The Positive Effect of an As-Yet Unnamed Polydactyl (1/1)
by Livia Balaban
(liviabalaban@hotmail.com) 

Rating: PG 
Classification: Vignette.  Otherwise unclassifiable.  But nothing to alarm 
anybody. Shippers/noromos need fear nothing.  But if you have a dander 
problem, go take some Claritin first. 
Content: M&S friendship, Maybe a hint of UST, H, some drug use (of sorts) 
Feedback: Gimme gimme. 
Summary: Mulder's new roommate comes as a surprise to Scully 

 

It had been a positively bleak week.  Again.  I know, we have a lot of 
those. 

Everything conspired against us: The weather, the killer, the bureau, the 
rental car, the ceilings of both our motel rooms.   Two days in hell. 

And when the case was over, and the perp in the ICU, all we had to show 
for it was a strained half-confession, utter exhaustion, and another brief 
hospital stay for Mulder. 

A tire iron to the kneecap will do that to you. 

Mulder had been home for the past four days, dazed from painkillers, lying 
inert on his couch and half-watching old science fiction classics, waiting 
for the swelling of the ligaments to abate.  As usual, I came by twice a 
day to check on him but he insisted through the door that he was fine and 
just needed rest.  He wouldn't let me in. 

At first I suspected he was merely being stubborn.  Later I attributed his 
resistance to the muscle relaxants.  But in the end, I had to recognize 
that whatever was going on, he wanted to be alone. 

We spoke on the phone a couple of times a day, and although the medication 
had definitely shaved a considerable number of points off his IQ, he was 
recuperating satisfactorily. 

"You want me to bring over a couple of case files," I asked, hoping to 
tantalize him into productive consciousness. 

"Errhhmm, nah.  *Enemy Mine*'s on again.  Gotta get to that last scene 
with Davidge on the...the...damn, what're they called?" 

"Draks." 

"Yeah, Drak homeworld.  Cry every time.  Goin' for number seventeen.   
Hey, Scully?" 

"Yes?" 

"Howdja know what they're called?" 

"You've made me sit through that movie about a dozen times, Mulder." 

"Oh, yeah.  Good, hm?" 

"Yes, it's a good movie.  How many painkillers have you taken today?" 

"Total, or just now, 'cause I don't think I could do the math." 

"Go to sleep, Mulder." 

"'K." 

But a day later, when he hadn't answered his phone for an hour, I became 
concerned.  He didn't answer his phone five minutes before I pulled up to 
his building, and I found myself taking the stairs to avoid a wait for the 
elevator. 

Time to use the key. 

Messy, as I expected.  Cluttered, as always.  He wasn't on the couch. 

"Mulder?" I called out, moving toward the open bathroom door.  Empty. 

"In here, Scully." 

From the bedroom. 

The bedroom? Mulder? 

I walked purposefully toward the bedroom doorway, and when I moved into 
the opening, I looked to my right and stopped. 

I don't think what I felt was dismay.  The sight wasn't exactly disarming. 
It wasn't upsetting, or anything to cause consternation.  It was just 
completely unexpected.  Nothing I knew about him prepared me for what I 
witnessed, standing in the doorway of his bedroom.

Mulder was nuzzling a huge brown tabby on what appeared to be a bed. 

I left the room and re-entered, just to make sure I hadn't been slipped a 
passkey to someone else's apartment. 

Mulder on a bed, scrootching and smiling softly at the enormous, rumbling 
beast curled up on his chest. 

"Mulder?" 

"Hey, Doc." 

"Um, ... what is that?" 

He looked up at me with his patented 'Hmm, let me check my notes' 
expression.   "Is this a trick question?" 

"Mulder, it's a cat." 

He looked into the cat's eyes, waggled his eyebrows, and whispered 
conspiratorially, "She ain't the best dang investigator in the bureau for 
nuthin'." 

He can be so frustrating.  "Mulder, whose cat is that?" 

"Well, technically, I think he'd have to be considered *his*.  You know 
how cats are." 

"Not really - I'm a dog person." I'll say.  Give me the worst dog over the 
best cat any day of the week.  Distant, preening little bundles of self-
sufficient superiority.  Ick.  "But that doesn't answer why there's a cat 
here." 

"If you consider those inbred, uptight yippy-shit little lap cushions you 
seem to like - dogs -  okay, you're a dog person, Scully." 

"Mulder!" 

"He's mine." 

Is this an alternate universe? 

"How long have you had a cat?" 

"About a week.  I wasn't exactly expecting an introduction quite this 
soon, though.  Why are you here?" 

"You didn't answer your phone.  I was worried." 

He smiled and stroked the underside of the cat's throat.  "She was 
worried." He looked up at me, and suddenly appearing to realize the extent 
of my concern, attempted to reassure me.  "I was in the bathtub, soaking 
my leg." He cupped the cat's face in his hands.  "You didn't like that one 
bit, did you, big guy? All that gruesome water...the horror, the horror." 

"Is that," I asked, pointing flaccidly at the round mass of fur, "the 
reason you didn't want me in here?" 

"Well, if I'd known you'd have been this respectful..." he said, his voice 
dripping with sarcasm.

"Mulder, did I miss a meeting?" 

He rolled his eyes, and scratched lightly behind the cat's ears.   It 
warmed into his hand, appearing to enjoy the attention.

"I figured you'd react with some form of disbelief or disdain, and I just 
haven't felt up to it the last few days.  Those painkillers made witty 
repartee a virtual impossibility." 

He used his hands to gently nod the cat's head up and down, and in a 
feigned attempt at ventriloquism, muttered, "Dad's been dumber than a bag 
of hammers." 

I rumpled my lower lip.  "You don't seem to be experiencing any 
difficulties at the moment." 

"Stopped takin' 'em.  I'm doing better." The cat pushed its head into 
Mulder's hand, demanding more assertive affection.  Okay, that *was* kind 
of cute. 

I sat down on the edge of the bed, tilted my head to the side, and 
asked, "So why a cat, Mulder?" 

He shrugged.  "Beats me.  He kind of assumed possession of my fire escape, 
and I guess I felt sorry for the big guy.  He didn't have any 
identification, and there weren't any signs up, so I assumed he was here 
for a reason.  Figured it was best to just let him in and see what he 
wanted." The cat flopped bonelessly onto its side and rolled over onto its 
back, making its white belly more accessible to Mulder's gentle hands.  "I 
guess this is about it.  A little attention, a little food, and he seems 
happy." Mulder smirked.  "Although I *have* seen him eyeing the fish tank 
on more than one occasion."

"You assumed he was here for a reason," I repeated back to him, hoping for 
elaboration.

"Well, we just seemed to have a lot in common.  He looked kind of - I 
dunno - lost, and..." his eyes clouded, and he went still. 

I understood.  "And lonely?" I made my voice as soft as possible, so he'd
understand I wasn't mocking him. 

His response was a short exhalation through his nose and a self- 
deprecating smile.  "Something like that." 

I leaned forward on the bed, and reached for the cat.  Mulder's eyes 
appraised my actions carefully, as I slipped my fingers around the cat's 
neck and rubbed gently when I felt the rumbling vibrations near the edge 
of its throat.  It was very soft, its fur dense and surprisingly silky, 
and it pushed its head into my hand, clearly asking for more of the same. 

My dogs used to do that.  Despite myself, I smiled.  "So what's its name?" 

"HIS name, Scully.  He's a he." 

"Sorry," smile, "what's HIS name?" 

Mulder tilted his head to the side, to get a good view of the cat's face, 
and my fingers rubbing firmly against his - the cat's - chin.  "Well, I've 
been thinking about 'Brutus'.  Take a gander at them paws.  They're like 
boxing gloves." 

"He's polydactyl." 

"Don't be ridiculous.  Polydactyls have been extinct since the Cretaceous 
Period." 

I laughed.  "*Multi-fingered*.  He all but has opposable thumbs." 

"You should see him with the mouse.  Grabs it with one hand." 

"Mouse?" 

He reached over beside the bed and lifted up a tattered little toy mouse, 
gently dangling it by its shredded yarn tail. 

I hate to admit this, especially to myself, but watching him hold that 
battered little bit of felt so delicately in his large, strong hands was 
actually endearing. 

Brutus didn't even see the mouse, but sprang right for it, capturing it 
accurately between his two massive paws.  For a big round lump, he's 
pretty limber. 

"How did he know it was there?" 

Mulder brought the mouse to my nose.  "Smell." After a couple of 
ineffectual sniffs, I shrugged, and he shot me a suggestive look. "Feelin' 
frisky?" He lifted the little mouse to his own nose and took a deep 
lungful.  "Ahhhh, catnip.  I feel like a kitten again." 

I don't remember the last time I'd seen Mulder that relaxed.  And I don't 
know if it was Brutus' influence, but I was glad for it.  He's walked 
alone through so much darkness these past few years.  Perhaps this warm, 
soft, vibrating ball of fluff can help him find the way back out. 

I decided not to mention how allergic I am to cats.  He seemed too happy 
at that moment. 

"So, Scully..." Mulder began, lounging back on the bed as the cat 
resituated himself on the bed near his hip.  Again the suggestive 
expression assumed control of Mulder's eyebrows and lips, and he murmured 
huskily, "wanna join me for a catnap?" 

=====
End. 

Notes:
I was going to go into a long and drawn-out discussion of Scully's view of 
cats (that it so closely mirrors her own perception by others), and 
Mulder's need for and attraction to a species with said traits (echoing 
his relationship with Scully as well as mirroring his own lonelieness), but I
decided it's just a fluff piece, so why bother.  I'll get into the deep
meaningful relationship stuff in  another story.  Sometimes ya just need a
cutesie vignette to help you get  through the day.
 - LB