The VowTitle: The Vow Author: Jessica (Dreamland525@aol.com) Classification: Pre-XF Distribution: Anywhere, just let me know Spoilers: Patience...sort of Summary: The X-files as we know it began when Scully walked into Mulder's basement office. But Mulder's beginning is ours to imagine. Notes: This came about because I was upset at the ending of Patience. Many will try to justify Scully's actions (and many already have) but the scene struck me as a betrayal. I will leave justification to the rest of you: this is the fleshing out of one of my thoughts at the end of that episode. For Mulder, whose voice I miss. XXXX He remembered...the transition. Stepping into the elevator alone, his shoulder brushing up against another agent as he passed, his trench coat flaring slightly as he swung around to face the lobby, seemingly in slow motion...watching the bustling room disappear as the doors slid shut behind him... The weight of his briefcase; the fingers of his left hand sweaty, clenching and unclenching around the handle as his right hand lifted to press the button...and with a jolt, the elevator began to descend into silence, leaving the busy lobby, escaping the world that the agents from Finance and Counterterrorism heading out through the revolving doors on lunch hour inhabited. He was on his own now, standing solitary in the suddenly cavernous space of the elevator, hearing each inhale and exhale of breath, the pounding of his heart in his ears...the rustle of his suit as he shifted his feet, gazing at the doors, waiting for the elevator to hit bottom. He thought of his days in Violent Crimes, just one of many agents in a crowded room; his desk crammed alongside so many others, listening to phones ringing and typewriters clacking, Jerry always leaning over to borrow his stapler or a folder, voices swirling around him, discussions about a case or UNSUB or last night's game...and standing in the doorway, surveying it all like the Creator Himself, the stony face of Bill Patterson. But no more. He was his own man now, venturing out beyond the parameters set for him; daring to make his own way as he sidestepped the accusing stares, the disappointed murmurings over the choice that had been his to make. Daring to shrug off his label as the golden boy of VCS, to veer off the path that would have led him to a successful and promising career in the FBI. None of that was important anymore. None of it. The praise, the accolades, the narrow glances of mingled envy and admiration... Patterson's twisted pride in his 'accomplishments'... That all lay forgotten by the wayside. Everything that mattered now lay behind a door...the key to which rested in his pocket, burning a hole through the fabric of his coat as he adjusted to the hollow silence of leaving it all behind. Beneath the soles of his shoes, the elevator shuddered to a stop, and he took a breath, readying himself for a whole different world. The doors slid silently open. He blinked, then opened his eyes and faced a long, darkened hall, stretching as far as his unadjusted eyes could see into the gloom. Silence. Emptyness. Promise. Alone, he took the first steps out of the elevator, carrying himself away from all that had been...and forward into his destiny. His footfalls were soft on the tile floor; he moved slowly at first, but then his shoulders straightened, and he walked with purpose, faster and faster...past closed doors, a stairwell, a long-abandoned pile of dusty cardboard boxes... ....swinging around a corner and coming face to face with the locked Door...the one that matched his key. He came to a standstill, needing a moment to take it all in. The closed door beckoned him, telling his rich imagination tales of all that was to be discovered behind it - a rather ironic contradiction to the faded plate hanging at eye level, bearing the esteemed words: Copy Room. The grin started in his eyes and radiated outward. His. All his. Digging into his pocket, he brought out the key, hearing nothing but his own harsh breaths as he slid it into the lock with a trembling hand...and in the stillness the sound of the tumblers moving was audible. He withdrew his hand, pocketed the key, and reached out once more to twist the doorknob. With an agonized creak, the door swung slowly inward, revealing to his hungry eyes a darkened room filled with boxes, stacks of paper, and several ancient copiers lined up against the walls. He stepped forward over the threshold, gazing searchingly around at what his new vantage point revealed. More boxes. A small, utilitarian desk shoved into the corner. And four scuffed, timeworn filing cabinets along the far wall. Near the ceiling on the far side of the room was a window, which light seeped through tentatively, as though afraid of the mustiness it was invading. Dust motes floated before his eyes, and a fine layer coated everything in sight. The smell invaded his nostrils; a heady scent of old paper and musty air. He took a deep breath of it, filling his lungs, and let it out slowly. "Mine," he whispered, his voice the first to echo off these walls for years. "Mine." His future. His hope. His dreams. Right here. And right there in that threadbare, godforsaken room, with its cracked plaster and peeling yellowed paint, papers littering its floor, heavy cobwebs draping its corners... Fox Mulder felt like he'd finally come home. He stood in reverent silence for a long moment, head bowed and eyes hooded, imagining what was to come in the days ahead. In his mind's eye, he envisioned a work area, an office - his office. Photographs and posters covering the walls; shelves filled with books standing nearby. A tabletop for organizing photos and evidence, a microfilm machine, maybe a slide projector... And up against that wall over there - a desk, a big desk like he'd always wished he had, with plenty of drawer space and a large surface that he could clutter with files, notes, a telephone, a typewriter... He could see it all so clearly now, this office. As if it already existed around him. Suddenly animated, he swung his briefcase up onto the desktop and unlatched it, flipping open the top. Inside was all that he had salvaged from his promising career as a profiler. A few cases he'd pilfered, either memorable or as yet unsolved. Some photographs. Notes. An award or two. Writing utensils, paperclips, his stapler... And his nameplate. It was an innocuous thing, that small metal plate bearing his name; and one he had always held indifference for. Up in the bullpen, the label served only as a paperweight of sorts; one name in a sea of desks bearing the exact same plate upon their cluttered surfaces, and easily overlooked. But here...here in his office, among his files, that nameplate suddenly held profound meaning. It was a symbol that spelled out plainly: ownership. Here, alone in this room, the nameplate was no longer one of many. It stood on its own. Just as he now did. Carefully, he lifted it from the briefcase, pausing to gaze at the name etched into its surface. Fox Mulder. The man who had reopened the X-files. He set the nameplate carefully on the desk, and made a silent vow to himself: that as long as the X-files were his, that nameplate would bear his name...and would sit upon his desk as a symbol of his sovereignty...and his beliefs.