Visibility Zero
Tesla

Rating: R for cussin'

Category: Mulder/Other 

Spoilers: Assume that this alternate universe careens off track after "Field Trip," but back for "Goldberg Variations" and "Millennium" Archive: Let me know so I can dote 

Feedback: See above, only I'll write charming replies. 

Disclaimer: If Ten Thirteen is even reading this, settle with Duchovny! 

Summary: Continuation of "Flying under the Radar", "Gaining Altitude" and "Some Turbulence Expected"

Thanks to my beta, Emerex, for encouragement and all-round good cheer, and to MaybeAmanda for the MulderClone, and advice disguised as wisecracks. And, Fran hosts me on her new authors site at www.atmosphere.be/media/fran58 and my own page is at home.hiwaay.net/gah~1093

It was hard to pine away after a lover in the middle of a Star Trek convention, Janet decided. There she was, dressed as Jadzia Dax, with Trill press-on marks on her face and neck, accompanied by one tall and one short Klingon wielding seriously sharp-looking weaponry sticking closely to her side. It was impossible to take herself seriously, especially after she discovered that Frohike had entered her in the costume contest.

"There had better not be a 'Best of Show' prize, " she warned him.

The two Gunmen had arrived at her office, ostensibly to ask her legal advice. She hadn't talked to them for two weeks, since Frohike had called looking for Mulder, and Janet told him that she had no idea, and wouldn't able to take a message. Frohike was more than capable of reaching his own conclusions regarding Mulder's absence. "You two don't believe in the jurisdiction of law," she said now, suspiciously. "Have you been arrested? Is someone suing you?"

Frohike looked monumentally offended. "Counselor, we're offended. No. We want you to review our new lease." He held out a manila file folder.

She took the file and read it. "Who is Gizmo, Inc.? Oh, you guys. Okay." She looked up after a moment. "This looks okay to me. What's the problem?"

"Well, can we take you to lunch?" Frohike asked. "You pick," he added quickly, at her suspicious frown.

"Mexican is fine," she said, "and we'll take my car."

At the restaurant, Frohike came clean. "We want you to go to the D.C. Star Trek convention with us."

She stared at him for a long moment, and remembered to close her mouth. Why?"

"Because we need to have a cool chick," Langley said. "I lost a bet playing D & D. We'll get your costume and ticket and everything."

She burst out laughing. "Am I your only choice? You guys really need to get out more."

Frohike looked relieved. "No, we needed a good-looking cool chick. And Mulder told us you were a trekker."

She was still smiling. "Trekkie. Mulder should talk. I never wore Spock ears."

"Shatner's going to be there, " Langley said persuasively.

"Hell, why didn't you say that to start with? It's a deal. Just tell me where and when." She wiped her mouth, and replaced the napkin on the table. "Guys---" she didn't know what she wanted to ask.

"Mulder's in Chicago," Frohike said. "I just thought you might like to go out with a real man."

Frohike had lobbied hard for her to dress as a female Klingon warrior. "But I don't know the language," she pleaded. "Really, Mel, think of all those Klingons asking me questions."

"She's right,' Langley said. "That could get her into trouble." He leaned back. "How about Kira?"

"I don't want to wear the nose and earring. Dax. I bet I can use transfers for the spots."

So there she was, being cheered up by two unexpected cavaliers. She wondered what, if anything, Mulder had told them about the split. Nothing to her detriment, obviously. She was touched and a little surprised, though. She thought they both saw her as a threat to Scully's place at Mulder's side.

But that's ridiculous, she thought, looking at some decidedly erotic sketches of Worf and Dax, I'm not a threat at all. No one seems to understand that Fox Mulder is going to do what he thinks is best, no matter if he likes it or not. No matter how it hurts him.

"Pretty cool, huh?" Langley commented.

Janet gave him a scorching glance. "Maybe I should have come as a warrior. Then I'd have a nice dagger in my belt for----"

"Okay, okay, I didn't mean it. Sheesh."

Mulder had actually been back from Chicago for a day. Frohike had sent a typical e-mail advising that he and Langley were taking "your lawyer chick" to a convention to bond with "The Only Captain." Mulder was more than a little surprised-he had to read the message several times to understand it. He had been evasive whenever any of the Gunmen asked about Janet. "She's working a big case." And if Frohike, the original inquiring mind, hacked into the county computer, indeed, Janet always had a big case. He wondered what kind of weird scam they had going, to bring their own lawyer along. Then he wondered if Frohike was hitting on Janet.

Maybe I should go down there, he thought, unpacking his suitcase. Either he would have to do some serious shopping, or go get some clothes from Janet's apartment. He flinched. He wasn't ready to talk to her. He still didn't know what he felt.

This was stupid. He hadn't meant to wait so long before he called her, or went over there. Half his stuff was at her apartment, and probably all of his socks.

He pulled out his key ring, and separated Janet's key. He could just go over there while she was at the convention. She was probably already gone.

That would be creepy.

Not if he left a note.

Not if he left a nice note, saying he dropped by, but she was gone, and so he had just gotten his socks and underwear from her laundry basket, and he had brought her this snow globe of the Sears Tower because she liked the movie Michael so much, and he would call.

He picked up the O'Hare Airport sack with the globe, figuring he could put his socks in the empty sack, and went out and across the street.

He listened for a while, before he opened the door. "Janet?" Nothing.

He went inside, closing the door behind him. Unlike his place, the apartment was bright with midday sunlight. He walked through the kitchen-she still had the photo-booth shot of them on the refrigerator. Well, at least she hadn't written Die Mulder Die across it.

Still holding the sack, he turned around and went to the closet with the washer/dryer. Sure enough, there were his socks, undershirts, T-shirts, and underwear, all folded on top of the dryer. Two of his shirts were hanging directly above.

Mulder felt himself starting to cry. He couldn't touch anything. After a moment, he left, remembering to take the sack with the snow globe with him.

That evening, at the hotel bar (called Ten-Forward for the evening) Langley was dancing with a woman wearing blue paint and very little else. Frohike was watching with distaste. "She's a Microsoft rep," he said.

"Satan's disciple," Janet said, drinking her coffee. It wasn't that she didn 't trust Frohike, but she didn't trust Frohike. He cleared his throat. "I want to talk to you about Mulder," he said.

"Aha!" she said, reddening despite herself. "I knew there was something!"

"Well, we really did need a chick-rumors have been going around Starfleet about my sexuality-but I wanted to talk to you." He cleared his throat nervously. "Maybe we should go somewhere else?"

"No," Janet said, hating her blushes. "Spill it."

"I've never repeated anything he's told me," Frohike said. "And if you let him know I talked to you, he'll never trust me." Another pause. "You know that he's not just another Fed-that he uncovers a lot of stuff that our government has denied. He's done a hell of a lot that he could have been killed doing. He's one of a kind."

Janet slumped back, disappointed. More of how special Mulder was. What did you expect, that Mulder showed him an engagement ring?

The Gunman looked impatient. "I'm just saying that to remind you that he doesn't think like other guys. He expects everything to turn out badly, because it always has. His personal life sucks, and his career is in the toilet. Shit just happens to him. That Russian guy you met? He killed Mulder 's father, and when Mulder got the drop on him, Scully shot Mulder."

"She shot him?"

"Well, if Mulder had got him, he could have been framed for doing his dad." Frohike said quickly. "It was his shoulder. But see, that's typical of what happens to him. She did the right thing, but still-you're not supposed to know that, by the way. "

"Cut to the chase, Melvin." She shifted her chair back.

"Hey, I'm not in court with you, lady. Calm down. I know that Mulder cares a lot about you. I chewed his ass good, and he just agreed with me. He misses you, and he wants to go back to you. That's what he told me. That's what you can't tell him. He wants to come back."

"Nothing's stopping him," she sighed.

"Come on, Counselor. He's stopping him. He thinks he's poison. He's never had a family or anything. And the X-Files-they've been his life, and now he doesn't know what to do with them."

"So Mulder's got to work through things first, is that what you're telling me? And how long should I hang in there like a good little woman?"

Frohike held up his hands in surrender. "No, no. I think he's trying to get through some really heavy shit. He's the best, but he's not easy. I just want you to be cool, okay? If you want him, I mean. If you don't," he said, looking away, "tell me."

"You know better, Melvin. You know how I feel." This time, Janet looked away, blinking.

"So we're cool?"

"We're very cool."

It was very important he talk to her. He didn't know what he was going to say, but Mulder needed to talk to Janet. The bartender agreed. "Marty, why don't I call you a cab and you can go see Janet?" Mulder thought that was an outstanding idea. He told her so. The bartender smiled thinly, and gave him back his change.

It wasn't the cab ride; he managed to give the address, and even pay the man. He opened the outer door, and got inside with no trouble. The elevator undid him.

Gagging, he pounded on Janet's door, one hand on his mouth. When she opened the door, he bolted past her to the bathroom, and was just able to make it to the toilet. He was faintly aware of Janet catching the seat and lid so he wouldn't get hit on the head.

"What were you drinking?" Her arms around him, bracing him.

"Tequila," he croaked, still clutching the porcelain. Janet pulled off his leather jacket just before the next wave hit. "And vodka," he managed to say.

"Yuck," she said behind him. She held his head this time, and he pushed his forehead against her palm. There went that gyro in Chicago, last week's lunches, the lining of his stomach.

He felt a cool wet touch on his cheek, and Mulder opened his eyes. She washed his face. He was lying on the bathmat, and she was crouched beside him.

"That feels good," he said, still slurred. His eyes were unfocussed, and he was shaking. "I had too much to drink. I'm sorry." When she didn't say anything, he put one hand on her knee. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," she told him, smoothing his hair. "Don't worry about it."

"Bad things happen when I drink," he advised her. He raised his head, and the room spun rapidly. "Oh, shit," he moaned. "I've got the whirlies."

"Don't move, then," she said. She carefully pulled his sweatshirt off. "This has to go." She stood up, and made to leave. She was leaving him alone on the rotating floor.

"JANET!" he yelled. He rolled on his back, clutching at her ankles. The room dipped, and his stomach lurched.

"Whoa," she said, and dragged him back to the toilet-just too late. "Ah, shit," she said, and pulled her nightshirt off and flung it into the bathtub. "My bad-I thought you were done-I wanted to put your shirt in the washer-I'll just wait and do everything." Mulder was occupied at the time, and couldn't answer.

"Can you sit up, Mulder?" she asked. Holding on to his ribs, he did. She guided him to rest against the side of the bathtub. He yelped when she inadvertently touched the bandage on his upper arm.

"What?" Janet asked, pulling his T-shirt sleeve up.

"That's where I got shot," he said, closing his eyes.

Her hands stilled on his chest. "You got shot!"

He pried his eyelids apart. "It was only a flesh wound," he said in a manly voice. "A ricochet. Another scar for my collection. Aren't you going to put something on?

After a moment, she washed his face again, and his hands. She looked like it was a normal Saturday night routine, like brushing her teeth. She looked like she would like to yell at him.

I fuck everything up, he thought, and felt the tears leaking out of his eyes. But he must have said it, because she was wiping his face again, saying, "No, you don't. You haven't fucked anything up. You just got drunk. You didn't drive, did you?"

"Cab," he said. "Can I lie down?" He noticed she was unzipping him. "Hey, I may be easy, but I'm not-" With a real laugh, she efficiently yanked his jeans off. "You've done this before," he said accusingly. A hiccup ruined the effect.

"You want to go to bed? Is your stomach okay?" She was vigorously washing herself. He must have really got her.

"No. Here." He slid down onto the bathmat. "Gotta present for you in my pocket. Jacket."

Janet seemed to take a minute processing this, with some amusement. "Oh, okay. Can I get it later?"

"Yes," he said, and closed his eyes for a moment.

He woke up an hour or so later, and he realized they had both fallen asleep on the bathroom floor. He also realized that he was still drunk, and thirsty. He crawled to the sink and hung on it, drinking from the tap.

"Ouch," Janet yawned behind him. "Think you can handle the bed? My back's killing me."

He shuddered.

"Can you sit up? Couch?" They slowly got up, Mulder leaning his full weight on Janet. After she propped him up on the couch, Janet went to the kitchen and came back with two glasses of water. Her mouth was quirking. "This is so romantic," she said, with a little snort.

"I heard you the first time. I'm drunk, not deaf. Did you really go to the-the---thing with Frohike?"

"And Langley." She yawned, and crawled on the other end of the couch. "Go to sleep. We'll talk later."

"No," he said succinctly. "I don't want to break up."

Janet looked wide-awake. "I don't want to, either."

"I just need to get my head straight," he said, enunciating carefully. "I do stupid things-all the time. And I'm not even talking about lately."

"Are you afraid you're going to do something stupid with me?" Janet asked, her eyebrows coming together in a frown. Mulder felt like he was one of her clients.

"Yes. All the time."

"And you don't want to do anything stupid? You want to keep seeing me?"

"I don't want you to hate me," Mulder said baldly. "Everybody ends up hating me. Everybody."

"I won't," Janet said. "That's a promise. I won't hate you."

"Well, you say that now, but wait until you get abducted by aliens and sterilized." Did he say that? That's not quite what he meant. He squinted, trying to think.

"I don't like kids, anyway," she replied. "Let's not worry about that for now." She leaned forward slightly, her palm out. "What do we need to worry about? What are you really worried about?"

"I don't want anything to happen. To you."

"Nothing's going to happen to me, Mulder."

"Something always happens." He gave her a sad smile. "Usually it's me."

Talking to him right now was like trying to pick up Jello with her fingers. She had a sharp spasm of irritation, and took a deep breath. "Mulder.I don't know what to say. You've just got to trust me on this. Just trust yourself on this. Just trust us." She squeezed his leg. "Use the Force, Luke."

He still looked miserable. She finally said, "So you don't want to break up, and I don't want to break up. Looks like we agree. So.don't." She yawned, and closed her eyes for a minute.

Full awareness, and a grinding headache, came to Mulder at about seven that morning. His mouth tasted horribly. He was stretched half sitting on Janet's couch, she curled up at one end, his bare legs entangled in her afghan. He almost moaned. Where were his clothes? There was no way he could deal with this, not with alien entities trying to burst out of his forehead, and his back cramping up. She was going to kill him. She had fallen asleep while they were talking.

"Gobacktosleep," Janet mumbled into the armrest.

"I've got to pee. I'm too old for this shit," he breathed. He pulled himself up by the back of the couch, but nearly fell on the way to the bathroom.

He saw that his jeans and jacket were lying on the bathroom floor, but his sweatshirt, a pink nightshirt, and a couple of towels were soaking in the bathtub. Oh. He splashed water on his face and rinsed his mouth. He squinted at himself in the mirror, and swallowed four ibuprofen tabs. Jesus. Guys looked so stupid wearing an undershirt and boxers and socks. He thought he had a toothbrush, but couldn't find it. He gave up and smeared toothpaste on his finger, then gargled. He pulled on his jeans and shoes.

Wincing, he bent down and felt his jacket pockets for a bulge. The snow globe had survived. He went to her, only bumping into the wall once or twice. She opened one eye as he came in, then sat up on one elbow.

"You look horrible. You don't have to leave, just because you threw up on me. In some societies, that's considered a compliment."

He sat down heavily at her side, holding out the wadded-up sack. "I got this for you in Chicago," he said, feeling that he was already such an idiot that he need have no shame.

She took it, with a quizzical look, and emptied the sack onto her lap. "Oh, cool," she said, shaking it, and holding it up to the light. "The Sears Tower! From Ferris Bueller. Thanks." She held it flat on her palm, admiring it.

"I should go," he said, rubbing his face with both hands.

Janet's temper snapped. She carefully set the snow globe on the coffee table. "Then fucking go! By God, pee or get off the goddamned pot!" She jumped off the couch and ran to the bedroom, slamming the door.

"I will!" Mulder yelled back, adrenaline pumping. He only heard the noise of something being thrown, behind the bedroom door.

Mulder was already out the door, and halfway down the first flight of stairs, when the door opened above him.

"Don't forget this," Janet said, and Mulder flung himself over the banister to the next landing, as an old black bowling ball crashed down the stairwell. The door slammed again.

Thank God for field training, he thought, heart pounding, and ran down the stairs, with Hell's bowling ball following him with tremendous echoing bangs. He managed to close the vestibule door on it, and left, shivering in the winter wind as he crossed the street to his apartment. He remembered something, and stopped.

"Oh, hell," he said aloud. "Where's my car?" And he still didn't have any clean underwear.