Is There a Doctor in the House?
by bellefleur

EMAIL ADDRESS: bellefleur1013@yahoo.com
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: sure
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: V
SPOILER: IWTB
DISCLAIMER: Not mine; they belong to CC, FOX, etc.
SUMMARY: The real reason why Mulder was confined to the 
Unremarkable House for so many years.

Notes: Since I've been struggling for years to finish my 
doctoral dissertation, I always wanted to write a story about 
Mulder or Scully trying to do the same thing, but I never 
found the right context until IWTB.  This story is mostly 
tongue-in-cheek, and not what I believe really happened, but 
there were too many elements that fit too well for me to avoid 
the temptation.  Now that my dissertation is finally completed 
and defended, I'm posting this fic in celebration!

This fic is dedicated to my Dissertation Accountability 
Network (TM) at Fandomonium: Penelope, wildafox, pghfoxfan, 
aud, mendy, and FatCat; and to my beta extraordinaire, Mims.  
And to Bertha, whose dissertation topic is far more 
interesting than mine.

* * * * *

March 20, 2003

As she came up the walk and flipped through the ring for her 
house key, Scully mentally tried to sum up how she felt about 
the interview.  While she had some reservations about working 
at a Catholic hospital, the administration at Our Lady of 
Sorrows seemed rather progressive for a religious institution, 
and they were offering her an unheard of opportunity by 
accepting her for the position with her limited background.  

Once again, she considered whether she was doing the right 
thing by returning to medicine instead of pathology or law 
enforcement.  But despite Skinner's reassurances that both of 
their names had been cleared and that she could still have a 
future with the FBI, she didn't feel comfortable returning 
there without Mulder.  No, it was time for both of them to 
close that chapter in their lives and move forward.

More secure in her decision, Scully turned the key and opened 
the front door.  As she hung up her coat, a sound down the 
hallway drew her out of her thoughts.

*Thud*

*Groan*

There was a pause, and then the noises repeated.  The thumping 
became more repetitive.  If it weren't for the proximity of 
the sounds, and the fact that she recognized the voice, she 
would've thought he'd resurrected his video collection.

Scully rounded the corner to find Mulder rhythmically beating 
his head against his desk, not hard enough to do serious 
damage, but she wouldn't be surprised if he ended up with a 
bruise--or a headache.

"Mulder?  What's wrong?"

He sat up straight with one more groan and handed her a piece 
of paper from his desk.  "You know that transcript I requested 
from Oxford, to apply for the teaching job?  This was their 
reply."

She smoothed out the page and read aloud, "Dear Mr. Mulder, In 
regards to your enquiry pertaining to your academic dossier, 
please be informed that we have no record of your completion 
of a doctoral thesis to earn a D. Phil.--"

Mulder interrupted.  "Let me spare you from laboring through 
the BS in the rest of the letter.  Suffice it to say, I do NOT 
have the doctoral degree I thought I had completed, but if I 
would like to hand in a thesis, they would be so kind as to 
evaluate my work and consider me for that degree."
  
"What?"

"Yes, my thoughts exactly.  What was I doing over there all 
those years if not earning a doctorate?"

"Did you say 'what,' or 'who'?"

He glowered and ignored her comment.  "I can't get the 
teaching job without a Ph.D.--or D.Phil.  This is ridiculous.  
I can't just start over from scratch, not at my age."

"There's nothing wrong with your age, Mulder.  And they're not 
asking you to start from scratch.  All you have to do is write 
a thesis."

"All I have to do?  Scully, it's been years since I've written 
anything like this."

"Longer than that, according to their records."

"Your support is underwhelming."

"They're not even asking you to reapply to the program.  Just 
write a paper.  C'mon, Mulder, how hard can it be?"

His searing glare was his only response.

* * *
* * *

April 1, 2003

Scully poked her head into his office on her way out.  "I'm 
off to work.  Do you want me to pick up dinner on the way 
home, or are you up for cooking tonight?"

"You can pick something up.  I intend to get lots of writing 
done today."

She spied the antique sitting squarely in front of him on his 
desk, next to the ream of fresh, white paper.  Stepping 
closer, she asked, "What's that?"

He tapped the machine.  "This is what we Yankees like to call 
a 'typewriter.'"

"That's not what I meant, Mulder.  Why are you using a 
typewriter?  You know, they have these machines now.  We 
moderns like to call them 'computers.'  No more need for 
white-out."

He took a crisp new sheet of paper and rolled it into the 
typewriter.  With a lousy British accent, he said, "Well, back 
in the ice age, when I was but a young gent at Oxford, I did 
all my writing on a typewriter.  I'm merely trying to 
recapture the mindset."

She snickered and planted a quick kiss on his cheek.  "Well, 
cheerio, young gent.  I'll see you later."

"Ta ta."

* * *

When Scully opened the front door several hours later, she was 
greeted by the rhythmic "clack, clack" of a typewriter.  She 
smiled to herself as she pictured Mulder bent over the keys in 
deep concentration.  But her smile quickly turned to a frown 
as the typing yielded to a barrage of expletives, then the 
sound of a page being ripped from the machine.  

She set down the take-out bags on the coffee table and made it 
to the office doorway in time to see a crumpled ball of paper 
hooking toward the wastebasket.  It didn't have much hope of 
landing inside, however, since the container was already 
overflowing with similar crumpled pages.

"So, how's the writing going?"

He gave her a disgusted grimace.  "I think I've done enough 
damage for the day.  Do I smell dinner?"

* * *
* * *
 
April 23, 2003

Opening the front door gently, Scully tried not to make too 
much noise as she came in.  It was only mid-afternoon, earlier 
than she usually came home, and she knew Mulder was still in 
the middle of his work hours.  She didn't want to break his 
concentration if he was "in the zone," as he liked to refer to 
it.

The office was rather quiet, but she did hear the subtle 
clicking of the mouse.  Coming home one day to find a computer 
taking up the space where his typewriter once resided was a 
surprise, although not completely unexpected.  He had finally 
agreed to join the twenty-first century.

Curious about the persistent clicking, Scully quietly 
approached until she could catch a glimpse of his screen.

"Hard at work, I see?"

"Scully!"  He closed the solitaire game, but not soon enough 
to escape her view.  "What are you doing home so early?"

She ignored his attempt to change the subject.  "I guess that 
new computer's really working out for you."

He sighed and turned off the monitor.  "It's just not the same 
as a typewriter.  I think so much better on paper."

"Then what about taking notes?  You can write longhand and 
then type it into the computer."

"I suppose.  Hey, all this hard work has made me hungry.  Want 
to order a pizza?"

* * *
* * *

May 4, 2003

All was quiet on the home front as Scully came home from work 
and dropped her purse on the coffee table.  Mulder had 
eventually taken up her advice and abandoned the computer for 
writing his notes longhand, so she wasn't surprised to find 
things so silent.  Although, she did want to make sure that he 
hadn't fallen asleep at the desk again.

She walked softly toward the office, not wanting to disturb 
him.

Then she heard something hit the floor, followed by a "Damn 
it!"  She gave up on stealth and hurried to the doorway.

Mulder was standing on his desk, holding something above his 
head, apparently installing...

"Ceiling tiles?  Mulder, what are you doing?"

He almost fell off the desk, startled by her presence, but she 
quickly reached out to steady him.  He smiled sheepishly and 
climbed off the desk.  But he still hadn't answered her.

"Mulder?"

"Uh, I thought the white tiles would give me better ambient 
lighting.  You know, for thinking, and writing."

She looked up at the tiles covering most of the ceiling.  They 
certainly brightened up the room more than the rustic-looking 
dark beams that they were obscuring, but she knew from 
Mulder's guilty look, and the half-ass explanation, that there 
was more to it than that.  Since when did Mulder care about 
"ambient lighting"?

Actually, the tiles reminded her a lot of their old office.  
Not quite as yellowed or water-stained, but they were made of 
the same material.  Perhaps he just longed for the old 
atmosphere, that old pattern he used to stare at when he was 
puzzling out a case, or when he was bored...

Scully looked at the spot Mulder was rubbing on his forehead.  
He quickly pulled away his hand when she caught him.  
Something had hit him on the head, something pointier than 
ceiling tiles.  Something more like...the well-sharpened 
pencils that were lined up on the shelf.

"Mulder!"

"What?  I can write better with pencils.  Then I can erase 
things instead of scribbling them out.  And pens give me ink 
stains."  He held up his hand to show her a faint spot of 
blue.

She didn't even bother commenting on what she knew he would 
really be doing with the pencils.  At least the softer ceiling 
would be more likely to hold the projectiles--which she 
guessed he had already learned the hard way.

"Just try not to poke an eye out," she said on her way out of 
the office.

* * *
* * *

May 21, 2003

Scully dropped the mail onto the kitchen counter, next to the 
bag of groceries.  She was struggling to ignore the silence 
emanating from the hallway.  It was far too quiet in the 
house, and she dreaded what she might find going on in 
Mulder's office this time.  He had been "working on" his 
thesis for two months now, and it seemed that all he had 
produced was inventive new ways to avoid writing.

With a heavy sigh, she grabbed up the magazines with his name 
on them and headed for the office.  Psychology Today and 
Fortean Times.  She wasn't quite sure how the latter was 
relevant to his topic, but at least the former showed he was 
making an effort to do research.

"Mulder?"  She knocked gently and the ajar door inched open at 
the motion of her hand.  She had found him diligently bent 
over his desk for the past few days, and thus she hadn't 
actually been in the room for almost a week now, not wanting 
to break his concentration.  So this was the first time she 
had seen his new addition.

The room looked like a tornado had hit it.  A small, focused 
tornado that picked up neatly clipped bits of articles and 
attached them to every possible surface.  She'd seen Mulder do 
similar things when he was profiling, so she could only guess 
that he researched his writing the same way.  But the tornado 
seemed to have carried him off too since he was nowhere to be 
found.

Scully realized that she actually knew very little about his 
research topic, other than that his degree was in Psychology.  
Curious, she took advantage of his absence and stepped closer 
to one wall to peruse the clippings.

"Norwegian Scientist Claims Discovery of Genuine Yeti 
Droppings"

"Ghost of Elvis Increases Tourism in Small Louisiana Town"

She closed her eyes and dropped her head back, stifling a 
groan.  So this was the "research" he'd been doing.  Somehow 
she didn't think Oxford would accept a thesis on ghostly 
sightings of Bigfoot.

The front door slammed shut, followed by the hollow sound of a 
ball being dribbled into the living room.  The noise 
approached, so she stood in the office doorway to await it.

"Hey, Scully!" Mulder greeted her brightly.  He leaned down 
and kissed her, and then gently pushed past her into the 
office.  Dropping heavily into the chair, he tossed her the 
basketball he'd been bouncing.  "Check it out.  That's a 
genuine NBA-issue ball, signed by Patrick Ewing himself."

"Where'd this come from?"

"I won it.  In the basketball tournament."

"Tournament?"

"Yeah, down at the rec center.  It was an all-day thing, for 
charity.  We played HORSE, one-on-one, some scrimmages.  I 
didn't take first place, but I did manage to take second.  Is 
that cool, or what?"

It was hard not to get carried away by his enthusiasm.  But 
someone had to be the voice of reason here.

"I thought you were supposed to be working on your thesis."

"Oh, yeah, well..."  He shrugged.

"Mulder," she moaned, "you're never going to get this thing 
finished if you don't sit down and work on it."

He tipped back in his chair.  "What can I say, Scully?  I'm 
just not motivated.  I need something to force me to get it 
done."

"You want motivation?  Okay, I'll give you some."  She slammed 
the ball down on the table and pulled his chair back upright, 
leaning into his shocked face.  "You're grounded.  No more 
playing with your friends.  You don't get to leave the house 
again until you've finished writing your thesis."

He pouted.  "Party pooper."

"I'm serious, Mulder.  You want to leave the house again, you 
finish this thesis first."

* * *
* * *

FIVE YEARS LATER

"What's up, *Doc*?"  Bent over his keyboard, typing away, he 
didn't even bother to look up at her as Scully leaned against 
the doorframe leading into his office.

"That joke's getting old, Mulder."

"So am I.  But it's nice to know at least one of us managed to 
finish their degree before senility set in."

"How's the writing going?"

He turned his head and offered the most optimistic look she'd 
seen in a while.  "Very well, actually.  I think I finally hit 
a groove."

She raised both eyebrows at this one.  "You mean you're 
actually making progress?"  She entered the room, leaning 
closer to the computer screen to see the evidence for herself.  
There was a full page of writing there, with words like 
"psychogenic" and "developmental" jumping out at her.  No 
yetis or Elvii in sight.  She was also close enough to see 
that he still hadn't shaved.  He was going on at least the 
third day in a row.

She rubbed his bristly cheek.  "What's with the peach fuzz?"

He shot her a sideways glare but kept typing.  "Since I'm 
finally on a roll, I thought I shouldn't make any changes 
until I'm done.  You know, like ball players who won't change 
their socks while they're on a streak.  You don't want to mess 
with good karma."

She leaned down and whispered into his ear.  "Well, you know 
how I feel about beard burn.  I'm not sure it's karma you need 
to worry about."

He whimpered.  "But, Scully, I'm finally making progress!  I 
thought you'd be proud of me."

Moving around behind his chair, she wrapped her arms around 
him.  "Oh, I am.  You finish this, and I'll show you just how 
proud I can be."  She gently nipped at the soft spot at the 
base of his jaw, eliciting another whimper, and then made her 
exit.  His typing nearly doubled in speed as she closed the 
door.

* * *
* * *

March 7, 2008

Scully was lounging in the living room, reading a book, when 
she finally heard a car door outside.  By the time Mulder 
trudged up the steps and opened the front door, she had put 
down the book and was ready for him.

A basketball entered first, rolling across the room, followed 
by a well-spent-looking Mulder.

"What's up, Doc?" Scully said with a smirk.

"Give me ten minutes, Scully," he returned.  "I'm not as young 
as I used to be--as these young whippersnappers at the gym 
continue to prove."  He plopped down on the couch next to her, 
caught a glimpse of her cleavage down the half-buttoned shirt, 
and said, "Okay, maybe five minutes."

She rolled her eyes and handed him the large envelope he 
apparently hadn't noticed her holding.  He flipped it over to 
see the return address and looked at her with raised brows 
after he read it: Oxford University.

With glee, he tore into the long-awaited envelope and finally 
pulled out the fancy piece of parchment, embossed with a 
colorful stamp and printed in elegant calligraphy.  A Doctor 
of Philosophy awarded to Fox William Mulder by the University 
of Oxford.

Scully snuggled in close to him.  He wrapped his arm around 
her, beaming with pride.

"Congratulations," she said.  "You finally got your doctorate.  
Now what are going to do with it?" she asked, a tad 
sarcastically.

"I'm going to Disneyland!"

She knew he was just imitating the commercial, but she feared 
he might actually be serious.  "You realize if we're that 
close to San Diego, we'll be obligated to visit my brother." 

He quickly said, "How about Hawaii?"

She smiled.  Hawaii sounded just right.

*******
THE END
*******

More notes: Now, go back and rewatch that opening office scene 
in IWTB.  It will take on a whole new meaning.  :)

Two other bits of "background" to this story: (1) In the 
novelization of IWTB, it is pointed out that Skinner told 
Mulder and Scully only a year after The Truth that they were 
free and clear to return to their lives (which is why Scully 
went back to work), so I'm presuming that here.  (2) There is 
debate over what degree Mulder actually got at Oxford, so I'm 
playing off of that, in case you hadn't noticed.


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