Title: Immortality
Author: Estrellita (Erin Kaye Hashet)
Rating: PG
Category: S
Keywords: Future fic...not really much else. Light angst,
light romance.
Distribution: Absolutely anywhere, just let me know.
Feedback: EKHashet@hotmail.com
Spoilers: Through "Existence."
Summary: The greatest reward in life is to be remembered
after you're gone.
Maybe now, Mulder and Scully finally will be.
Disclaimer: I don't own Mulder, Scully, William, and various
other characters in
this story.
Author's Notes: Okay, when you read this story I want you to
completely
disregard all of Season 9. I started
this before many of the important S9 episodes aired, so this
story has
nothing to do with them. Also, this is NOT a
character death story, but some major characters are
already dead at the
story's beginning.

Immortality
by Estrellita (Erin Kaye Hashet)

True to her word, she is there to meet me as I get off the
train. She looks
exactly as I remember her: tall, lean, short
brown hair, bright blue eyes. I smile as I walk toward
her. "Allison."

"Jack," she returns, also smiling. I'm not sure whether
some sort of physical
gesture would make this moment more or less
awkward. A handshake would be too formal and a hug a
bit too friendly-
after all, we've only met once and spoken on
the phone as many times. But she's been such a big part of
my life for the past
few months that I feel as if I've known her
longer.

*     *    *
We met one cold, rainy Friday night in New York City the
previous summer. It had
been a busy week at work, and I was more
than happy to visit my favorite bar, which I limit myself to
visiting once a week.

The bartender nodded at me with a kind of detached
recognition, as he
always does. He looks at other patrons with more
friendly expressions,
the ones who I'm sure don't limit themselves to one beer a
week. They're
there every time I go there: a group of very serious middle-
aged men in the
back whom I secretly call "the Mafia"- I have no reason to
suspect that they
really are involved in illegal activities, but I avoid them
anyway; a gigantic
guy who looks like he's in the WWF and has more inches of
skin covered by
tattoos than uncovered; a man so ragged I'd think he was
homeless if he didn't
have the money to pay for all those drinks.

When she came in I noticed her right away because, first
of all, she was a
woman. There are never many women in this bar. Her
appearance screamed
"yuppie"- she had on a tailored suit and heels and big,
gold earrings. She
walked over and sat next to me at the bar, which was even
stranger- usually
it's me at one end, the WWF guy at the other, and everyone
else at the
tables.

"Can I get you something, miss?" the bartender asked her.

"Shot of whiskey," she said, and I could hear the tears in
her voice. I tried not
to look at her too often, but I couldn't help but be
interested in her.

The bartender brought her the drink. I concentrated on mine.
When I finished
it, I stole a glance in her direction. She hadn't touched the
shot glass. She
was just staring down at the table, and this time she was
really crying. She
pushed the glass away from her. "God, what am I doing?
I don't even *like*
whiskey!" she cried aloud, and I couldn't tell if she was
talking to herself
or to anyone who could hear her.

I looked at her just one more time. Finally, my curiosity
took over and I
asked her. "So. . .tough week?" figuring that it
must have been a bad breakup, or maybe someone had died.

She barely looked at me, still seeming lost in her own
troubles. "Is anyone
going to remember me when I'm dead?" she said unexpectedly.

For a minute I wasn't sure if I should answer, but eventually
I did. "Um. . .what?"
I reminded myself that she wasn't drunk; she hadn't even
sipped the whiskey.

"Really," she said, and now she was looking directly at me.
I involuntarily felt
something waxing soft inside of me as soon as I saw her eyes.
They were a
bright, youthful blue, full of innocence and sensitivity, and
now, of a child's
shattered hope. "Who is ever going to remember me in a
hundred
years? I mean,
I don't even know my great-grandmother's first name, so
who's ever going to remember mine?" She looked at her shot
glass as if she
wanted to take a sip, but then didn't. "I just feel like. . .like
when we die, we
just rot into the earth for people to forget about." Her
head rolled over to
one side. "What *do* we leave behind when we die?"

One instinct was telling me to get up and leave, that
maybe she was crazy.
But another told me to stay, that maybe she had an
interesting story. The
reporter in me always wants to hear interesting stories,
so I listened to the
second instinct. "I don't know," I answered her. Then I
realized that it was
a rhetorical question and felt stupid.

The woman exhaled. "I'm sorry," she said, and attempted a
smile. "I must have
just sounded crazy to you."

"Not at all," I lied.

"I might as well tell you the story," she said, then paused.
"I'm Allison, by the way."

"I'm Jack," I said, and extended my hand, relieved that we
weren't exchanging
last names. If I said "Jack Martin" she might recognize my
name from my *USA
Today* column- and might hate me for my views. Not that
many people do- it's just
that when you're a columnist for a widely-read paper, it's
pretty much
guaranteed that not everyone is going to agree with you.

"Jack. Well." She cleared her throat. "Here's what's been
going on with me."

And she began to tell me.

"Back in the 1990's," she said, "two FBI agents named Fox
Mulder and Dana
Scully worked on a section called the X-files, a
section that investigated unexplained cases."

"Unexplained? You mean like unsolved murders?" I asked.

"No. . ." replied Allison. "I mean like supernatural cases. . .
seriously!" she
cried in response to my look. "They investigated cases
involving things that
the government didn't want to acknowledge."

"What, like crop circles?"

"Yeah, but. . .it was a little more complicated than that,"
she said. "There
was this whole international conspiracy
to cover up the existence of extraterrestrials."

That had to be the most crazy, paranoid thing I had ever
heard, but
somehow I couldn't write her off as a crackpot.
She seemed too alert, too put-together, and too sincere
for that. "An,
uh. . .an international conspiracy?"

She threw me a sharp look. "You don't believe me, do you?"

I paused. "No. . ." I replied slowly, realizing that as
ridiculous as her
story was, I *wanted* to believe her. "Actually, I think
I do."

And for the next hour she entertained me with endless
stories about two
agents named Mulder and Scully. About how Mulder's
sister had
disappeared when he was young, and how that experience
had driven him
to search for the truth, which he believed involved alien
abductions.
About how Scully, a bright young agent who was also a
doctor, had been
assigned to the X-Files to spy on Mulder, but had instead
become his best
friend. About how they had investigated cases such as
a liver-eating
mutant, a flukeman in the sewer, a man who controlled
people's minds,
a man made of cancer cells, a blind woman who could see
through
the eyes of a killer, a man who controlled the weather,
and a jinnia-
a female genie- who came out of a rug. About how a group
of men called
the Syndicate, led by a man known only as the Cigarette
Smoking Man,
had worked since Roswell to cover up the truth about
aliens. About how
Scully had been abducted and subjected to tests that
left her barren,
with a chip in the back of her neck whose removal nearly
caused her to
die of cancer. About how Mulder's father and Scully's
sister had
both been shot to death in the name of the truth. About
how Scully
learned that she had a three-year-old daughter just
days before the little girl's death. About how Mulder
was abducted by
aliens just before Scully learned that she was
pregnant with their child.

"So. . .they were in love?" I asked, stunned.

"Very much," she confirmed.

She went on, telling me how Mulder was returned just
in time to see the
birth of their son, William, and since Scully had
left the X-Files after maternity leave and Mulder had
been fired, two
other agents were assigned to the X-files. Scully had
gone back to teaching at the FBI Academy and later
became an assistant
director. Mulder found a teaching position in the
psychology department at a university. They had
married, and when
their son grew up, he followed in his parents' footsteps-
he became an FBI agent and worked on the X-Files there.

"But," said Allison, "the X-Files were shut down
recently, and Will
Mulder just does background checks now. Investigates
big
piles of manure." She rolled her eyes.

"So. . .where are Mulder and Scully now?" I asked.

Immediately Allison's eyes clouded over. "That's just it,"
she said.
"They're dead. Mulder died earlier this year, and Scully
the year before." She took a deep breath. "And no one is
ever going to
remember them." Her voice was teary.

"What makes you say that?" I asked her gently.

Allison swallowed hard. "I just came back from
Washington," she said,
"trying to convince the city to put up this memorial
to Mulder and Scully."

"A memorial?"

"They were hardworking, determined people," she said,
as defensively as
if I'd said they weren't, "who never got any kind of
thanks or accolades, even as they were uncovering truths
that no one
else was courageous enough to look for. They deserve the
respect in death that they never got in life." She wiped her
eyes, which
had begun to tear again. "I mean, I'm not looking
for the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial or anything. Just a
little plaque, a
tree maybe, that would be nice."

"And. . . they wouldn't let you have this?" I guessed.

"No!" she cried, her tears again beginning. "I tried and
tried, but I
couldn't convince them that Mulder and Scully were
important enough to have a memorial for. They said if I
want a memorial,
I have to purchase the land myself, and I don't have
the money for that!" She started to sob. "All I want is
for people to
remember them now that they're gone, to know of all the
great things they did. And it will never happen now," she
choked out.
"They're just going to rot away in the ground, and no
one will ever remember them."

She went on crying as I sat in awkward silence. I hated to
see her so sad.
I wanted to hug her or something ,but I'd only just
met her. Besides, I didn't want her to think I was coming
onto her, trying to
take advantage of her in a weak moment. I wanted to
speak some
reassuring words, but I couldn't think of any. Finally, I
said, "I'm sorry,
Allison," very sincerely.

She looked up, her crying halted. "Thanks, Jack," she
said, and at last,
she smiled. It was a beautiful smile, too, one that
touched my heart in a strange way. "Thanks for
listening to me. I
appreciate it."

"No problem," I said, and as I left the bar, of the many
emotions floating
around inside me, one of them was deep
satisfaction that I had helped her, at least a little bit.

*     *     *
Fox Mulder.

Dana Scully.

The X-Files.

Unexplained cases.

Aliens.

International conspiracy.

Memorial.

All weekend, I couldn't get these words out of my mind.
I couldn't
concentrate on anything else, even if I tried. I tried to
watch a movie on TV, but it was about aliens. I tried to
read a book, but
there was a character in it named Allison. I tried
to take a walk, but my mind kept drifting back to Allison
and her tale.

It was so strange. Never in a million years would I have
thought that I would
believe a story like this, about aliens and
conspiracies and the government, and here I was, only
briefly considering
that the story might not be true. At any rate, I
knew that Allison believed it to be true, or else she was an
Oscar-winning
actress in disguise. And if she believed it to be
true it must be- for where would she have gotten all of
those details
otherwise?

I had a vacation coming up, and having neither a wife and
kids nor friends
or relatives far enough away to visit, I was planning on
spending a relaxing week
at home. But a little voice kept nagging at me, saying, "Why
don't you use
this free time to investigate what she told you?"

"No," I told myself. "It'll be a waste of time. You won't get
anything done,
and you'll miss out on that relaxing vacation."

But what I kept coming back to was Allison's face. No
matter what the truth
was, I could tell that this memorial meant a lot
to her. Those tears of hers had been so genuine and so
emotional that I felt
I had to do something to make sure she didn't
cry like that ever again.

She had said that Mulder and Scully "uncovered truths
that no one else
was courageous enough to look for." So I made up my
mind to uncover some truths of my own. And maybe,
somehow, those truths
would help.

The first thing I would do, I decided, would be to track
down William
Mulder. The Internet provided me with the phone numbers
for a few different "Mulder, William's" and "Mulder, W's"
but, as luck
would have it, I found the man I was looking for on
the first try- or, rather, his wife- at the number for
"Mulder, W & C" in
Georgetown, Maryland. She picked up the phone at
their house and gave me his work phone number, which I
promptly called.

"Mulder," came the voice on the other end of the phone.

"Hello, is this William Mulder?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"This is, uh. . ." Suddenly I couldn't think of anything to
say. Why hadn't
I planned this out before? "This is, uh. . .my
name is Jack Martin. I write a column for *USA
Today*. . ."

"*USA Today*?" He sounded confused and a bit suspicious.
"Why are you
contacting me?"

"Are you, uh. . .are you the son of Fox Mulder and Dana
Scully?"

"Yes, I am. . .why do you want to know?"

"Did your parents work on a section of the FBI known as
the X-Files, a
section that investigated unexplained cases, such as
those involving aliens?"

"Yes," he replied, and now he sounded more confused
than ever, albeit
also a bit impressed. "So did I, until a few months
ago. How did you know that?"

"Is there currently an effort being made to make a
memorial to your
parents in the Washington D. C. area?" I went on,
ignoring his question. So far, all of Allison's information
was checking
out.

He sighed. "Well, there was," he replied, "but now it
looks like that's
never going to happen." He paused. "Mr. Martin, why
does this information concern you?"

"I, uh. . ." I racked my brain and could only come up with,
"I'm considering
writing a column on them to spread awareness of
this memorial."

"Are you?" He sounded very excited. "That would be
wonderful. It would
help them to be recognized, spread awareness to a
wider area. . ."

"I just need more information," I quickly added. I could
have killed
myself for mentioning the column. Now I would get his
hopes up about a column that would never happen, or
worse, I'd really
have to write it.

"Oh, sure," William agreed easily. "Do you need an
interview? I'm at
work right now, but I can arrange a phone interview if
you want. Or would you rather come down here to
interview me?"

An hour earlier I would have said that a trip to
Washington would be a
complete waste of time and money, and not worth it at
all. Instead, I found myself saying, "Sure, I can come
down to Washington. No problem."

*     *     *
At six o'clock three evenings later I found myself at
the home of Will- as
he had told me to call him- Mulder. He greeted me
at the door, still wearing his dress shirt and pants from
work. He was a
slim man in his late thirties, of medium height,
with graying red hair and sad, hazel eyes. "Nice to meet
you, Jack," he said,
shaking my hand. "I read your column. You've
done some great work!"

"Thank you," I replied with a modest smile.

"Come in, come in," he said, and I stepped inside his cute,
two-story house. In
the kitchen an attractive, blonde woman was
serving food to a baby in a high chair. "My wife, Claudia,"
he said, "and my
daughter, Caroline."

"Nice to meet you," I said to them.

"Let's go into the study," he said. "I think that's the best
place."

In the study he opened his desk drawer and took out some
photocopied
papers. "These are the X-files that my parents worked
on," he said. "The agent who was assigned to them after my
parents read
through all of them, after he photocopied them. He
then passed them on to me."

I flipped through the files silently. Yes, Allison was right.
These were
nothing if not FBI files, and they documented all
of the cases she had said that Mulder and Scully worked
on, in addition
to many more. Even though I hadn't thought she was
lying, the discovery that she was really right was stunning.
"Wow," I said
finally. "This is incredible."

"It really is," Will agreed. "I have to admit, I'm my mother's
son. I inherited
her skepticism. Even with all the proof in
the world, I'll still take a scientific explanation over a
supernatural one."
He shook his head. "But there are super-
natural explanations for all of these cases. Every single
one."

"Now, you said. . .you worked on the X-files, too?"

Will sighed and closed his eyes. "I did," he said. "Up until
six months ago.
That's when they shut us down."

"Shut you down?"

"Well, you know," he said with a shrug, "the government
has always denied
the existence of extraterrestrials. So naturally,
they have a problem with this section being open. Every
once in awhile
they shut us down. It happened to my parents, too, a
few times." His expression became serious. "But this time
I think it's for good."

"Why?"

"Well," he replied, "six months ago, we fell under the
supervision of
Deputy Director Alvin Kersh, Jr. His father supervised
my parents." He gave me a wry smile. "My parents were
thrilled when
they heard that Alvin, Sr. died. But of course, even
death didn't mean we were done with him. His little rat
bastard of a son
followed in Daddy's footsteps and shut us down. And
he found a better reason for doing it than his father
ever did."

"And what was that?" I asked him.

Will exhaled. "He asked us to show him proof of how the
X-files had ever
benefited anyone," he said, "anyone at all. And we
couldn't do it." He shook his head sadly. "I mean, we've had
culprits get
away, or disappear, and even with all the cases
we've worked on, we have no real tangible proof of any of
it, nothing
that proves the existence of aliens or monsters or
anything irrational." He gave me a small, sad smile. "Besides,
he was
right, I guess. We've never really benefited anyone.
We haven't saved the world from an alien invasion, haven't
prevented nuclear war, haven't stopped killers from
killing. We're useless."

At the end of the interview I thanked him for his time. He
said, "Let me
know when that column's going to run," and I said,
"Okay," silently vowing never to write any such column.
Will went upstairs to change out of his work clothes.
But as I was on my way out the door, Claudia Mulder
stopped me.

"Please," she said. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

I paused. "Sure. . ." I replied, surprised. "What about?"

"What did my husband tell you about the X-Files being shut
down?" she asked me.

"Well, uh. . .he said that someone. . .his supervisor shut
them down because there was no proof that the X-files
had ever benefited anyone."

"What else did he say about that?" she demanded. "Did
he say he was useless?"

"Yes. . ." I said cautiously.

She swore under her breath. "Did he tell you who his
partner was?" she asked.

"No."

"Well," she said, "it was me." She looked at me as if she
expected me to be surprised, but after everything I'd
heard recently, nothing could surprise me.

"Really," I said.

"Yes," she said. "That was where we met, just like his
parents. I was assigned to the X-files, and we fell in
love. We werepartners until I had Caroline. Then he
was assigned a temporary partner, who was with him
when the X-files were shut down." Her voice became
hoarse. "I loved my in-laws," she said. "The X-files
were their life's work, and they became Will's and
mine, too." She sounded as if she were about to cry. "I
can't bear to have my husband thinking that our work,
his parents' work, was useless. That's why we're trying
to get this memorial put up."

I didn't know what to say. "Oh-"

"Please," Claudia said to me, grabbing my arm, "do a
good job with that column. If it won't get Will his old
job back, it will at least give him some self-respect."

*Oh, crap,* I thought sourly. "I will," I promised
Claudia. I walked out the door shaking my head in
disgust. *Jack Martin,
how in the world did you trap yourself into this?*

*    *    *
When the column came out, everyone at work knew it.
People stared at me in the elevators and as I passed
them in the halls.
"Did you *see* Jack's new column?" I heard colleagues,
who then blushed
when they realized I was listening, whisper about me
to each other. My friend and fellow reporter Hank
was not quite so subtle.

"'But this is not simply about memorializing two brave
people who valiantly sought the truths that no one
else was courageous enough even to fathom,'" he read
to me in a falsetto. "'It is about bringing in death the
respect that was absent in the lives of these two people.
It is about ensuring that the work of
their lives is not trivialized or disrespected, but
rather celebrated. It is about transcending the
restraints that our own mortality places on us by
allowing the memory of those departed to flourish in
the hearts of the living, for indeed it is
through memory that mere humans achieve
immortality.' Man!" he said with a laugh. "You couldn't
stand to write one more column about the economy?
Had to settle for this poetic piece of crap? Where'd
you come up with this?"

"Well, a-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he interrupted me. "A girl told
you in a bar. Man, oh man," he said, laughing again,
"this is just like that movie."

"What movie?"

"You know," he said, snapping his fingers. "Richard
Gere, Julia Roberts."

"*Pretty Woman*?"

"No, no, the other one," he said. "The one where she
leaves the guys at the altar."

"*Runaway Bride*?"

"That's it!" he said. "The guy hears a story in a bar,
writes a column in *USA Today* about the girl, she
reads it, gets mad, they fall in love. Man, Jack," he said,
"aliens and conspiracies? This must have been some girl."

Surprisingly, the reaction to my column was much
stronger inside the office than outside the office. We did
not receive one letter to the editor about it. Maybe it was
because the majority of America didn't know what to make
of it. Maybe people read two paragraphs of it and then
stopped. Or. . . maybe it was because they didn't need to
write to me. I'd left Will Mulder's address at the bottom
of the column, in case anyone wanted to make a
donation to the cause.

End Part 1/2 Immortality