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En Canine, Care-itas.

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I knew I would die, first. It never took a genius to tell me that. Scully beat cancer, TERMINAL, INOPERABLE cancer. Sure, I had a little bit to do with that, I like to think. Skinner did, too I guess, that prick. Selling his soul to the devil and all. He always did have the hots for Scully.

And Clyde Bruckman DID tell her she was immortal. Yeah, yeah, I know. He wasn’t psychic, right? Not ALL of his prophecies came true, right? And I mean, I had Scully… SCULLY… for fuck’s sake, in my bed every night - at least, after I got my shit back together. And there was that pesky run in with that weird alien virus that left me stranded and looking like absolute shit on a bridge. But after I rebounded from THAT, I think we all knew there was no way I was going to die from auto-erotic asphyxiation. I mean, c’mon… who the hell do you think I am anyway? I’m no David Carradine.

It didn’t even occur to me, once we got back in our little house, got our son back, and fucked up some aliens, that Scully still looked every bit as good at 60 as she had at 30. Better maybe. I mean her hair was longer, sure… and well… she’d gone blonde recently which was a little weird. But fuck, maybe Alien DNA does that for you, right?

Heh. Alien DNA. That’s some funny shit. Did I ever tell you I had a dream once that Scully was going on one of her damn long monotonous diatribes while tossing around polaroid pictures of our time together, and at the end of her damn rant she turned into an actual grey alien? Hilarious.

Anyway. I always figured, once we got William back and took down an entire cabal and alien race, well I kinda figured we’d get to grow old together. For once in my entire fucking life, things were going exactly right. Even having a teenager wasn’t as bad as they say it is. Something about being the key to the survival of the entire human race and then having your loving adoptive parents mercilessly murdered in front of your eyes only to have your birth mother and father find and rescue you humbles a kid out, let me tell you.

And the sex? Shit, man. Don’t ever let them tell you sex in your 60s sucks. It’s better than ever. Especially when all is right with the world and you’re back together with the woman of your dreams. And once your teenage son, who you took great care of for all of three years, goes to the University of South Carolina on a basketball scholarship and is out of the house again. Gamecocks, indeed.

So you can probably guess where my mind was a few weeks ago when my wife strutted gloriously naked around the master bedroom, nipples at stark attention in that drafty ass house, slowly adding enough clothing to be presentable. I will never forget her last words to me. “Go back to sleep, Mulder. I’m going to town and grabbing bacon and bagels… real cream cheese… but I want you up – and ready – when I get home.”

Up and ready. I could do that. Unfortunately, the nipples, the voice, the men’s dress shirt she waltzed out the door in… well I was a little TOO up and ready. If you know what I mean. It was uncomfortable. Lucky for me I still had an amazingly frenetic refractory period. Can you believe I used to fuck Scully three times in one hour? And we didn’t even start fucking until I was almost forty. She came every time, too. Sometimes twice.

Don’t look at me like that. Would I bullshit you?

At any rate, I was up and ready. And it’s like, a two-hour round trip to town and back. Especially when you throw in grocery shopping. And I LOVE belly scratches. So, there I am scratching my belly and you know when you start to accidently dip a little lower? So, I dipped.

I shoulda known something was up when I felt like I had to use my left arm to stroke with. I NEVER go lefty. It doesn’t feel like another person – it just feels like another person took an awkward cheese grater to my penis. But damn my left hand was just itching to get a go at it. Tingling even.

You guessed it, huh? Yup. A fucking heart attack. Right there, choking the chicken. I think I even splooged right before I went, too. So she walks in and I’m there on the bed, limp cock in limp hand, and Christ. After that entire story. After those thirty some-odd years of struggle and deep love and strife and that’s how I went. Not exactly asphyxiation. But still. Fucking Clyde.

And I know. I know, I know, I know. I know you’re fucking pissed at me. I know I’ve invaded your space. Pissed on your rug, to use an expression. And I’ll tell ya, buddy, I’m not even entirely sure how I got here, but I’m not here to take your place. You’ve helped her through a lot the past few weeks. Will has, too, but you’re the guy she snuggles with when she needs something to hold on to.

Oh. Are you asking how she ended up finding me? Man. Get a load of this shit.

That morning? I felt like I came so hard I passed out. I guess I did. Ha, the eternal passed out. Get it? Heh. Yeah I’m sorry man, that’s a little fucking dark. But I end up coming to, and instantly tried to clean myself up, because that would have been so damn embarrassing for her to come home to. But when I looked down, my dick was covered in FUR.


Fucking FUR.

I was so god damned confused. If I believed in god, which I can tell you now, I definitely DO NOT.

Of course, the first thing I did when I noticed I have tan and black fur around my dick? Call for Scully. “Scullllayyyy!” Only… instead it came out as, “Whooo-whoo-whoo-whoo!”

Yep. I didn’t yell. I BARKED. Howled really. A dog.

I died. And I came back as a fucking dog. I knew it right away. My fucking luck. Right?

Those first few weeks were shit. Try being human once, being used to using the toilet, brushing your teeth, and now you’re being humped on the daily and pissing into bushes and just trying not to get into grass that is so tall it tickles your asshole when you need to take a dump.

Either way man, I get it. This story is old news to you, except how I got here. And THAT is where this thing gets strange. You see, I HEARD her. That day. The day she picked me up. I could hear her voice just as clear as day, and not just with my ears. I could hear her inside of me.

I spent ten weeks feeling nothing but anxiety, trying to figure out what the fuck to do in this crazy ass world, and the second her car pulled up, I just settled down. I could hear her saying to herself, “It’s going to be alright; it’s going to be alright.” I know she was telling herself that, but it felt like she was telling me.

I’m just glad I get to be here with her when you’re gone and there isn’t anyone left in the house.

Wait, what? Haha, you don’t know, man? Yeah you’re going to go-

SCULLY! She’s home she’s home she’s home she’s home!


Scully sighs at the barking, but smiles indulgently. This new puppy has been a train wreck, but she couldn’t turn away from his big gray eyes the moment she saw him. And besides, he’s brought an energy into the house she hasn’t felt since… well since when Mulder left her.

She opens the door and they’re there. Her two pups. She’s sending Daggoo off to William soon. The kid’s managed to invent a few money-making apps while in school and he can afford his own place. Too damn smart for his own good.

She hasn’t figured out what she wants to call the new dog yet, and Will teases her about it constantly. She’s had him for weeks and he’s still just, “the dog,” or, “the new guy.” He’s a shepherd/pit mix, all nose, ears, eyes, mole and feet for now. But he’ll grow into all of it. She rubs him between the ears affectionately and scoops up Daggoo.

“Hey Dag. Ready for your move this weekend?”

The house is quiet without Mulder. And she supposes it will be, for the rest of her days. But the new mutt has added volume. For the first time in a while, she feels like things are going to be okay.


Hours later

Anyway, what were you asking me earlier? Oh. Yeah man, you’re going to go live with Will. Hey, HEY, calm down there bud, you’re gonna piss the floor. And I know you’re not happy with me taking up the end of the bed, but you’ll be back at Will’s soon enough man.

Yeah. Yeah I know the wood is cold and the stairs are drafty. I don’t care. Scram, fucker.


Dana Scully has been dead to the world for two hours, passed out in sleep. But the creak of a door opening never fails to rouse her. She’s still a cop, after all.

The now familiar weight of the dog jumping up on the foot of the bed and curling down around her feet makes her snuggle down in her bed and smile softly before drifting back off.

In that gentle plane between sleep and wake, she hears him.

“Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully. Still here Scully. Always gonna be. Just go to sleep.”

She’s dreaming, she’s sure of it. In her head she thinks, “I know Mulder. I know.”

“You… you can hear me.”

If she wasn’t so pleasantly surprised she was dreaming of him, the weirdness of the moment would startle her awake. Instead she snuggles her pillow a little further. “Yep,” she thinks, and her dream and sleep addled-self dares to believe. She thinks again, “Is this… is this real? Are you really here?”

Curled tightly, from the foot of the bed, he guards the door. “It’s real. I’m here, Scully. I’m right here.”

Someday, she will think she might have been awake for this little telepathic exchange. But for the next decade, she is going to convince herself she was asleep. Because hearing him in her head has always been more than a little unnerving to her. And hearing him in her head when she’s half convinced he’s somehow reincarnated himself to a dog is a little more unnerving still.

But that night? That night, when she feels him curl down tighter at the foot of her bed, in her head she whispers back, “Prove it.”

And in her head, she hears, “Scully… are you really telepathically talking to a dog? I had you. I had you big time.”