Title: THE CRACKED BELL Author: aka "Jake" Rating: G Classification: V Spoilers: Post-ep for "Shadows" Summary: Remember the end of "Shadows"? Mulder wanted to visit the Liberty Bell. Weird, huh? Do you suppose he talked Scully into it? Disclaimer: Do these characters really belong to Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement intended. Fun, yes. Profit, no. THE CRACKED BELL By aka "Jake" PHILADELPHIA, PA OCTOBER 23, 1993 "Hey, Scully. Do you believe in the afterlife?" We walk to the car. It's early evening and warm for October. "I'd settle for a life in this one." The Kyte case is over. Howard Graves rests in peace, but I'm too wound up to drive back to DC just yet. Psychokinesis. Ghosts. I don't want this day to end. I slide behind the steering wheel. Scully expects me to drive us home. "Have you ever seen the Liberty Bell?" I ask, stalling. "Yes." "You know, I've been to Philadelphia a hundred times and I've never seen it," I lie, hoping she'll say she'd like to see it, too, right now, with me. "You're not missing much. It's just a big bell with a big crack, and you have to wait in a long line." Her pragmatism comes as no surprise, but I'm a bit disappointed just the same. Look beneath the surface, Scully. What caused it to become damaged? "Yeah," -- I turn the key and start the engine -- "but I'd really like to go." "Why now?" Because...because...because it's been a great day and you're...you're beautiful, and I...I want to kiss you, but I shouldn't, so maybe standing behind you in line to see the Liberty Bell would be an acceptable second choice. "How late do you think they stay open?" As it turns out, not late enough. We park the car a block away and stroll along Market Street only to find there is no line at the Pavilion. The building is locked. We gaze through the glass at the bell, lit up even after hours. "You know, it was recast twice, but the crack reappeared," Scully tells me. I pretend I don't know this already. "Really? Doesn't that strike you as a bit...X-Filish?" "Mulder, a miscalculation at the forge isn't an X-File. Too little copper caused the metal to become brittle. Why do you automatically assume mysterious forces are at work?" "No vengeful spirit, no poltergeist, no witch's curse?" A mistake? A misjudgment? Is that really the answer? The air smells like fallen leaves, fermenting apples, car exhaust, and a hint of Scully's bath soap. Light from the Pavilion spills across the surrounding lawn, painting it gold. We aren't alone; a few late tourists circle us, curious about the bell. Several couples hold hands. Their voices are low, lost in each other. I stare at the crack in the bell and imagine it undamaged. I suddenly feel too hot, and when a breeze fans my skin, I can almost imagine Scully placing her cool palms on my cheeks. If my life were recast, could I be made whole? "It is what it is, Mulder," Scully says. Not what I want to hear. "Copper, tin, lead, zinc -- there's no magic in that, Scully." "No, but there is a small amount of arsenic." "In the bell?" "Yep." Hmm. "Scully, did you know that in 1944, the town of Mattoon, Illinois, was besieged by the so-called 'Mad Gasser of Mattoon'? Dressed in women's clothing, the Mad Gasser sprayed a sickly-sweet smelling gas into a number of homes, resulting in nausea, paralysis, and a burning of the mouth and throat. A sample was analyzed. It contained arsenic." "How is that connected to the Liberty Bell?" "It isn't. As far as I know. Do you think there might be a connection?" She shakes her head at my absurdity and I catch a glimpse of her smile. I chance touching her. A brush of my fingers on the back of her hand. "Stories like that," I say, "give me hope." "The Mad Gasser gives you hope?" "Yes, in a way. The possibility of the improbable." She seems to understand what I'm trying to say. Tilting her head toward the bell, she says, "Without the crack, it's just another bell, Mulder." What would I be, Scully, without the wound of Samantha on my heart? Wouldn't I be better than I am? Her logic implies I might not. She gazes at me with practical eyes. "*And* if it were just another bell," she says, answering the brush of my fingers with a fluttery caress of her own, "you and I wouldn't be standing here together looking at it, would we?" Her line of reasoning solidifies me. I feel remade by her point of view. Maybe that's what attracts me to her. "Come on, Scully," -- I corral her with one arm and steer her away from the bell -- "let's live it up." "Cheesesteak sandwiches?" "I know a place on South Street." We head toward the car. "You ever notice how much a cheesesteak looks like a UFO?" She shakes her head, links her arm with mine, and I feel on top of the world. THE END