The Call
by IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow

Email: Ifmuldercouldseemenow@yahoo.com

Summary:  What had she wanted to say when she called him? 
Post-IWTB.  One-Shot.


Sometimes, I sit up late at night and think. I'm always up late at
night, thanks to insomnia but I only think sometimes. I think
sometimes because other times it's just easier not to think.
When you have insomnia life blends together and thinking
about *her* makes it all stop. Life needs to blend sometimes,
but she stops the colors from blending. She won't let the world
just pass me by in a blur. She makes it all stop-slow down and
come into focus. I don't really have much to focus on but the
woman's hair on the television catches my attention. Suddenly I
intently stare at an infomercial for the instyle-whatever. Why
did the model have red hair? For something so rare in the
population, I sure am seeing it a lot.

What had she called me for?

I wonder if I call her phone tonight, will she answer with her
customary: "Scully," in the voice she had attempted to strip of
femininity but failed miserably. She won't. They had called her
'Ice Queen' for years and I had almost believed them if not for
her voice. It brought me in from the first day, as she introduced
herself to me. Confident, but nervous. Uneasyness wrapped
with a refusal to be disrespected and a passion to succeed. She
was not to be messed with. Dana Scully was heartless, and yet,
her eyes were so genuine when she spoke; her voice you love
someone, the way they say your name is just...*different.* The
way they say *anything is just different.*

*"Last time you were so engrossed, it turned out you were
reading the 'Adult Video News."*

*"It wasn't even real cream cheese, it was low fat."*

*"And you were mine."*

And I loved her. I love her. I *love* her.

*"Agent Mulder. I'm Dana Scully. I've been assigned to work
with you."*

I hadn't realized I loved her when she reached her delicate hand
out to shake mine, the ink from her textbooks still pressed
deeply into her face. The only thing I did know was that my
name sounded *different* on her lips then and every time
since.

I remember when I told her that she was my one in five billion.
She looked at me with crystal blue eyes, gave me the smile she
reserved only for me. She's my one in 7 billion now. She'll be
my one in 8 billion too.

Was she checking in when she called? Was she going to yell at
me for leaving out the milk again last night? These thoughts
keep invading my conscious and I have to push them away. I
can't think, can't accept. I refuse to believe.

I can hear her voice echoing through my head now, and the
infomercial is long gone.

*Mulder, you're the believer, remember?* She would tell me.

What had she called for?

My phone says 97 missed calls, but 96 of them don't matter. I
know what they're about.

*"Are you ok, Mulder?"*

*"It'll be alright, Mulder."*

*"They did all they could, Mulder."*

*"She's in a better place, Mulder."*

From where I am, on the living room couch, I can breathe in
her scent: lilacs from her shampoo and laundry powder. Her
shampoo was on the shopping list, the bottle slowly emptying
as it sat on the ledge in the bathroom, along with her toothbrush
in its respective cup.

I was typing my book when she called and I didn't feel the
buzzing in my pocket. "I want to believe," I decided to call it.
She'd read over the preliminary manuscript and asked with a
raised eyebrow if I really had to describe her as enigmatic. I
told her that I was still trying to figure out the mystery behind
Dr. Dana Katherine Scully and she laughed; genuinely laughed.
She laughs just as she loves: fiercely. I've dated women that I
thought I loved in the past and they all had the cute, socially
acceptable laugh but not her. She throws her head back when
she laughs, or sometimes shrinks in on herself, raising her
hands and looking devilish as she snickers. I never thought to
describe a cackle as beautiful, but it is when she does it. It's
radiant and I can't help but laugh along with her.

I want to make her laugh, to make her smile.

*"Mulder, I'll see you tonight."* She calls, sliding on her coat
and grabbing her bag. I don't walk to kiss her this time, of all
times, because I was reading the paper. I selfishly believed that
there would be other times; that she wouldn't appreciate the
sentiment after our small spat from earlier. Instead, I smile and
raise my coffee cup to her.

I told her I loved her, but by then the door had closed. I wonder
if she was calling to tell me she heard me. That she believed it
with her whole heart, even after all these years. I do love her;
that much I've always known. Our love is what remains after all
the blood, sweat and tears. It's kept 
us sane.

*"Mr. Mulder? I'm sorry to be calling you, but I have some
regrettable information to tell you."*

I remember my mind completely drifting when the man on the
other line told me he had some bad news. Had Skinner been
hospitalized? He'd been under a lot of stress lately. Had Scully
gotten the same call? She was probably already sitting with the
new Director of the FBI as they spoke. Whatever fantasy I was
living in shattered when the man continued, urging me to sit
down.

*"It's your wife, Mr. Mulder. Dr. Scully was involved in a car
accident today."*

*"What room is she in?" I remember shouting, immediately
running to the door and yanking it open. I remember*

*"We did everything we could, but-but she didn't make it, Mr.
Mulder."*

I must have hung up on the man, because when I looked back
down at my phone I saw that there was one missed call

"Scully," It read, blinking. Mocking me.

Of course she would call. It was all a joke. I called, tears
running down my face, begging for her to answer. I must have
stopped after 35 calls, or when the calls from her hysterical
mother started coming in. The rest is a blur. Her funeral passed
as if nothing in the world has changed. The streets are full of
strangers. The world has gone on turning without her. I
retreated to our home then, and ignored the calls coming into
my phone, their numbers soon creeping from 10 to 20 to 30 and
so on.

Days pass and I decide that my book needs to go off to the
printer, impulsively. My publisher insists that it's not necessary
but it must go off, it must be published. They have to read it
and see her; feel her. The world must stop for her, if only for
one moment. Someone will read about the enigmatic Dr. Scully
and be inspired by her. I only have my will to believe left. I
remember furiously typing the dedications page. It was the last
piece of the puzzle, and I couldn't seem to figure it out. I
figured it out.

*This book is dedicated to my love, Dana Scully, who fought so
fiercely to keep me honest. 

She was here; She is my touchstone, and I miss her dearly. 

For all the times you didn't believe in my theories, I'm thankful
for every time you believed in me. Together, we believe.*

I'm sitting here on the couch with her scent; in the house with
her touch and my insomnia seems to dissipate as if she's urging
me to sleep and I click the television off. I finally pick up the
phone I've ignored for nearly a week and look at it, waiting for
her to call. I know she won't, but my belief is of a motivator. I
will not succumb to sleep.

*"Stop being so pigheaded, Mulder."* She would say, hitting
me with the accent pillow she purchased from the thrift shop
down the street because it fit with their 'look.' I would then say
something witty with a coy smile and she would lean into kiss
me. My hands would wrap in her long hair that cascades down
her shoulders like a waterfall and she would smile. I would feel
her teeth on my lips as she smiles and pulls me to her. Except I
don't.

For now, I press the only speed-dial on my phone and slide into
my spot on the bed. It rings. And rings.

"Hello, you've reached Dr. Dana Scully and I'm unavailable at
the moment. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you as
soon as possible."

"I love you." I whisper, and I drift off to sleep believing with
every fiber that one day, she will get back to me; that she'll call
to say that she's running late, and will be home soon. "The dead
are not lost to us," I tell myself, waiting for her to tell me that
"we believe the same things" in a voice that is only hers. I can
wait. I will wait. She will come back to me.

I want to believe