In the Infinitive
by JHJ Armstrong (6/2000)
Rating: PG
Content/Keywords: V, MSR/RST implied
Summary: A short jaunt through Mulder's eyes.
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When Pigs Fly
Disclaimer: Space and time, still not mine.
this is a two-day, fourish-hour improv
part 1 = 4:51-6:31 a.m. CDT 6/22/2000
part 2 = 2:55-4:35 p.m. CDT 6/23/2000
thank you sabine for illumination
thank you alicia k for consistency
thank you punk m for caring enough to send the hairy beast
for virginia, as always
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"Hey mister, you got a light?" The girl got up from the billboard masquerading as a bus stop bench and approached
the driver's door.
Stopped in traffic on a one-way street, Mulder looked to his left and saw a Winston dangling from two fingers
on a left hand, khaki cargo pants that hugged too-bony hips and sagged everywhere else, and a lavender bra strap showing under periwinkle tank top spaghetti.
"Pardon me?"
"Do you have a light? Mine's out." She held up a Zippo with Betty Boop painted on the brushed silver surface.
A longer glance revealed painted-on lips and eyes, a tattooed wrist and a calculated slouch. "I
don't think you look old enough to smoke." His eyes flitted back to traffic; still at least half a minute left on the light.
"Whatever." She rolled her eyes, pouting a little. Mulder felt the touch of lost innocence -- sex and smoke and booze because there wasn't anything else to do.
He wondered if her parents knew what she was doing right now, or if they were naive enough to think that she would still go Christmas caroling and sledding and running through sprinklers, or create May Day baskets and homemade Valentine boxes.
He doubted it. Her parents were probably caught up in the frantic balance between love and money and coming up short
on both ends.
The not-quite-woman crossed in front of him, snapping him back to the present, and he watched in the side mirror as she made her request to the not-quite-man one car back. He seemed more than happy to oblige.
Mulder watched the couple cup the Bic in their hands and mused, Yeah, I've got a light. She torches me every day.
Behind him, a horn honked. Green means go.
"Sorry, I don't smoke," he told the mirror, and turned left.
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When he got to the scene, Scully greeted him with latex and they went to investigate.
As they walked by the couch, a curly-haired moppet looked up at them from where she huddled with another FBI agent, a psychologist. Mulder met the moppet's apprehensive brown gaze and tried to smile.
In the bedroom, pictures on the bedside table told him the woman whose empty sockets were turned toward a dozen blue roses nailed to the ceiling once had eyes the color of her daughter's.
He walked out onto the back porch for some air a half-hour later. In the garden, a man puttered and muttered. Mulder looked closer, noting mismatched shoes, too-short plaid pants and polyester shirt one button off.
The man sprang up from his crouch, brandishing a gargantuan carrot that had branched off on the
bottom. It looked like that orange monster with no arms from the cartoon.
"I praise you, O muddy brother!" the man shouted to the carrot. He then took a huge bite, dirt and all.
Turning, mouth full of carrot, he caught sight of Mulder on the deck and saluted him with
vegetable. Mulder returned the honor, and the man scampered toward the neighboring house's back door. It was locked. After a few futile pulls, the man sat down and cried.
Mulder was about to go and help when the door opened and a shockingly fat woman came out to sit next to the man. She spoke to him for a moment, long enough for him to dry his
tears, then handed him a key and went back in the house.
Ah, empowerment. Cures a lot of ills.
Scully came out to get him then, and he let her drive them back to the office.
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Later that night, wrapped around his partner in her bed, Mulder thought about smoking teens and motherless children and harmless eccentrics and things that go bump in the night.
"Scully?"
"Hmm?"
"Do you think crazy people stay crazy in heaven?"
"Mmm ... I dunno, Mulder. We'll just have to see when we get there." She turned her head to kiss his biceps, snuggling a little deeper into him.
"Okay," he said. "But I don't think I'd make a good angel. Can you get replacement wings, or a used halo?"
"Mulder, God has far more patience than me. I think he's more than capable of dealing with your particular brand of insanity. Besides, wings are permanently attached."
"Mmm." He nuzzled her hair. "I'm glad you know things like that, Scully. Makes life easier."
"Go to sleep, Mulder. Plenty of life left, and I know I enjoy it more when I'm well-rested."
Mulder let the noises of Scully's world lull him to sleep, thinking that maybe the secret of life, then, was simply to live.
-- 30 --
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improv elements, courtesy of sabine:
children sledding
stranger who gets locked out of a house
cigarette lighter
feedback to [email protected]
thanks for playing in the sandlot with me
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