Title : Frog To Swan (1/1)
Author : Shawne
E-Mail : shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com
Rating : PG-13
Category: SRH, mild A
Spoilers : obscure one for Triangle, Rain King
Keywords : MSR, post-ep fic for "Rain King"
Summary : Mulder bonds with a new pet, to an alarming extent. Based on one
line in the episode. Bad luck if you can't spot which one!
Archive : Uh.. if you really want it, please e-mail me and tell me so that I
can have a coronary. ;)
Disclaimers : God made Chris Carter, the frogs and me. Chris Carter made
Mulder and Scully. I make nothing, not even financially. Spare me.

Author's Notes : This is an odd little story that just *had* to come out of
my mind, I don't know why. It's surreal. I promise I become more normal
after this one. Really. I have other fics waiting which should redeem me (I
hope!). Anyway, thanks are due to Lisa, who beta-ed this, puts up with all
the odd things that come out of my head... and who is one of my most loyal
readers and friends.

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Frogs are not entirely expressive creatives.

Seriously. I'm not kidding.

The one I've been watching hasn't moved in twenty minutes. Restlessly, I
shift my weight from my left foot to my right, and continue looking inside
the medium-sized cardboard box. Its furnishings are sparse - a thin layer of
newspaper spread on the bottom, and a frog.

A little green amphibian... a frog. I am staring at a frog.

Great. Wonderful. Fantastic.

Just yesterday, over the phone, Frohike told me to get a life. Frohike. He
told me to get a life. His reason? I didn't have one. According to him, I
was just floating through the days, dragging Scully in my wake, trying to
find X-Files in everything I saw. He said I was getting some kind of
perverse kick out of being a rebel again, that I was forcing Scully to go
against authority, that I was essentially being a huge pain in the arse.

I replied, most sensibly and calmly, in my loudest tone of voice, that I
did have one, that my work was my life. He snorted. In derision. Then he
asked me to describe my social circle. Of course, I named Scully, and Byers
and Langly, and Frohike himself. When I hesitated to continue, I could tell
he was smirking, even though I couldn't see him. Then he asked when was the
last time I'd gone on a date. I couldn't think of an answer that didn't
involve centuries in time, so I retaliated by asking him the same question.
He laughed at me.

So I told him, in no uncertain terms, to bugger off.

He sniggered, sniggered, and told me again to get a life. Frohike told me
to get a life. He's the one who lives with two other men. At least I have my
own apartment. And his video collection is nowhere near as extensive and
scintillating as my own. Hell, he spends all his time in online chatrooms
trying to pick up girls while using the deluded handle, "Machoman". And he
told me to get a life.

That annoyed... annoys me. Not because it isn't true. But because it is.
Every day I wake up and decide to try again, to get the moment right. To
tell Scully how much I love her, and to make her admit she loves me too. I
pump myself up for it, inflating my courage to the height of a giant. But
the moment she smiles at me, or just murmurs a simple "Hello", my resolve
always turns into a midget, swings around and runs like a frightened chicken
in the opposite direction.

Damn it. At least Frohike dares to say what's on his puny peanut of a mind.

So this morning, I once again woke up, determined to take control of my
dung heap of a life (not that I would have admitted this to Frohike). I
prepared to come to work and sweep Scully off her feet and onto the desk, to
undress her and ravage her beyond my wildest fantasies, to swing by the Lone
Gunmen's hideout and flaunt my post-coital success, to move into Scully's
apartment and not come out for the entire weekend.

And what do I do instead? I get a frog.

Even I can't believe what I just did. I am now the proud owner of a pet
frog. As if starving fish weren't enough for a hobby, I now get to rear a
frog.

What possessed me to do this? Instead of striding proudly into the office
and yanking Scully onto my lap as I had originally planned, I crept as
quietly as I could into the elevator, trying to hide the box with the frog
in it behind my back. I slunk into the dingy cramped room that houses our
desks now, and discovered that Scully was nowhere to be found anyway.

Oh yeah, my confidence is soaring. I can definitely tell her, right now,
that I want to see her naked in my living room, my car and my shower (though
not necessarily in that order). Oh yeah.

Yeah, right.

Frowning, I flop into the swivel chair, and spin lazily around. There must
have been something that galvanised me into entering that pet shop this
morning. My car had broken down halfway to work, and although that dampened
my artificially high spirits for a while, I'd decided to make the best of a
beautiful day and walk. So I'd stretched out my legs, picked up my
briefcase, and walked past shops I'd never noticed, using muscles I'd long
since forgotten about - most long-term drivers should know that driving
requires very minimal muscle strength.

And I'd heard it. Heard it as I passed by the pet store, its doors wide
open. I heard it over the cacophony of barks and meows and chirps. I heard a
frog croak. Something pulled me into that shop then, some faint whisper of
memory, and before I knew what was happening, I was paying for my
purchase... a little frog I have since named Frohike.

Lovely.

Ever since then, I've been looking for answers. Trying to remember why the
croaking of a frog should cause me to do something like this. It must have
been something someone said that wasn't important enough for me to remember
clearly, yet wasn't insignificant enough to have been obliterated from my
subconscious.

I screw up my face in careful deliberation, and ponder for a while. Maybe I
fell asleep in that position, I'm not sure, but the next thing I know, I can
feel a hand clapping itself over my ear.

"Mulder, why is there a frog on my desk?"

Uh-oh. It's Scully, and she's waking me up. Usually, I'd love that. But
it's also Scully at her most annoyed. Did I neglect to mention that I put
the box with the frog in it on her desk because mine was too cluttered?

My head falls back, I open my eyes, and I look up. My breath strangles
itself in my throat. It's that face, that smooth beautiful face my fingers
want to touch and my lips want to kiss. It's those eyes, those eyes that
make me drown and anchor me to reality all at the same time. It's her.

"Hi, Scully." I smile sheepishly, and decide to put off the inevitable
interrogation as much as possible. "No 'good morning'? Whatever happened to
civility in the workplace?"

I move the chair, swinging around so that I'm facing her. Her arms are
crossed, a manila folder gripped tightly in her left hand. I'm pretty sure
her right eye is twitching in annoyance.

Suddenly, I remember why I bought this frog.

I bought it because Scully is my swan.

"Fine," she mutters, exasperated. Puffing her cheeks out in irritation, she
stares at me, and I almost look away, although I never do. "Good morning,
Mulder. Now would you mind telling me why there is a frog sitting on top of
my desk?"

The revelations pouring haphazardly into my mind's eye are confusing me,
and I can't speak for a minute. I'm remembering now a day that passed just
over a week ago, in Kroner, Kansas. I recall a man, Holman Hardt, a man who
could control the weather with his emotions. I remember vicariously enjoying
every single occasion my professional relationship with Scully was
misunderstood.

But one sentence stands out in my brain, shouting itself, mingling with
Scully's sarcastic words, repeating ad infinitum. I can still see Holman,
hands twisted in pain, fearfully asking me, "How can a frog tell a swan that
he loves her?"

Oh God.

"Mulder? I'm waiting for an explanation." She waves her hand impatiently in
front of my glazed eyes, and I fall out of my reverie with a resounding
jolt. "And it had better be a good one."

Of all times to realise this. Of all the times to discover that Scully is
my swan, and that I am Scully's frog.

I clear my throat painfully, and try to smile around the tears that are
gathering in my cheeks. "Uh..." I manage intelligently, before lapsing back
into silence. Then I try again. "My desk is messy."

She rolls her eyes and sighs audibly. "That's no excuse. Why did you bring
a frog to work anyway?"

My confidence is now completely decimated. Of course I can't tell Scully I
love her. How can I? The language barrier alone is formidable. I mean, frogs
croak, and swans... well, swans do whatever swans do. She would never
understand.

Besides, I've told her once before, I know. I used the strength provided me
by drugs and a kiss still fresh in my memory, and I actually told my swan
that I loved her. She didn't understand a word I said, even though I'm
definite I was speaking in English. How loudly does a frog need to croak
anyway, to get a swan's attention?

"Are you OK, Mulder?"

Once again, I refocus my eyes and my wits, and realise that she is now
bending down to me, her eyes studying my face worriedly. Frohike releases a
tiny croak, and I almost groan out loud.

"Come on, Mulder. I just got back from Accounting, and I have more reports
to file after this." She pulls me to my feet, and steers me to my own chair.
"I really need my desk back."

I'm beginning to draw parallels now that I know what subconscious knowledge
made me buy that frog. And I know that frogs don't really express themselves
well. It's impossible, almost, to tell when a frog is in love. I watched
Frohike for twenty minutes, and his face didn't budge, not one iota. Cats
will rub themselves against your legs, dogs will bark and wag their tails,
birds will sing to the tunes in their hearts. Frogs just sit like stones,
staring straight ahead at nothing, and occasionally hop. Inertia epitomised.

Is that what I've been doing wrong?

Scully pushes me down onto my chair, then walks back around to her desk and
picks the box up. Her nose wrinkles in obvious distaste as she takes a
closer look inside, and then she dumps it unceremoniously in front of me.
"Your frog," she announces dryly.

Oh no. Scully hates frogs?

Suddenly, I feel an overwhelming need to fight this out, to defend this
frog to Scully. To defend myself. There's a bond now, between Frohike the
Frog and me.

Both of us are never going to be worthy of Scully.

"It's just a frog, Scully," I reply, a trifle petulantly. "What's the big
deal?"

She has actually already sat down, turned back to her desk, picked up her
pencil and begun scratching away at a piece of paper. At my question, her
shoulders tense in frustration, and I know that she is biting her lip for
control. She turns and there is a tight smile on her face.

"Do we really need to talk about this now, Mulder?"

"Scully, it's just a frog! Why are you freaking out?"

"I'm not 'freaking out', Mulder." She arches a disapproving eyebrow at the
box, and I move it out of the way so I can see her better. "I just don't...
think frogs are all that great. Of course, you're welcome to keep whatever
pets you want." She nods decisively, apparently thinking that the
conversation is closed, and begins to turn back around.

"Are they annoying? Disgusting? What?" I can sense that I'm getting
annoying, and that I'm sounding more and more like a child every minute. But
I need to prove a point here, to myself, to her. Even if I'm not too sure
what that point is. All I know is that swans might be beautiful, but they
shouldn't be judgmental.

"I don't know." She shrugs, cutting me off, trying in vain to make me stop
talking. "They're slimy."

"You're a doctor, Scully!" I explode, half-jumping out of my chair. She
looks at me, eyes wide and amazed, and I clear my throat. Gathering myself
together again, I sit back down. "You're a doctor," I repeat quietly.

"Of people, Mulder. I'm a doctor of the human body. I'm not a vet." Her
words come out sensibly, in a matter-of-fact way.

For some reason, I want to cry. She doesn't like frogs. My swan doesn't
like frogs. I swallow. If only I could make her understand, if only she
could know that what I was saying wasn't just about Frohike, that it was
about me, too. But she is still staring at the outside of the box in
revulsion, and I want to make her stop, to make her lip stop curling upward
and her eyes stop narrowing.

"Blood and guts and gore, Scully." I tip the box towards me, reach in, and
grab the frog so forcefully I momentarily worry if I'd squeezed it to death.
"You cut dead people up. This is just a frog." I hold it up, and push it
mercilessly into her face.

"Mulder, what's with you today?" She shrinks back in disgust. "Stop waving
that... thing in my face and let me get to work."

"Fine," I snap. I can just about feel a mammoth sulk beginning an invasion
of my system, and I rudely drop the clammy cold frog back into the box.

"God, Mulder, was the supermarket out of sunflower seeds or something?"
She's functioning partly on anger and partly on anxiety now, I can tell. Her
body is half-turned toward me, unsure as to whether she should return to
work, or keep talking to me. "Maybe your oral fixation is acting up."

I am sinking into depression. And this time, Scully isn't helping matters
at all.

How can a frog tell a swan he loves her? Her large blue eyes are searching
for mine, but I turn away. She could never understand.

"If it's so important to you, Mulder," she finally ventures, turning all
the way to face me now. "I don't like frogs because Bill used to catch them
and put them in my bed at night. OK?" She frowns at the memory, then looks
back at me. "They scared the hell out of me as a kid."

If only I could establish a direct line of contact with her. It's like
we're speaking through CB radios, and I'm trying to find her wavelength, but
keep getting static. She still thinks I'm mad about the frog, and only the
frog. Damn.

Frog to Swan. Frog to Swan. Come in, Swan, come in.

"Now can I please go back to work?" The left side of her mouth turns up
wryly as she waits for my answer.

Static. I'm still receiving nothing but static.

"Don't you ever feel like a frog sometimes, Scully?" The question is out of
my mouth before I can pull it back in. I know how crazy it must sound, so I
instinctively shift back in my seat to avoid her reaction, whatever that
might be.

Can you read me, Swan? Do you copy?

"What does that mean?" Quizzical. She looks quizzical. OK, at least I
haven't scared her off yet.

"I don't know. Just... generally unwanted?" The sentence comes out as a
question, to soften its impact. I did that intentionally, yet somehow
instinctively as well, so as to avoid coming out with the full truth of my
emotions. Verbal dancing - that's something Scully and I both hold
doctorates in.

"Frogs aren't always unwanted," she replies slowly, looking a bit
uncertain... as if she isn't entirely sure what we're talking about. "As
long as there are guys like you around."

I think I'm actually getting through. Just a little.

"Well, sometimes I feel like a frog." That's the most direct way you're
ever going to get me to say it. I fiddle nervously with the edge of the box,
and refuse to look her in the eye. It's up to her now. It's my Swan's move.
I can only wait.

But... nothing. Are our lines crossed? Come in, Swan, come in.

Please?

I look up, and I sigh. She's gone. She just got up off her chair and plain
disappeared. Marvellous. She probably didn't even hear a word I said. And if
she did, she didn't understand any of it. It's the same fundamental language
barrier again... I'm croaking, and she's just swimming gracefully along,
oblivious.

"Alright, Mulder, have it your way." It's her voice. It's her. It's Scully.
I turn, thrilled, and discover that she's actually walked to the door and is
about to leave the room. "Whatever. I'm going to get some coffee." Her
fingers close around the doorknob, and I pray hard for her not to turn it. I
don't want her to leave. I want her to reassure me that there's still hope.

I hear the click of the lock. She really is going. I watch her pull the
door open, and I feel like letting loose a feeble croak of despair. I want
to cry. Was this how Holman felt all those years?

"Hey, Mulder?" She sticks her head back around the door, and smiles
crookedly at me. "Just to let you know - if you are a frog..." Her voice
trails off, and my heart almost stops. But then she sighs, a sigh that is a
mixture of weariness and indulgence and something else.  "You're my kind of
frog."

And then she disappears.

Oh God.

That really happened. It really did. My swan understood.

Small hops. Small steps. We're getting there.

I want to jump for joy.

One day we'll get there. We will, Scully. We will.

But for now... over and out.

=====end=====

Bounce your feedback over to my pet shop at shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com ;)
And if you want proof that I *do* indeed write normal things, you can visit
my site.

http://www.shawnex.freeservers.com

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Added April 29, 1999
Amended Version added May 3, 1999

- Archived at Darkstryder's Fanfic Recommendation Site as 'pick of the week'
(stories of 8 May).
- Recommended on CiCi Lean's Fanfic Recommendations Page, for the week
beginning 10 May 1999
- Archived at Further X-plorations ~~ an X-Files post-ep site