Welcome To The Harem
Foreshadowing by Brandon Ray
Summary: Sometimes the ability to see the future isn't all it's cracked up to be. Mulder/Fowley, pre-XF.
From: Brandon Ray email@example.com
Date: Fri, 14 May 1999 03:22:40 -0600
Subject: Foreshadowing (1/1)
AUTHOR: Brandon D. Ray
EMAIL ADDRESS: firstname.lastname@example.org
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere is fine, so long as my name stays on
it and no money changes hands.
FEEDBACK: Go ahead; knock yourself out.
SPOILER STATEMENT: FTF; Little Green Men; The End, I guess -- if
you've managed to avoid finding out about Diana Fowley.
RATING: PG-13, for a few bad words
CONTENT STATEMENT: Mulder/Fowley; M/S UST; PreXF. Got it? ;)
SUMMARY: Sometimes the ability to see the future isn't all it's
cracked up to be.
THANKS: To Brynna, Robbie & Sara, for beta reading at two in the
morning. And thanks to Shannon for brainstorming a couple of
essential details for me. :)
DISCLAIMER: In my dreams...
by Brandon D. Ray
I'm standing in the hallway outside our apartment. Across the hall
our door is standing open, the numbers "42" slightly askew as always.
Just as I get my bearings, she emerges from the doorway. Her face is
drawn and pale, and she looks as if she's about to cry. She leaves
the door standing open and heads down the hallway towards the
Before she can reach it he comes after her, looking every bit as
distressed as she does.
And of course, neither of them can see me.
"You want to tell yourself that so you can quit with a clear
conscience, you can, but you're wrong!" he says, obviously continuing
a conversation which began inside the apartment. Our apartment.
"Why did they assign me to you in the first place Mulder?" she
replies, and I can hear the tears in her voice. "To debunk your work?
To reign you in, to shut you down."
Of course, he won't accept it. He could never accept a statement like
that from someone he cares about. "But you saved me," he insists. He
seems to be struggling to find the words, and the passion in his voice
is unmistakable. "As difficult and as frustrating as it's been
sometimes, your goddamn strict rationalism and science have saved me a
thousand times over. You've kept me honest. You made me a a whole
person. I owe you everything Scully, and you owe me nothing. I don't
know if I want to do this alone .... I don't even know if I can. And
if I quit now, they win."
Finally, the tears come, glistening in her eyes like tiny diamonds
meant only for him. She looks up at him and tries to smile; then she
reaches for him and they embrace. She kisses his forehead, and his
hands come up to frame her face. Their eyes meet, and they lean close,
lips almost touching ....
I awake in near total darkness, and my body is bathed in sweat.
For a moment I am lost and disoriented, and I lie perfectly still,
trying to slow my racing heartbeat and regain control of my breathing.
Gradually my surroundings come into focus: The familiar, beat-up
bureau in the corner. My father's old footlocker, which I pretend is
not my hope chest. The chintz curtains moving gently in the midnight
Finally, I think I am ready, and I turn my head -- and he is there,
sleeping peacefully next to me. Fox is there.
I close my eyes for a moment and breathe a sigh of relief. Tonight it
was still just a dream. Tonight it hasn't happened yet. Tonight he
still belongs to me.
But even as I feel my body start to relax, something deep inside me is
telling me this is a temporary reprieve. I seldom have dreams as
vivid as that one, but when I do they are never wrong.
Especially when they are repeated, as this one has been, nearly every
night for the past two weeks.
I know who she is, of course, even though I have never met her while
awake. In the dream Fox calls her by name -- he calls her "Scully".
After the second or third night, I put the Bureau's Research Division
to work on it, and based on that name and the physical description I
gave them they were able to identify her in less than a day.
Her name is Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully, 27, newly graduated
from the Academy and now teaching forensic pathology at Quantico. I
even drove down there one day last week and watched her eat lunch in
the cafeteria, and there can be no mistake: It's her.
I push her image out of my head, and angrily throw back the covers and
climb out of bed. And for just a moment I stand by the bedside
looking down at my lover, and I'm trying desperately to blink back
Dear God, Fox, what's happening to us? What is *going* to happen to
us? I know things haven't been good for us the last few months, but
every relationship has its ups and downs, doesn't it? Things will get
better again, won't they?
That's what I keep clinging to -- the idea, the hope, the prayer that
no matter how bad things get, they can still get better again.
Because we both want it to get better, don't we? And if that's what
we both want, and we're both willing to work for it, in the end
everything will be all right. Won't it?
But I keep thinking about the dream; I can't help myself. I keep
thinking about the way you looked at her, the expression on your face
as you walked towards her. You have never looked at me that way,
Fox. You have never looked at me with such desperate longing, as if I
were the only thing in the universe.
You have never told me that I make you a whole person.
Perhaps I don't.
I shake my head angrily and turn away and stalk out of the bedroom.
This is ridiculous. This is absolutely fucking ridiculous. It was
only a dream, I tell myself as I move down the short hallway to the
living room. My anxiety over the problems Fox and I are having is
working on my subconscious, and this dream is the result.
Only I can't make myself believe it. I've had dreams like this
before, and they've always come true. Always. I dreamed of my
parents' death before it happened. I dreamed of my sister's husband
before she met him. I dreamed of the first man I killed before I even
joined the Bureau. And they all came true down to the smallest
detail, whether I wanted them to or not.
Now I am dreaming of Fox with another woman, and it's tearing me
I find myself standing in front of the tired, worn out old leather
sofa which Fox has had since before I knew him. There are so many
good memories here: The times we sat on either end of it and worked
on our reports. The times we cuddled under a blanket watching old
Grade B science fiction movies until the wee small hours of the
morning. The times we made love on it ....
I am drawn from my reverie by the sound of a key in the lock. I turn
to face the door, suddenly acutely aware that my gun is in the
bedroom, at least 30 feet away. But before I can react, before I can
so much as move, the lock turns and the door swings open.
It's her. The redhead. Dana Scully. For just a moment I think it's
really her, and that Fox has already been seeing her behind my back,
but then she flips the lights on and it becomes clear she cannot see
She crosses immediately to the desk where Fox's computer rests, and
sits down in front of it. She takes a moment to look in the drawers,
but apparently doesn't find what she's looking for. She pulls out a
pair of glasses and puts them on, then turns to the computer. Her
fingers fly across the keyboard, but by the time I've walked up behind
her whatever she has typed is gone, and a screenful of gibberish
appears. She seems intent on it, and enters the command to print, and
paper starts feeding through the printer ....
And suddenly I am alone. She is gone, the lights are off, and the
computer sits silent and dark.
But she was here; I know she was. Or she *will* be here.
And I won't be.
There can no longer be any doubt, and as I consider the matter a deep
depression falls over me.
She has the key to our apartment. Possibly the very same key which
currently rests on my keychain. She knows where the light switch is,
and she has no compunction about playing back his messages. She knows
how to turn on his computer, and she knows what his password is. She
finds significance in a file on that computer, a file which I have
never seen and which I can draw no meaning from.
And in the hallway outside the apartment he will declare his love for
her, as surely as any man ever has, and he will kiss her. Because she
makes him a whole person.
I stand quietly in front of the now-dark computer and desperately
consider my options. If this were a normal triangle, I could simply
confront him about it. I could demand to know how long he's been
seeing her, and tell him he has to choose between us. Dangerous words,
I know, because deep in my soul I am almost certain I know what his
answer would be. But at least I would retain my self-respect.
But this is not a normal triangle. He has not even met her yet, and
if I were to challenge him he would give me a blank look -- if he
didn't simply laugh.
The truth of the matter is that I have no options. I've been cursed,
and I have seen the future -- *his* future -- and I am not in it.
There is nothing I can do to change that -- that's one thing I've
learned from hard and bitter experience. All I can do is try to
protect myself from the worst of it.
Which means only one thing.
I close my eyes for just a moment. I don't know if I can do this. I
don't know if I have the strength or the courage to see it through.
But I know that I must. The words that man spoke to me when we had
lunch three months ago were persuasive, and the evidence he showed me
was even more so. The only thing that prevented me from agreeing to
what he proposed was my love for Fox, and his love for me. I managed
to persuade myself, then, that what Fox and I had was stronger and
more important than the things the man was telling me.
But I no longer have that anchor. The dream and this odd vision I've
just had have shaken me to the core, and I no longer have the
confidence necessary to turn away. I no longer have the strength to
fight the future.
And so I go to my purse and rummage around until I find the card the
man gave me. All that is printed on it is a single phone number; a
number he said I could call at any time of the day or night should I
ever want to.
For just one more minute I stand before the phone, undecided. Then I
reach out and pick up the receiver and I dial the number. It's
answered on the third ring.
"This is Diana Fowley," I say, my voice sounding stronger than I had
expected it to be. "I've reconsidered. I'm ready to make a deal."
"Can I tell you a story?"
"Has it got a wild finish?"
"I don't know the finish yet."
"Then go on and tell it; maybe one will come to you as you go along."
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