FIC: My Ex, My Thesis, and My Career (The X-Files, 1/1)

[maidenjedi]

TITLE: My Ex, My Thesis, and My Career
AUTHOR: Maidenjedi
FANDOM: The X-Files
RATING: R, sexual reference
CATEGORY: pre-series, Mulder/Phoebe Green
SPOILERS: "Fire", general season one
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters, my concept, or my show. Damn it.
LENGTH: 700+ words
ARCHIVE: After Oct. 7, have at it.
SUMMARY: Credibility is for kiss-asses. Fox Mulder wants to make a difference.

Written for oldschoolfic's Back-To-School Ficathon. Prompt: thesis.

Posting it here for the first time in honor of Muldermas! Happy 10/13 to those who celebrate!!



"Do you think I look sexy in red?"

I should have known it would be her when I picked up the phone.

"Because I can be at your place in twenty. In red. Lace, of course."

She's got that tone in her voice. The one that says "you know you want me, Fox" and I'm just about done in. Can't take another second of listening to her siren call, and I'm about to hang up.

"Okay, black then. With pumps."

I swallow hard, looking at my typewriter and the stack of finished pages that doesn't exist.

"Twenty, then."

I hang up on her triumphant laugh and turn to my typewriter. I could get maybe a paragraph done before she shows.

I've just finished typing the word "paranormal" and have started "phenomena" when there's a knock at the door.

That was more like three minutes.

I sigh and go to the door. As promised, Phoebe is standing there in black lace. Under black leather. With black pumps.

Can you blame a guy for dragging her inside and fucking her, instead of saying go away, I have a thesis to finish?

--

"So what's it about? Recidivist offenders and incidences of bipolar disorder? Or maybe Stockholm syndrome in teenage kidnapping and assault victims?"

She's smoking a cigarette and standing over my typewriter, naked as the day she was born. The cigarette makes me nervous, as I envision ashes falling and catching what little work I've accomplished on fire.

And burning down the building.

I cross the room in four long strides and take the cigarette from her hand and crush it. She looks at me in surprise and annoyance, but recovers. She laughs.

"I know. It must be about arsonphobia and the link to sexual addiction."

She's my ex, I told you that, right?

"None of the above."

Phoebe gives me an appraising look, one eeriely familiar to the look she gave me just before asking me to come over and have a look at her paper she was writing for our psychotherapy seminar.

That was the first night...well. Let's just say, back then, black lace wasn't necessary.

"Fox, you're not writing your thesis on parapsychology, are you?"

The note in her voice tells me she's not all that surprised.

"Maybe."

She makes a sound like growling and goes back to the bedroom. She comes back a few minutes later with her clothes (what little there were) on and her jacket buttoned.

"You know it's all made up. You know there is no credibility in pursuing a kind of science that doesn't even exist. And yet you..."

"Want to believe. I want to believe, Phoebe. There's got to be an explanation for things like poltergeist activity and telekinesis, for deathbed visions, remote vision, all those things." I'm vehement. This is what she broke up with me over, after all.

"Fox, there's no future in this."

She sounds angry, and a part of me wants to reach out and keep her here, tell her I'll write my thesis on something safe and normal, like serial killers' wet dreams or something.

But the word "paranormal" stands out from the sheet of paper in my typewriter. And Phoebe's cigarette is smoldering from inside the empty glass I crushed it in.

And Samantha's picture is on my desk, her freckles and her braids telling me there is a reason for this study, after all.

"'Night, Phoebe. Call me. Or don't. Your call."

She shakes her head and leaves, the door slamming from her frustration.

The first draft of my thesis is due in ten days, October 2. I guess I better get cracking.

---

"Mulder."

"Mulder, it's Reggie. Listen, the brass think they've got a break on this Props case. Might finally be time to let you in on some of the work. You interested?"

Monty Props. Serial killer. I did the initial profile, but then got pushed back to desk duty, being a rookie and all. The brass probably didn't like the angle, either. Serial killers and the occult make for messy press and bad P.R. for the Bureau.

I published a monograph on the case; the journal came out a week ago. Something tells me Reggie isn't calling me in just 'cause the brass decided to let the rookies play.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am. Where?"

"Meet me down by the car pool in twenty."

When Senator Matheson calls to congratulate me a week later, I think of Phoebe, and thank whatever power there is that I didn't listen to her.

My thesis was called "Downright Spooky: Paranormal Phenomena in Serial Murder Cases Involving the Occult."


----

THE END

Comments

[sopdetly.livejournal.com]

HEEE. Oh Mulder! ♥

Happy Muldermas to you as well, my friend!

[erries.livejournal.com]

Yay! This is really neat. I like the small details, like Phoebe's cigarette in the glass. And I love the line about Samantha's photo telling him there *is* a reason to pursue this. ♥ Great job!