by KatyBlue
katy2blue@aol.com
Rating: PG
Category: MSR?/Angst?/Ambiguity!
Disclaimer: Do I really still have to? Grudging
acknowledgements to CC's 'creative vision', and more so to
the two actors who were, in reality, the creators of these
two amazing characters that I dearly miss seeing on my
television screen each week.
Acknowledgements: (waving wildly to Carrie) See author's
notes at end. It's been so long, I've forgotten what I
need to put here. Maybe it's best to just read...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is what she remembers about that night.
The way the moon glanced off the planes of his face. Slid
over his skin and graced him in light. She believes that
this man has been crucified enough. She winces at words
he's endured. She touches him and it fills her with an
almost unbelievable calm.
Unbelievable because Mulder, himself, is turmoil.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is what he remembers about that night.
How his fingers touched the gold of her cross like a
penitent. The way his thoughts were racing -- always
racing. His father finally revealing himself, in all his
horror; one last benediction for his fallen son. He
remembers the way his thoughts were crashing around him.
The belief that he had, finally, irrevocably, failed. The
certainty that he had and would never have been a good
father to his own son anyway.
And layered over it all, an unwillingness to accept
everything that had happened. Not just that day, but the
chronology of his entire life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They lay together in the wake of all that had happened.
They made love in a terrible silence. In the void of their
hearts, and all they knew they'd finally lost.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And his is what happens after that night.
They don't talk about it. About any of the events that
happened to bring about the sudden turn their lives have
taken. The way events have taken them from all they've
fought for. From everything they know. They never were
bit talkers.
He thinks often about how she followed him -- continues to
follow him, though now there is very little choice
involved. Their relationship is complicated. It always
has been. She is always present, bearing silent testimony
to their every move. He's often miles away, running with
ideas that take him from her. He does this even when he's
at her side.
He knows his thoughts carry him away too often now -- far
from the fragile sanity of this all too earthly existence.
Scully, ever the pragmatic, deals with the details of
bringing him back. "Turn here, Mulder."
"Are you sure?"
She gives him a look. "I'm not sure about anything,
anymore."
He reaches out and squeezes her hand, his fingers tangling
with hers, one handed on the steering wheel in the heat of
the Mexico sun. They talk about things such as this; the
next meal, the state of a hotel room, which radio station
to leave it on. Safe things. Devoid of emotional
evocation.
They make love in silence. And afterward, she always cries
though she denies the tears. They never talk about it.
Scully wants to ask where they're going, but it's a
question there's no longer an answer to. So she unfolds
the map and makes something up. She thinks often about
Mulder's words that night -- about the people we lose being
with us. Certainly this flight would have been easier with
the Gunman's actual guidance.
Sometimes, she actually catches Mulder talking to these
people they've lost.
She wants to believe they're there, but usually, it's
nothing but a starry night he's staring up into. An empty
parking lot. A roadside ditch.
Her own contact with her loved ones is a void. Her faith
is in an afterlife, but nothing for right now. No one but
Mulder. She forces her thoughts away from the family
members who must be missing her. In her worst moments, she
can't chase away an image of the tree in her mother's yard
blooming. She hopes the betrayal of daughters can be
filled and sustained by the sons that are left. She wants
to believe this, though she gave up this possibility for
herself.
Mulder is quieter than he used to be. He reaches for
Scully each night. She knows that he wants to provide a
safe place for her in his body, in his heart. She tries to
do the same. But mostly, they just hold one another, empty
vessels, each hoping to fill the other.
"This is the right road," she says, her voice jerking over
a bump. "If Frohike's friend was right." There is a
strange silence in the wake of the name. Mulder winces as
he nods agreement.
They turn down the road.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The steering wheel is getting hotter under his hands. He
hates the heat. It feels foreign to him. He is a fish out
of water, in his mind flopping on a cold, windswept beach
in New England in April instead. The road before him is
arid dust. The dust they will both someday return to. As
always, he thinks; morbid thoughts for a morbid man.
"What will we have for dinner?" she asks, holding onto the
side of the jeep through the bumpiness of the track. She
brings him back, once again, via the promise of nothing
more than a meal.
"Hungry, Scully?"
She smiles grimly. "Always."
"I suspect burritos. Or maybe tacos."
"Yo quiro?"
He laughs, glancing over to catch that special quirk of her
eyebrow. He loves that brow. Loves that, despite the
austerity of their present lives, she still somehow manages
to coax a laugh out of him. "No taco bell here, Scully.
The real deal."
"I hate Mexico," she says tiredly, brushing a lock of hair
from the perspiration of her forehead.
He puts his hand out, palm flat on her brow. Feels her
there. "You're hot."
"It's a hundred degrees out, Mulder. Of course I'm hot.
If this place doesn't have air conditioning, I'm climbing
into the refrigerator and not coming out until we leave."
"What if there's no refrigerator?"
"Bite your tongue."
"It could happen."
"You wish."
He pulls the car over to the side of the road. It coasts
slowly, and the cloud of dust around them drifts away.
"What are you doing?" she asks, but she knows.
He leans over and pulls her into his arms. This is what
they do now. They don't speak of it. But they need it.
He feels her shaking in his arms despite the heat, with a
brand of loss that is irreparable.
Somehow, they continue to endure each day's passage into
night.
He hums as he holds her. He rocks her like a baby.
They're both sweating but they don't stop. He pushes his
face in against where hers is tucked into his shoulder.
His lips find hers and he drinks, hungrily. They may drain
the life from one another some day, but for now, they find
the sustenance enough. The taste of Scully soothes him.
She is all that he has.
Sometimes, this fills him with an overwhelming fear. She
is really all that he has. He knows the sentiment is
returned upon him in full.
They chase this truth away with the weightlessness of their
thoughts. With a focus on the timelessness of their lives,
even as they embrace their brevity in the same breath.
Holding it off with their refusal to acknowledge it. He
lets her go and moves both hands back to the wheel. He
doesn't comment on the tears he sees her brush away. The
way the force of his love for her somehow always brings her
to a quiet sadness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Scully, in turn, watches Mulder as he shifts it back into
drive and takes them forward. She does this often.
Sometimes, she sees how empty his eyes get at the road
stretching before them and hopes only for a purpose to the
flight for him. She imagines something coming that is
enough to grab their attention. She wishes for something
that will drag them back to no more than some place in
their former lives they would recognize. She misses being
surrounded by familiarity. Instead, she sustains herself
with the familiarity of Mulder.
Life is in the present. That is how they live it. They
move forward, they go on, they follow wherever the path
happens to lead them. They do what they have to. This
night, they enter a small, earthen-floored Mexican villa
and make themselves at home. There is a refrigerator, but
no air-conditioner. Scully pretends she's going to climb
into it, though she'd never fit. It's Mulder's second
laugh of the day and it makes her smile. They embrace a
meal of plain cornmeal tortillas and, thankfully, cold
beer. Later, they make love on a soiled mattress in the
profound silence of their recent truths and watch the sun
set in a wavering sky.
They are alive. Together, they bravely face the foreign
realities of their new life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hope can sometimes be a small and selfish thing. Curled
tightly in one's heart, just as a seed pits itself at the
center of some sweet fruit. For what is a seed? A hard
shell; a collection of nondescript plant cells, protecting
seemingly little substance. Pericarp; nutrient for the
blooming. And at the center, the magic division of cells.
Hope is no more than hardened protection from despair, a
hidden supply of nutrients over the very stuff of life.
Some day, this too may blossom.
In a cliched way, there remain then these; faith, love and
hope. In the dying light of the day, Mulder's fingers
touch Scully's in the heat.
Faith in one another sustains the heart.
They save their hope for tomorrow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE END
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Is this my swan song? I'm afraid I do not
know. I'm not the type of person to say 'never', but the
muse doesn't seem to visit often anymore. I do promise any
readers left that I'll keep my eye peeled for that elusive
inspiration and if it comes, I will indulge it...
Dedicated, ad infinitum, to a few people who inspired and
nurtured my XF fanfic foray...
To 'Meredith', who made them better. You know you did! I
sorely miss our e-mail exchanges! Are you ready for that
first attempt at an unrelated (but of course XF inspired)
novel?
To 'Laine', who disappeared a friend forever, upon whom I
hope life visits itself kindly.
To Toniann, who's still out there, going strong. Again,
profuse apologies for dropping the ball.
...and to all the crystalsisters, who must think I fell off
the face of this fine planet. Real life is an unforgiving
taskmaster who flogs a hard, unyielding whip. I miss you
all! (most especially my favorite fan, Clarissa!)
More thanks to all of you than I can ever express in words!
One more heartfelt thanks for any person who ever wrote
feedback to me that didn't get a reply -- I'm severely 'e-
mail challenged'. Which means although I appreciated each
and every e-mail more than you can ever imagine, my
limitations resulted in not being able to express how very
much each and every kind and inspiring missive meant.
So THANK YOU (to each and every 'feedbacker') most
sincerely for the boosts in confidence that kept me
posting.
Until the elusive XF muse strikes again,
KatyBlue