you're okay.  Got your message about 
Diana.  Harsh, man."

"Yeah, well.  What can you do?  Women are a mystery."

"I got two daughters, remember?  Between them and Serena, I can't 
win for losin'.  You should come over for dinner.  Serena's always 
askin' 'bout you."

"Maybe I will."  I extend my free hand and wait for the stretch to reach my back.

"You should.  You're alone too much."

"Actually, I've just gotten a new partner."

"Who?"

I swivel until I can reach the folder.  Propping it in my lap, I 
open it.  "Name's Scully."  I peruse the neatly typed information 
beside the photo.  

"Who?"

"Some pathologist over at Quantico."

"Any good?"

"I dunno.  She's taught some courses.  Been slicin' and dicin' for 
a couple of years." 

"Must be a hoot at parties."  I chuckle at that.  "On the other hand,
I dated a nurse for a while.  She *definitely* knew her anatomy."

"Yours especially, right?"  He laughs softly at the other end of 
the line and I smile.

"Maybe you'll get lucky, Mulder."

I stare up at the two Ticonderogas stuck into the acoustic tile.  
"Lucky is not how I'd describe myself right now."

"You never know."

"Nah," I say with a slight moue and shake of the head.  "The 
assignment came from Blevins."

"Sheeit."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry, man.  You don't deserve half the crap you get."

"And the other half?"

"He-he.  I can't help you with that, but I wish you luck."

"Thanks."  I swing my legs back to the floor.  

"No problem.  So when you comin' over?"

"I'll call you."

"Do that.  And Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Watch your back."

"You too," I reply and hang up the phone feeling somewhat better.

I shuffle through the rest of the folder and pull out what looks
like a school term paper.  Tagged to the vinyl jacket is a sticky note
that reads "sample of original thought" in block letters.  Then I
see the tome's title.  Einstein?  That takes balls.  I open to the
last page and read:

...We are a moment in astronomic time, a transient guest of the 
Earth.  Our wet, wrinkled brains do not allow us to comprehend 
many mysteries of time and space.  Our brains evolved to make us 
run from saber-toothed cats on the American savanna, to hunt deer 
and to efficiently scavenge from the kills of large carnivores.  
Despite our mental limitations, we have come remarkably far.  We 
have managed to pull back the cosmic curtains a crack to let in 
the light.  Questions raised by physicists, from Newton to Kurt 
Godel to Einstein to Stephen Hawking, are among the most profound 
we can ask...

In spite of myself, I'm intrigued.  Flipping back to the 
beginning, I do a quick read, start to finish.  I find myself 
actually pondering some of Dr. Scully's speculations.  Maybe she's 
more open-minded than I think.  An M.D. with forensic experience 
could be a plus in the field, if she keeps her head.  My eyes 
stray back to the photo.  It's hard to tell if she's built, but 
she's gotta be in good shape to be a field agent.  The blouse is 
definitely the ugliest thing I've ever seen, but maybe it was a 
gift.  

She just doesn't seem the femme fatale type, which is what I'd 
expect from Blevins.  Sex me up by sending in some hot number, all 
legs and smoldering appeal.  Get me under their thumb with 
something they can use against me and I'm salvageable.  But this 
woman?  I don't think so.  Then again, maybe the photo is a ruse.  
Maybe I'm supposed to think she's harmless.  Man, I've got a 
headache. 

I shepherd everything back into the folder and open the top desk 
drawer to stow it.  There, looking up at me, is another photo.  
One I put there a while ago.  It's me and Diana, looking nice and 
cozy on our honeymoon.  Funny.  I'm a behavioral specialist, but I 
never saw it coming.  Her leaving, that is.  Guess I never do.  
Phoebe did the same thing to me.  I can even remember the look on
her face when she rolled down the car window and said, "You've 
buggered off for the last time, Mulder."

I look at the image one more time and then I tear it in half.  
Half again and half again until there's a collection of bits and 
shredded pieces on my desktop.  So much for romance.  My stomach 
is grumbling and my head hurts, but it's my heart that's feeling 
it now; like somebody's wrapped a vise around my chest.  

The drawer is closed with a slam.  Fucking pussy, stop it.  Life 
is hard and you have to fight for every inch.  And nobody is 
taking this inch away from me.  I've worked my ass off to get this 
far.  Let 'em send whoever they want.  I won't be deceived.  And I 
will find my sister.

Grabbing Scully's folder, I cross to a work area set against one 
wall.  I toss the folder onto a stack of papers and re-open the 
file I was working on when Blevins called.  It's after hours, but 
there's nothing and no one to go home to these days.  So I work.  
It grounds me.  Always has.

I turn on the light box and the slides on top glow with location 
shots of forested areas in Oregon, South Dakota and Texas along 
with photos of several bodies, all lying face down, all with the 
same unexplained marks on their backs.  Newspaper clippings reveal 
a connection between the Oregon victims.  Classmates.  It isn't 
much, but it's a start.  I chew on the rest of Renita's pills and 
add a cold coffee chaser. 

The details pique my interest.  Classic elements of alien 
abduction abound and I'm already anxious to see the site where the 
bodies have been found.  My stomach is settling, but my head still 
hurts.  I need to sleep before it turns into a migraine.  The case 
can wait until tomorrow.  Shit.  Tomorrow...  

Crossing to the door, I throw on my trench and flick off the 
overheads.  I take a long look at my shadowy office, filled with 
the assorted papers and trappings of my life, such as it is.  I've 
been working alone for nearly a year and doing just fine.  Damn 
Blevins.

I can hear my father saying, "Make the best of it."  Yeah, Dad, I 
will.  Work is work and I always do my job.  Then my new partner's 
image flashes through my mind.  I can hear Mom saying, "Be a 
gentleman, Fox."  Okay, okay.  I'll be a gentleman...until I'm not.

I mean, all's fair, right Diana?  And two can play the spy game.  
My new partner may not believe in extreme possibilities but, according
to her thesis, infinite possibilities are feasible.  Whatever her
agenda, she better be as ready for me as I am for her.

Bring it on, Scully.  Bring it on.

END
April 2007