Title: Anabiosis Author: tangential thinker E-mail: tangential_thinker@yahoo.com Archive: Gossamer, others with permission. Summary: Mulder spills his latest secret. Category: Mulder angst, third person POV Rating: PG-13 For a couple of off color words. Disclaimer: Not mine. Spoilers: US S8, particularly "Dead Alive," and "Three Words" Dedicated to Joan, my college chum, who was a wicked good bartender in her day. "Joan" in the story is the barmaid portrayed by Glenne Headley in "Fight the Future," The X-Files movie. Author's Notes: This was written for the sixth wheel to spin over on Pollyanna's X-Files Lyrics Wheel. For more information, go to http://www.tifling.demon.co.uk/wheel/wheel.htm Many thanks to Marcia Elena for finding a particularly S8 X-Files word! Pregnancy Chatter: The rules of Earth and usual pregnancy hold in this story. Mulder went missing in "mid-May" 2000 and Scully's pregnancy was diagnosed at that time. For the heck of it, I picked May 15, 2000 as the date he went missing. If you pick up a time stamp from "Requiem," let me know. I taped over it accidently, so I used Doggett's comments in "The Gift" to select the date. I used the information in the book What to Expect When You're Expecting by Eisenberg, Murkoff and Hathaway to estimate Scully's date of delivery to be between December 31, 2000 and January 30, 2001. Forty weeks duration on a pregnancy is called typical, but according to the authors, a birth can be termed a full term birth when it occurs between 38 to 42 weeks' gestation. I selected January 15, 2001 as her due date because in this instance, I am TPTB! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Casey's Bar and Grill November 29, 2000 11:27 P.M. "Ana-what??" "Anabiosis." I shake my head and stare at Spooky. He quirks a drunken grin at me, but his eyes are mirthless, bottomless, dark. Lost. All these years, coming into Casey's, I've been serving him drinks, listening to his bullshit stories, and he's finally gone nuts. "Okay, Spooky, I'll bite. What's anabiosis?" I pour him another double scotch on the rocks, plunk the bottle down on the bar. Something new, that. He used to drink tequila //Something new, for a new man he'd smirked.// He lifts the glass, squinting at it, swirls it around in circles, watching the ice spin. His grin fades slowly, his eyes glaze over, focusing on God knows what. At least the grin hid the wounds on his cheeks a little. Now they stand in stark relief against the pallor of his skin. The dim light in the bar doesn't hide them a bit. Dark purple, puckered. He must feel my eyes scanning his face - he looks up quickly, analyzing my face for a reaction; gulps down the scotch. Places the glass back on the counter, folds his hands. Looks over toward the front door. "Hey, Spooky, I'm sorry, it's just..." My lame attempt to apologize falls flat. I could still kick myself for wincing when he first sat down at the bar. "No problem, Joan." He leans over the counter, stage whispers conspiratorially, "I *have* looked worse. And I was about to tell you why. I have recently experienced, or maybe I should say, subjected to, a process called 'anabiosis.'" He leans back, stretches. His shirt collar pulls open, reveals some dark bruises, the edge of a long, red scar. He tilts his head side to side, the bones cracking in protest, takes a deep breath and exhales. Points down for another double. Waits for my cue. "Okay, so you said that already. What *is* anabiosis?" I lean over, pour, then replace the scotch in its regular spot. "Anabiosis is a noun, a word meaning a restoring to life from a deathlike condition; resuscitation. It can also be used to reference a state of suspended animation." Spooky tilts his head to one side, measuring me up, gauging my response. His eyes gleam with a peculiar light and it's not related to alcohol consumption. I lean against the counter and return his stare. Ha, I think. Gotcha there, Mr. FBI Man. I haven't been a bartender this long and not have a great poker face. I need an unbreakable poker face for this newest yarn he's telling me. Being abducted by aliens, returned to Earth, in a state of suspended animation, presumed to be dead and buried. But could hear and feel everything, like in "The Serpent and The Rainbow." Dug up, given anti-virals and returned to life. Says he just got out of the hospital and back to Arlington today. And I thought *I* had troubles. "Go on," I tell him, without batting an eyelash. Rub the already gleaming counter down a few times, look bored, like I've heard this one before. He sips at his drink more slowly, shudders as it goes down. "Good scotch," he comments. "The word more especially refers to a condition in which certain aquatic invertebrates are able to survive long periods of drought." Spooky sips again, shuvers, gives me another grin. I stop rubbing the counter and lean toward him. "So...what, now you're Seamonkey Mulder instead of Spooky Mulder?" I ask. Spooky likes that one enough, I guess. He laughs for the first time tonight and I smile back. He points to his glass, wants another scotch. Okay, Spooky, one more and then you're cut off. He gets a cocky "But if you're referring to the process of reanimation, the word anabiosis derives from the Greek anabisis, which comes from anabioun, to return to life," he says, "Now you're just showing off." He nods slowly, his eyes wide, feigns a little boy sort of persona, "You're right." He considers his glass again, holds it up in the dim light. Shakes it, rattling the ice. "Hey, where's your partner tonight? She coming by?" I haven't seen either of them in here in about a year, year and a half. Ugh. Wrong question, judging by the look on his face. "No. She won't be coming." Spooky's face darkensand he spits out, "She's not my *partner* anymore." He glares at the bar counter, mouth twisted down at the corners. Catches himself, smoothes his expression to nothingness, looks up at me. "She's pregnant." What do you say to that? Congratulations? Are you the Daddy? Nothing's the best thing to say. Best leave it be. I move off to pull up a couple beers and make a couple Mai Tais for Jenny's table. Jenny's new to Casey's, a college kid. Good waitress. Natural with people. Quick learner. In between orders, I check on Spooky. He looks like hell. He's been through hell lately, and not only from whatever caused all those bruises and scars. Whether they were caused the way he says or some other way, I don't know. One major torment is his partner's pregnancy; that's easy enough to figure out. He's dropped his eyes to stare into his double scotch on the rocks like the secrets of the universe are hidden in it. A lot of people look for the answers in a bottle. Don't ever find them there. He knows that, though. He's chased away plenty of demons and hunted enough answers in a glass here over the years. I leave him alone for a time. Fill a couple more orders, make change for Jenny, chat with the other regulars. My mind keeps going back to Spooky. He weaves off to the bathroom, weaves back to the stool. He radiates misery and loneliness with his blank, sad eyes; the sorry slouch of his shoulders. This isn't the guy who used to come into Casey's. It feels wrong, his being here alone. I keep expecting his partner to come in. She was with him last time, after his Mom died. He drank and cried. She listened and rubbed his back. We dragged him into a cab together. Last I saw him, he was lying down in the back seat of the cab, his head in her lap. She looked drained and tired. She thanked me and I said no problem and shut the door. Last time I saw him. He's waving me over, tapping the bar --- his glass is empty, like his eyes. Staring at the dark, slick wood of the bar. "Sorry, friend, but your lucky number's up for tonight." I put the phone in front of him, hand him the receiver. His finger hovers above the speed dial button for the local cab company. He stares at me like he's trying to think of one of his usual smart ass retorts, but gives up, defeat in his eyes. Pushes the button, stumbles through his address. Hangs up. Tosses some bills on the counter for me. "Keep the change, Joan." He stands, pushes off toward the door to wait outside for the cab. Clear his head, get composed, all the things people do to face the trip home. To face the morning. END -- Cheers Pollyanna "A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort."