[Scully enters a church to look at a painting of Christ with a burning heart. Phillip Padgett comes up next to her.]
I often come here to look at this painting. It's called "My Divine Heart" after the miracle of Saint Margaret Mary. Do you know the story... The revelation of the Sacred Heart? Christ came to Margaret Mary his heart so inflamed with love that it was no longer able to contain its burning flames of charity. Margaret Mary... so filled with divine love herself, asked the Lord to take her heart... and so he did placing it alongside his until it burned with the flames of his passion. Then he restored it to Margaret Mary sealing her wound with the touch of his blessed hand.
Why are you telling me this?
You came here specifically to see this painting, didn't you?
Yes. How did you know that?
I saw you enter. The way you knew right where it was.
I know you. You live next to somebody I work with. Why are you following me?
I'm not. I'd only imagined that you'd come here today.
I'm a writer. That's what I do - imagine how people behave. I have to admit I've noticed you. I do that... Notice people. I saw that you wear a gold cross around your neck so I was taking a chance with the painting - explaining something you may have already known. I saw Georgetown parking permits on your car dating from 1993 and a government-exempt sticker that lets you park anywhere you like. You don't live in this area but as a federal employee, you have reason to frequent it. You're fit, with muscular calves so you must exercise or run. There's a popular running route right nearby that you might use at lunch or after work. You'd have noticed this church in passing and though parking is always a problem in this part of town your special privileges would make it easy to visit... not as a place of worship but because you have an appreciation for architecture and the arts... and while the grandeur is what you'd take away from your visit, this painting's religious symbolism would have left a subconscious impression jogged by the gift you received this morning.
I have to admit to a secret attraction. (she looks away and rolls her eyes) I'm sorry I didn't include a note explaining that but you didn't know me then.
Yeah, and I don't know you now and I don't care to.
I see this is making you uncomfortable (she rolls her eyes, like "obviously") and I'm sorry. It's just that I'm taken with you. That never happens to me. We're alike that way.
(voiceover) The overture in the church had urged the beautiful agent's partner into an act of Hegelian self-justification. Expeditiously violating the fourth amendment against mail theft, he prepared to impudently infract the first. But if she'd predictably aroused her sly partner's suspicions Special Agent Dana Scully had herself become... simply aroused.
[Cuts to scene of Scully and Padget in bed together.]
(voiceover) She felt an involuntary flush and rebuked herself for the girlish indulgence. But the images came perforce and she let them play-- let them flood in like savory-- or more a sugary confection-- from her adolescence when her senses were new and ungoverned by fear and self-denial. 'Ache,' 'pang,' 'prick,' 'twinge'-- how ironic the Victorian vocabulary of behavioral pathology now so perfectly described the palpations of her own desire. The stranger had looked her in the eye and knew her more completely than she knew herself. She felt wild, feral, guilty as a criminal. Had the stranger unleashed in her what was already there or only helped her discover a landscape she, by necessity, blinded herself to? What would her partner think of her?
KNKen Naciamento
Man imagines that he, too, can open up his heart and expose the burning passion - the flames of charity - like the creator himself but this is not in his power.
But I have love in my heart.
KNKen Naciamento
Yes, as a thief has riches, a usurer money. You have it... but man's only power, only true power is to destroy it.
Then what's the end of my story?
KNKen Naciamento
There can only be one true ending if it is to be perfect.
KNKen Naciamento
See? It almost writes itself.
Mulder, it is such a gorgeous day outside. Have you ever entertained the idea of trying to find life on this planet?
I have seen the life on this planet, Scully, and that is exactly why I am looking elsewhere. (Scully opens a paper bag and takes out something that looks like ice cream) Did you bring enough ice cream to share with the rest of the class?
(smugly, eating) It's not ice cream. It's a nonfat tofutti rice dreamsicle.
(returning to his book, disgusted) Ugh. Bet the air in my mouth tastes better than that. You sure know how to live it up, Scully.
(continuing to eat) Oh, you're Mr. Live-it-up. Mulder, you're really Mr. Squeeze-every-last-drop-out-of-this-sweet-life, aren't you? On this precious Saturday you've got us grabbing life by the testes - stealing reference books from the FBI library in order to go through New Mexico newspaper obituaries for the years 1940 to 1949, and for what joyful purpose?
Looking for anomalies, Scully. Do you know how many so-called "flying disc" reports there were in New Mexico in the 1940s?
I don't care. Mulder, this is a needle in a haystack. These poor souls have been dead for 50 years. Let them rest in peace. Let sleeping dogs lie.
No, I won't sit idly by as you hurl cliches at me. "Preparation is the father of inspiration."
"Necessity is the mother of invention."
"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom."
(taking another bite) "Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die."
"I scream, you scream, we all scream for"- nonfat tofutti rice dreamsicles! (sets the book down; lunges for Scully. He grabs her arm and takes a bite of the dreamsicle, breaking it; it splatters on the page)
No-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho! (laughing) Mulder! (she looks at the page; accusingly) Mulder!? You cheat. I can't believe that you've been reading about baseball this whole time.
Reading the box scores, Scully. You'd like it. It's like the Pythagorean Theorem for jocks. It distills all the chaos and action of any game in the history of all baseball games into one tiny, perfect, rectangular sequence of numbers. I can look at this box and I can recreate exactly what happened on some sunny summer day back in 1947. It's like the numbers talk to me, they comfort me. They tell me that even though lots of things can change some things do remain the same. It's...
(interrupting) Boring. Mulder, can I ask you a personal question?
Did your mother ever tell you to go outside and play? Mulder?
(looking at the page the ice cream spilled on; to himself) Is that ...Arthur Dales?
(fake) Ah... Choo! (fake sneezes and rips the page out; Scully pretends to be horrified)
You just defaced property of the U.S. Government. (he grabs the page and his jacket and runs out of the office; she smiles slightly) You rebel.
I don't really care about the baseball, so much, sir. What I care about is this man in the picture with you. I believe to be an alien bounty hunter.
(opening the door a crack) Of course you don't care about the baseball, Mr. Mulder. You only bothered my brother about the important things like government conspiracies and alien bounty hunters and the truth with a capital "T."
Wait a minute. I like baseball.
How many home runs did Mickey Mantle hit?
(thinks) 163. (Dales begins shutting the door, disappointed; Mulder pushes it open) Righty. 373 lefty. 536 total. (Arthur Dales nods, impressed; opens door all the way)
Let me get this straight: a free-spirited alien fell in love with baseball and ran away from the other non-fun-having aliens and made himself black, because that would prevent him from getting to the majors where his unspeakable secret might be discovered by an intrusive press and public and you're also implying that...
You certainly have a knack for turning chicken salad into chicken spit.
You're also implying that this baseball-playing alien has something to do with the famous Roswell UFO crash of July '47, aren't you?
You're just dying to connect the dots aren't you, son? Look, I give you some wood and I ask you for a cabinet. You build me a cathedral. I don't want a cathedral. I like where I live. I just want a place to put my TV. Understand my drift?
(pauses) Drift it is, sir.
Trust the tale, Agent MacGyver, not the teller. That which fascinates us is by definition true. Speaking metaphorically, of course.
Okay, so was Ex a man who was metaphorically an alien or an alien who was metaphorically a man or a something in between that was literally an alien-human hybrid? (Dales sighs; hands Mulder alcohol) It's official. I am a horse's ass.
[Nighttime at a baseball field; Mulder is wearing a "Grays" jersey, hitting balls thrown by a pitching machine.]
So, uh... I get this message marked "urgent" on my answering service from one "Fox Mantle" telling me to come down to the park for a very special very early or very late birthday present. And, Mulder... I don't see any nicely wrapped presents lying around so, what gives?
You've never hit a baseball, have you, Scully?
No, I guess I have, uh... found more necessary things to do with my time than- (a foul ball hits the fence; she jumps) slap a piece of horsehide with a stick.
Get over here, Scully. (he holds the bat out to her, she takes it, but he keeps his hands on it, wrapping his arms around her and holding the bat with her, around her hands)
(warily, not thrilled) This my birthday present, Mulder? You shouldn't have.
This ain't cheap. I'm paying that kid ten bucks an hour to shag balls. Hey, it's not a bad piece of ash, huh? (gives him a "Look.")The bat - talking about the bat. Now, don't strangle it. You just want to shake hands with it. (doing silly voices) "Hello, Mr. Bat. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." "Oh, no, no, Ms. Scully. The pleasure's all mine." (she laughs, and they hold onto the bat) Okay, now, we want to... we want to go hips before hands, okay? (holds his hand a few inches from her hip) We want to stride forward and turn. That's all we're thinking about. So, we go hips... before hands, all right? (gingerly touches her hip and, with his hands and his own hips pressed against her, turns her correctly)
One more time. (he touches and turns her hips more confidently) Hips... before hands, all right?
(speaking right into her ear) Right. We're going to wait on the pitch. We're going to keep our eye on the ball. Then, we're just going to make contact. We're not going to think. We're just going to let it fly, Scully, okay?
Ready? (he tries to readjust their grips on the bat; they struggle with it for a moment)
I'm in the middle. (gets her hands back between his; both grining)
All right, fire away, Poorboy. (a ball comes at them; they hit it together) Ooh! That's good. All right, what you may find is you concentrate on hitting that little ball... The rest of the world just fades away - all your everyday, nagging concerns.
[Scully giggles; they continue hitting the ball.]
The ticking of your biological clock. (hit) How you probably couldn't afford that nice, new suede coat on a G-Woman's salary. (hit) How you threw away a promising career in medicine... (intimately into her ear) to hunt aliens with a crackpot, albeit brilliant, partner.
[She gives him another "Look"]
Getting into the heart of a global conspiracy. Your obscenely overdue triple-X bill. Oh, I... I'm sorry, Scully. Those last two problems are mine, not yours. (hit)
(smiling happily) Shut up, Mulder. I'm playing baseball.
[They continue to hit the balls. Scully laughs. As the balls fly up into the black, star-studded night sky, we see them turn into shooting stars.]
My name is John Fitzgerald Byers. I was named after our 35th president, and I keep having this beautiful dream. In my dream, the events of November 22nd, 1963, never happened. In it, my namesake was never assassinated. Other things are different, too, in my dream. My country is hopeful and innocent; young again. Young in spirit. My fellow citizens trust their elect officials, never once having been betrayed by them. My government is truly "of the people, by the people, for the people." All my hopes for my country, for myself... all are fulfilled. I have everything a person could want: home and family... and love. Everything that counts for anything in life... I have it. But the dream ends the same way every time. I lose it all.
