(This may not be quite what you were looking for...but, well, it's where I went.)
An agent he doesn't recognize brings it down in an interoffice mail envelope. "We found it when we were cleaning out Reggie's desk," he said, half-embarassed. "Somebody on the unit said you should have it."
"Thanks," Mulder says, and drops it on his desk, along with everything else down there. He doesn't crack it open until late; Scully's gone home, and he's alone with the whirr of the floor-buffer in the hallway. But he knows what he'll find in it: the type-written manuscript of Reggie's novel.
He takes it out of the paper envelope and stares at it for a while. It's heavier than he would have expected; the last page is numbered 377, which is impressive, he supposes. The typewriter it was typed on had its F key just slightly out of alignment. If this book were in a mystery novel, that would have to be the key, wouldn't it?
He puts it down on his desk. Should he read it? That it came to him now seems to suggest he should: this is some sort of last act of fate, putting it into his hands. But then--and this is the terrible part--what if it's bad? Wouldn't it be better to remember Reggie with his dream of a book, rather than be saddled with the knowledge that the final product was a dimestore failure?
He puts it back in the envelope and leaves it on his desk. Every night for a week, he takes it out of the envelope, considers whether tonight is the night he brings it home, or the night he drops it in the recycling bin. The latter seems wrong; the former seems dangerous.
He wonders if Reggie is haunting his basement office, waiting around to see what Mulder thinks of his book. He wonders if he's trapped in the pages on some metaphysical level, the last remnants of his consciousness made manifest in typewritten lines. He wonders if, maybe, he should really get some more sleep and stop watching Unsolved Mysteries.
Scully is hanging around his desk on Friday afternoon, shuffling through the disaster in search of the toxicology reports she'd ordered for their latest case. Her hand lands on the interoffice envelope. "What's this?"
He looks up from the file he's reading, and hesitates for a moment. The right answer is "nothing," but that's the wrong answer, too. "It's Reggie's novel," he says, unsure whether he'll regret it. "They found it in his desk. Somebody thought I should have it."
"That's sweet," she says, and picks it up. She opens the envelope and pulls out the manuscript, starts flipping through the pages. "Is it any good?"
"I don't know," he says, and she glances up. "I haven't had a chance to read it yet."
She studies him for a moment, and he wonders how transparent the lie is. She nods very slightly, and looks down at the pages. "Would you mind if I tried it? I have something of a weakness for the genre."
He hears an odd sort of kindness in the offer. "Really? I would have pegged you for the romance novel type."
She lifts her perfect eyebrow in response.
"Sure, take it," he says. "Let me know how it is."
She slides it back into the envelope and carefully twists the little red thread around the tacks to keep it closed. "I'll bring it back on Monday with a full report. Anyway, call me if you hear anything new about the Maine case, all right?"
"Yeah, okay," he says, and watches the envelope slot into her briefcase. "Have a good weekend."
She nods and leaves, and he watches the space behind her for a moment. For the first time since the thing arrived on his desk, he feels alone in his office.
"A Haunting" - Reggie Purdue and Fox Mulder, that unpublished mystery novel.
An agent he doesn't recognize brings it down in an interoffice mail envelope. "We found it when we were cleaning out Reggie's desk," he said, half-embarassed. "Somebody on the unit said you should have it."
"Thanks," Mulder says, and drops it on his desk, along with everything else down there. He doesn't crack it open until late; Scully's gone home, and he's alone with the whirr of the floor-buffer in the hallway. But he knows what he'll find in it: the type-written manuscript of Reggie's novel.
He takes it out of the paper envelope and stares at it for a while. It's heavier than he would have expected; the last page is numbered 377, which is impressive, he supposes. The typewriter it was typed on had its F key just slightly out of alignment. If this book were in a mystery novel, that would have to be the key, wouldn't it?
He puts it down on his desk. Should he read it? That it came to him now seems to suggest he should: this is some sort of last act of fate, putting it into his hands. But then--and this is the terrible part--what if it's bad? Wouldn't it be better to remember Reggie with his dream of a book, rather than be saddled with the knowledge that the final product was a dimestore failure?
He puts it back in the envelope and leaves it on his desk. Every night for a week, he takes it out of the envelope, considers whether tonight is the night he brings it home, or the night he drops it in the recycling bin. The latter seems wrong; the former seems dangerous.
He wonders if Reggie is haunting his basement office, waiting around to see what Mulder thinks of his book. He wonders if he's trapped in the pages on some metaphysical level, the last remnants of his consciousness made manifest in typewritten lines. He wonders if, maybe, he should really get some more sleep and stop watching Unsolved Mysteries.
Scully is hanging around his desk on Friday afternoon, shuffling through the disaster in search of the toxicology reports she'd ordered for their latest case. Her hand lands on the interoffice envelope. "What's this?"
He looks up from the file he's reading, and hesitates for a moment. The right answer is "nothing," but that's the wrong answer, too. "It's Reggie's novel," he says, unsure whether he'll regret it. "They found it in his desk. Somebody thought I should have it."
"That's sweet," she says, and picks it up. She opens the envelope and pulls out the manuscript, starts flipping through the pages. "Is it any good?"
"I don't know," he says, and she glances up. "I haven't had a chance to read it yet."
She studies him for a moment, and he wonders how transparent the lie is. She nods very slightly, and looks down at the pages. "Would you mind if I tried it? I have something of a weakness for the genre."
He hears an odd sort of kindness in the offer. "Really? I would have pegged you for the romance novel type."
She lifts her perfect eyebrow in response.
"Sure, take it," he says. "Let me know how it is."
She slides it back into the envelope and carefully twists the little red thread around the tacks to keep it closed. "I'll bring it back on Monday with a full report. Anyway, call me if you hear anything new about the Maine case, all right?"
"Yeah, okay," he says, and watches the envelope slot into her briefcase. "Have a good weekend."
She nods and leaves, and he watches the space behind her for a moment. For the first time since the thing arrived on his desk, he feels alone in his office.