*Eleven*
Three Days Later
It took some convincing to get Mulder to leave the case in the hands of Fort Dodge authorities, but the Bureau would not let us stay there any longer than necessary, and he had no concrete proof of necessity. Just a couple of vivid – okay, very vivid, Mulder – dreams. So we returned to Washington, and stamped "Solved" on the file folder.
Now I know Mulder is usually right about these things, but I can honestly I felt resolved when we got back. Everything added up, with the evidence pointing to the archetypal small-town psycho, and my curiosity regarding the night with Darren and Daniel had been quieted because of it. I went home and took a very long bath.
No sooner did I emerge from the bathroom than I heard a familiar knock at the door. I tied on my robe and went to let him in.
"Scully, I don't want to bother you but I – oh. Sorry, I guess it's a bad time," he said, noticing my state of undress.
"No, it's okay Mulder," why do I always ... "Come on in."
Mulder hesitated, then crossed the threshold. "I found this old X-File from 1949. It's incredible – the case is exactly the same. Only it's from Austin, Minnesota." He showed me the file, and I noticed the stamp on the cover.
"Mulder, it was solved," I informed him.
"I know, just like this one. But look – " (he pulled out a photograph) " – who does that look like?"
I studied it for a moment. "Oh my god ... it's Darren."
"Pretty spry for a man of seventy-five, wouldn't you say?"
"But it's impossible."
"Impossible," he sighed. "You always say that. Every single time. And every single time it's the only conclusion we can arrive at. Haven't you learned anything from working with me?"
"Mulder, it could be his grandfather."
He shook his head sadly. "Sometimes I think you don't believe in me." He produced a two records of fingerprints, one an original and one a computer printout. "In all your years as a scientist you still haven't been able to coerce genetics to account for identical fingerprints."
"What do you want me to say, ‘Oh, alright Mulder, I'll abandon the perfectly reasonable solution that Derrick Geffen is a loony who has a talent for engaging in loony behaviour, i.e. murder ...'? Why can't you ever accept things for being slightly more mundane than you'd like? Why does it always have to fill you up like this? Can't you just take a moment to surface from your pile of paper and breathe?" Mulder was looking slightly crushed, so I softened my tone. "All I'm saying is that ... you are an amazingly devoted person, and it's hard to watch you throw your heart into something that you're never satisfied with. It's never over."
The solemness that had been hovering between our faces finally landed on his. "I don't want it to be over," he said.
"Then how can you move on?"
"I don't want to move on." He was beginning to get that look in his eyes, that look that he gave me just before he tried to kiss me in the hallway and that terrible bee intervened. I looked from his eyes to his mouth and back to his eyes. He's so absorbed it's exhausting. He really can't move on, and it wouldn't help him to do that. He has to put his whole soul into finding that beautiful, ever-elusive truth, or he feels nothing. I know this, but I get frustrated sometimes.
I opened my mouth like I was going to tell him to go, hoping he would interrupt me with a kiss. He didn't, though. So I had to say it.
"I think you should go home ... and leave this for tomorrow."
And he did.
vamoose!