By Emma Brightman
emmabrightman1013@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Not mine
Category: VA
Rating: PG
Feedback: Yes, please. emmabrightman1013@yahoo.com
Spoilers: Takes place between "3" and "One Breath"
Thank you to the lovely Emus who sent encouraging words my
way, and to Bonetree, whose request proved inspirational.
Many thanks also to JET and Lilydale for kind and helpful
beta.
* * *
California is fire and ash, the sun blinding and burning even
in November. He returns to his cold, dark apartment with the
smell of smoke in his hair, crimson lipstick staining his
best white shirt, and the taste of ashes in his mouth.
His nose is peeling, sunburned, and he sloughs away pinked
skin with the back of his hand before emptying the jumbled
contents of his suitcase on the couch.
Another week has passed, and still no sign of Scully.
* * *
In the seconds before Kristen's lips met his, he imagined
she'd have the hot, coppery flavor of blood. Instead she was
surprisingly cool, tasting of mint and California wine.
Afterwards, when she rose up on one elbow and looked at him,
he tried to speak. The only words he could gather were
apologies and regrets, however, so he kept silent.
"Do you think you'll find her?" Kristen finally asked. She
scratched her red nails through the hair on his chest. She
stroked the cross with her fingertips.
He pulled away from her with a sigh and slid out of bed,
gathering his clothes from the floor.
"I don't know," he said quietly. "I hope so."
In the eerie false dawn of the fire, Kristen's eyes glittered
up at him, dark and full of pity.
* * *
The days creep by, each a little cooler than the last. Soon
there will be frost and phony holiday cheer.
He welcomes the early autumnal darkness; it suits his mood
and offers someplace to hide. Strangers give him curious
looks in the daylight, their gazes darting to meet his, then
scurrying away at the crazy glint they find there.
He thinks maybe he _is_ crazy, that Scully was right to call
him nuts. To her it had been a joke, only a tiny bit of
honest feeling behind the words, but to him it is becoming
100 percent bona fide fact, the kind backed up with proof
even Scully would have to accept.
He hears her arguing with him in his head all day long as he
reads through files and questions witnesses. Her soft voice
counters every new, far-out theory he posits with the
scientific explanations and logical reasoning he somehow came
to rely on in just a few months. Even if he brushed aside
her explanations as often as not, she was always there to
keep him grounded and watch his back.
How could she have infiltrated his defenses so thoroughly in
such a short period of time? People usually flitted in and
out of his life like butterflies, their impact on him as
insignificant as the fluttering of wings. A slight shift in
the air around him, imperceptible and easily ignored.
Scully, however, is something else altogether, something
indefinable and unique in his world, like a rainforest
creature never before classified or named. Whatever she is,
she has a python strong grip, choking him with memory and
regret.
* * *
"Life's too short to hold grudges, Fox," his mother says on
the phone. It takes every bit of self-control he has not to
laugh bitterly. "You haven't been to Thanksgiving in years,"
she continues. "Your cousins would like to see you."
Holidays in Connecticut with his mother and her sister's
family inevitably turn bitter and accusatory. Old wounds are
slit open with words as cold and sharp as any scalpel, all
while the mask of good New England manners stays in place.
Mulder sighs and wearily rubs a hand over his face, closing
his eyes against the flickering blue light of the TV, a tape
paused in the VCR. "I'm really busy, Mom. Work is--"
"It's Thanksgiving, Fox," she says wistfully. "You haven't
been here in so long. Surely you can spare a day."
The thought of hours of meaningless chatter and faked
familial goodwill makes him miserable, but there is enough of
Fox the Good Son left inside the hollow shell of Agent Mulder
to give him a twinge of guilt.
"I don't know," he tries again in a feeble, last ditch
effort. "It's hard to make any promises."
He can hear her gentle exhale over the line. "Please," she
breathes, and it sounds like the quiet prayers she uttered in
the days after Samantha disappeared, before she lost faith
and hope.
His hand clenches and unclenches by his side as his own
mother's loneliness blurs with thoughts of Margaret Scully
spending the holiday without her youngest daughter. At least
he can give one woman what she wants.
"Okay, Mom," he sighs. "I'll come."
* * *
He speeds through Alexandria after a Saturday spent chasing a
useless lead from the Gunmen. The car radio blares some
grunge band music he doesn't recognize, but he appreciates
the singer's rage, as self-righteous and impotent as his own.
He finds himself turning the volume higher and higher until
the sounds of the road disappear and the steering wheel
thrums beneath his fingers.
A gray-haired lady slowly pulls out in front of him, just as
he's lead-footing it to get through a light before it turns
red. Her Skylark's smashed rear fender is evidence of other
bad driving decisions.
The seat belt catches him hard as he slams on the brakes and
hits the horn with his fist. He can barely hear its
ineffectual bleat above the screams of whatever flannel-clad
band is playing now, and the old woman looks around,
confused, wondering what all the hubbub is about.
The wait is long at this light, and from the corner of his
eye he catches the glare of late afternoon sunlight off a
cassette tape cover, dislodged from beneath the passenger
seat when he stopped. He unbuckles his seat belt and plucks
the cover from the floorboard: "Listen and Learn French."
Turning the blue-jacketed box over and over in his hand he
realizes that it must be Scully's. It probably fell out of
her bag -- that ugly, soft-sided briefcase she always had
with her -- the last time she was in his car, almost three
months ago now.
Sliding the tape into the player he imagines her doing the
same during her morning drives to Quantico. Her pillowy lips
forming the strange nasal sounds, her perfectionist struggles
to gargle her "r"s.
He wonders why she was learning French. Was she planning a
trip? Has some Georgetown travel agent been calling her
apartment and receiving no answer about a six day, seven
night stay in Paris they'd discussed?
Angry music is replaced by a man's mellow voice as the tape
begins, and Mulder turns the volume back down to a less
deafening decibel.
Listen and repeat: "Je me suis perdu. Pouvez-vous m'aider,
s'il vous plait?"
Mulder listens and haltingly repeats, struck by the meaning
behind the words he mouths. Yes, he thinks, I am lost.
He doesn't realize the light has changed until the minivan
driver behind him honks three times.
* * *
His sleeplessness is not unusual these days, but a migraine
is something he hasn't experienced since he was a teenager.
He tosses and turns on the couch but can't get comfortable.
Four aspirins haven't touched the pain, and he hopes he won't
have to run to the bathroom to throw up.
Scully's mother called an hour ago. That's when the headache
began. Memorial service, she'd said with tears in her voice,
and something about telling Dana goodbye.
Mulder had been too stunned to protest. He's searched for
Samantha for twenty years, and he'll search twenty more for
Scully if that's what it takes.
That's what he should've told Mrs. Scully, he realizes,
covering his eyes with the back of his arm, trying to block
out the white lights flashing before his eyes. That's what
he'll tell her tomorrow afternoon when he takes her to choose
a headstone.
He'd rather choose his own than give up now.
* * *
California rages with fire, he thinks, flipping the L.A. case
folder closed and filing it away, but it's also cool breezes,
warm sunshine, and a sky the same clear blue as Scully's
eyes.
Once she told him about living in base housing in San Diego,
about trips to Disneyland, family games of touch football on
the beach, and getting so sunburned she could barely move the
next day. About being, briefly, a California girl.
He'd put the necklace in her file's evidence bag after
Kristen, but he pulls it out again before leaving the office
to pick up Mrs. Scully.
His fingers feel thick and unwieldy as he fumbles to unhook
the delicate clasp, and the chain is so thin he can barely
feel it wrapped around his neck, but Scully's cross hangs
above his heart with a light, reassuring weight.
end
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