Title: A Knock At The Door
Author: the lopsided weevil
Archive: Not without written permission
Summary: An experimental character study





Fox Mulder cannot rest, cannot pull himself from his work. The small digital clock next to his computer reads nearly a quarter past one in the morning, but he continues to work. There is no time for sleep, nor time for more personal matters. There is only work. There is only the here, the now. The hour is late, and yet he continues his work, though he isn't sure why, he merely continues on a path begun long ago and he allows himself no distraction.

There is a knock at the door.

Fox Mulder busies himself, riffling through papers and files brought home with him from the office. He scans the pages, documents detailing unusual insect activity across the broad swath of North America. There are reports of beetle infestations in Boluxi, abnormally large ant hills in Austin, Texas, Scorpion attacks in southwest Arizona and other tales of the creepy and crawly, all fodder for his vivid imagination. Despite the bounty of information before him, he seems distracted, unable to concentrate on the odd and sometimes outrageous claims contained on the pages. Even the photographs of many of these extreme events do little to spark his interest. And yet he continues the work, shuffling and scanning each page dozens of times.

There is a knock at the door.

Fox Mulder glances over at the beer bottle sitting on the edge of the coffee table. Sitting atop the bottle is a picture of a particularly bizarre ladybug infestation in a Mexican orange grove, the trees literally covered in them. The bottle is empty, it's contents sacrificed for the better good of quenching his thirst. Still, his lips remain parched, unable to find the substance that would satisfy their need.

Picking up the bottle with a firm grip around the tall neck, he walks silently into the kitchen. He tosses the now empty and useless vessel into the trash, just missing the recycling bin that sits empty and waiting next to the overflowing trash can. The bottle makes a sharp rattle as it crashes onto the mound of garbage filling the can. Somehow defying gravity, the bottle manages to cling to it's perch atop the trash heap.

There is a knock at the door.

Fox Mulder extends his hand out and turns out the lights in the kitchen. Walking into the large living room he does the same there. The apartment is now dark, accept for an eerie glow oozing in from the expansive window that covers the far wall. It gives an effect not dissimilar to that seen in some of his favorite murder mystery movies. If only his life could be seen in noirish black and white the vision would be perfect.

There is a knock at the door.

Fox Mulder hesitates, then turns, walking toward the dark monolith that is the entrance to his apartment. Something is drawing him closer and closer, and yet he is unsure why. Pausing, he can just make out the sounds of another human being's hesitant breathing on the other side of the barrier. The sound feels familiar and personal.

"Please." The whispered word was barely audible, but he notes it non-the-less. He lets the echo of the sound travel through the pathways in his brain. It's almost recognizable, with it's timbre striking a familiar chord, but somehow out of reach. Taking care, he files the memory of it away for future reference.

Fox Mulder turns and walks towards the couch that sits anchored against the right hand wall. He lets out a deep breath and studies the now familiar lines and creases on his long favored resting place. Sitting down, he stretches out and takes up the length of it.

There is a knock at the door.

Fox Mulder is resting his head on the padded arm of the leather sofa and feels the first numbing blush of sleep. His dreams tonight will be of beetles and ants and grubworms eating at cold dead flesh. In the morning he will awake and file away the documents he's examined this night. There is a mystery here, but none that he is interested in solving.

There is a knock at the door.

Fox Mulder falls int an uncomfortable asleep. There is a mystery here, but one that he cannot bring himself to solve.





author's notes: just a quickie written at lunch, but I'd love to hear your comments and suggestions.

Loved it? Hated it? Really wanted me to have Krycek pick the lock? Post your comments to the list or email me at: lopsided@flashmail.com