By Vickie Moseley
vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com
 

Summary:  Without sight, without sound,
he should have seen it coming.
Rating:  R for naughty words and veiled
allusions to sexual acts.
Category:  V, MA, MT
Disclaimer:  All characters herein
depicted are the property of 1013
Productions and FOX television.  No
copyright infringement intended.
Written for Mulder's Refuge March
Challenge -- Psychological Torture.
Feedback is cherished:
vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com

I Should Have Seen It Coming
by Vickie Moseley

I didn't see it coming.

I think those words should be carved in a
stone placed at the entrance to Arlington
Cemetery.

I didn't see it coming.

In my case, maybe they'll carve it in my
tombstone, but I doubt that Scully will
think of it.  She'll probably put
something more conventional like
'partners forever' or 'dear friend'.  Or
she'll reach into her faith and put 'Ye
Shall Know the Truth'.

Well, I sure as shit figured out the
truth of this one.  When faced with
possible capture, men who have a
propensity to blow the shit out of things
turn to the one thing they know -- they
blow the shit out of what ever and
whomever is coming to take them away.

So it went, apparently, with one Thomas
Albert Holzer, presumably late of
Lawrence, Kansas.  One time leader of the
local KKK, until he started scaring even
that bunch of losers.  A regular customer
at Nelson's Feed and Grain, where he
purchased enough fertilizer to level
Kansas City.  Mr. Henry Nelson, Jr.
seemed to think it was decidedly more
than Thomas usually needed to prop up his
failing 40 acres of Kansas red hard
wheat. That's why Mr. Nelson called the
FBI regional office in Kansas City.

We'd just done a five county tour of
western Missouri, looking at fertilizer
bills of sales and plots of . . .
whatever, so Assistant Director Alvin
Kersh thought we'd be just the people to
help the locals arrest Mr. Holzer and
bring him in for questioning.  It seemed
a little coincidental that a small AME
church blew up just a week before Mr.
Holzer visited the Feed and Grain.  Seems
he needed more supplies to tackle his
next project.

Even with all I knew of Mr. Holzer, and
admittedly, I knew a lot, I still didn't
see it coming.

Thomas Holzer was at one time an Army
Ranger.  His specialty was demolition.
He was very good at his job.  He was hit
in the head with a piece of shrapnel
during the Gulf War and received an
honorable discharge and full medical
disability.  He had blackouts and
received treatment for them at the VA in
Kansas City.  He didn't like crowds,
except for the friendly guys of the KKK
and after a while, even they got on his
nerves.  He firmly believed that the
Black man was the ruin of this once great
country and William Jefferson Clinton was
the devil incarnate.

So why didn't I see it coming?  Why
didn't I put two and two together and get
BOOM?  I could blame the heat.  It was
hotter than blue blazes out there on the
flat Kansas prairie.  I could blame the
fuck ass Assistant Director who shoved us
into the case after we'd already been
traveling, without a break, for two weeks
straight.  I could blame the locals, who
were without a doubt the dumbest bunch of
excuses for law enforcement I'd yet to
uncovered in all my years at the Bureau.
But the real blame, the honest to God
blame rests with my partner.  Or rather,
the thoughts my partner's hot little body
was conjuring up in my mind.

We've made love one time since we were
airlifted off that icefield in
Antarctica.  One time in three months.
First, last, only, not because we haven't
wanted to again, we just never managed to
recreate the moment.  She's scared, I'm
scared, hell, we're both scared shitless
that if we do become intimate on a
regular basis, something will happen to
one or both of us.  But that one time is
indelibly etched in my mind and every
time I see her slightly sweaty, chest
heaving from any exertion under the hot
sun, hell, in three inch high 'you know
what' shoes -- I start thinking with
parts of my anatomy that are no where
near my brain.

And that's how I got here.  Wherever here
is.  When I was first aware that I could
have a thought after the big boom, I
figured I was on my way to Arlington,
full 'killed in the line of duty'
funeral.  Or maybe I was already in the
ground, because it was dark, really,
really dark and quiet -- no sounds at
all.

But my second conscious thought was such
shrieking agonizing pain that ripped
through my chest, my gut, my legs, my
arms, my head that I was more certain
that I'd fallen into the deepest pit of
Hell.

Until I smelled not sulfur and brimstone,
but my sweet partner's Victoria Secret's
perfume, with an underlying hint that her
antiperspirant had given up the ghost.

Scully would not be with me in Hell.
God, what I know of him, doesn't work
that way.  So if Scully was with me, and
I was in that kind of pain, there was
only one place I could be.

Yet another hospital.

As if to verify my conclusion, not more
than a few seconds after the pain hit, I
felt something cold run through one of
the veins on my left hand.  It ran all
the way up my arm and in just a few
minutes after it started, the pain
slithered away to hide in a dark corner.
I could feel its hot breath, I knew it
was waiting.  But for the time being, it
was at bay, and I fell into a deep sleep.
 
I've woken up a couple of times since
then.  The only way I know I'm awake is
that I can think.  I can't hear, there
isn't even a roaring in my ears.  I can't
see, but I can feel bandages now,
covering my face and holding my eyes
shut.  I can't even feel, my hands and
arms are covered in similar bandages and
from what I can tell, strapped to the bed
rails so I can't move around too much.

"Tommy, can you hear me?"

Where's Roger Daltry when you really need
him?

All this time, I've had plenty of time to
consider what is going on.  I'm in a
hospital -- Duh -- and from all signs I'm
on the really good shit, the shit they
don't like using because there is a risk
you might like it more than reality.
Therefore, I must be really messed up.
The eyes are bandaged, and they burn when
the meds come a little late, but I have
no way of knowing the extent of the
injury there.  I could just be 'healing',
or I could have sustained permanent
damage.

Permanent damage equals Bye Bye Bureau.
Haven't seen a blind FBI agent in the
field yet, nope, not once in my whole
career.  There goes my driver's license,
too, though maybe that's a blessing.  No
more sitting in frustration at a light
that won't turn green.  That's a plus.
No more over night stakeouts.  OK, that
would seem like a plus, except when
Scully is with me and she falls asleep on
my shoulder.  What's a few drool stains
on my wool overcoat when I can feel
Scully's hair tickling my cheek all
night.  No more seeing her eyes light up
when she's trying not to laugh at one of
my stupid jokes.  No more watching that
little wrinkle in her forehead when she's
working on a case.  No more waking up to
see Scully's hair in the light coming
from my window.

Oh god, what have I done?

But it's not even the blindness that
scares me.  I'd hate it, I would miss so
much, but that's not all there is to
worry about.  I can't hear.  I can't hear
a thing.  I can't even hear the blood
pulsing in my veins or my heart beating
in my chest.  I understand why I first
thought I was dead.  When I've been
injured before, my first conscious memory
is my own heart beat.  Then I can discern
others sounds, like the heart monitor or
the squeak of rubber soled shoes on
hospital-tiled floors.

None of that this time.  It's like my
ears have been filled with cement.  No
sound comes through from without or
within.  It makes me sick in the pit of
my stomach.  It makes me want to rip
these restraints off my arms and legs, to
punch a wall, or a doctor, anything in my
way.

I'll never hear her voice again.

I have a perfect memory for sight.  I
remember every book I ever read but it's
more than that.  I can remember every
smile Scully's ever given me, and I could
relive those smiles every day of my life.
But her voice, never to hear her voice
again, that, I know I would lose.  Even
now I can't remember how she sounded when
I took her over the edge.  I know she
cried out my name, but I can't remember
how it sounded.  Even if we became lovers
now, even if we had sex six times a day,
I will never hear her call my name in a
moment of extreme bliss and passion.

How dare that fuck do this to me!  How
dare that little shit ass farm boy with a
barn full of explosives tear her voice
away from me forever!  If he isn't dead,
that son of a bitch, I'll strangle him
with my own hands.  I'll have to find him
by smell, but that shouldn't be that hard
-- he stank like a hog lot.  I'll be
denied the pleasure of watching his eyes
bulge, his face turn red and then purple
as he kicks and tugs and tries to free
himself.  I won't get to hear his grunts
as the small bit of oxygen still in his
lungs is depleted and his body is
poisoned by the carbon dioxide it can't
exhale.  I'll miss out on his death
throes.  But that's all right.  I can
imagine them all in my mind.

My eyes might be damaged, but I can feel
the tears running down the sides of my
face, into my useless ears.  I just want
. . . I just need . . . Scully, where are
you?

Maybe this was too much.  Maybe this time
she's figured out that the best place to
be is far away from me.  I know she was
here earlier, I could smell her, I felt
her touch my cheek.  But I haven't felt
that for a while.  I can only smell
hospital smells, someone else's dinner,
bleach washed sheets.  No Scully.  She's
gone.

Now I'm really crying.  The pain I felt
when I woke up is nothing compared to
this!  It rips through my chest, my heart
is squeezed in a vise.  I'm having a
heart attack, I know it.  But I don't
care.  Not if she's gone.  Not if she's
left me because she finally figured out
what a loser I am.  I'd be better off
dead if I finally chased her away.

Pull the fucking plug already!  What
reason is there to keep me alive?  Why
prolong this agony?  I can't work, I
can't care for myself.  I'm a vegetable
on this fucking bed.  So get it over
with, for God's sake!  There must be some
machine tethering me to this goddamned
mortal coil.  Just turn it off!  Put a
pillow over my face and get it over with!

I must be saying all this out loud
because I feel hands on my arm, on my
chest.  A nurse, nice perfume, but not
Scully's.  Some one else, male, judging
by the aftershave, a doctor or maybe an
orderly?  I realize I'm pulling on the
restraints, struggling to end this
charade once and for all.  Then, the cold
in my vein again.  Oh, I get it.  Keep
the invalid alive.  What ever happened to
quality of fucking life, huh?  This is
not life!  This is endless dying!  But
the cold is working, numbing my only
remaining senses.  My hands start going
to sleep.  No!  Not that!  Don't take
away all I have . . .

I don't know how long it's been.  I've
been awake a couple of times but so
damned groggy.  They have me on sedatives
now.  Not just pain killers anymore, they
want to dull my mind.  Sure, why not?
It's not like I can use it in any
purposeful way.

Scully hasn't been back, either.  I think
Skinner was here, at one point.  I could
smell that High Endurance a mile away.  I
could smell him, but he didn't venture
close enough to the 'blob' on the bed to
touch it.  That's all I am now, a blob.
I take in fluids and dispel them into a
bag.  I defecate and they clean me up.
They turn me, from time to time, like a
turkey on a spit.  Can't let the
vegetable get bedsores.

A few weeks ago I was wandering the video
aisle, deciding not to go into the little
back room for a change, and I found the
movie 'Altered States'.  I'd seen it
once, at Oxford, after about six pints
and half a bottle of tequila.  It was a
mind-altering experience, at least in my
drunken state that's how I perceived it.

Anyway, the whole idea of sensory
depravation has taken on new meaning for
me, the blob.  I think William Hurt can
kiss my ass right now.  I don't have any
mushrooms, but I have plenty of time to
kill and the sedative they have me on is
producing some really colorful images on
the backs of my burned out retinas.

I see Scully on a beach.  She's naked and
the water sluices down her body.  She
smiles and puts her hand up to shade her
eyes from the sun.  The image changes and
I'm standing beside her, close up.  I can
see her breast move as she breaths.  I
reach around her as the waves lap against
our feet.

Stupid drugs.  They lull me into a false
sense of serenity.  There will be no
beach, no Scully.  I'm never getting out
of this bed.  She'll never come back.

I remember back at Oxford reading in a
text about an experiment in directed
dreams.  With just enough of the joy
juice in my veins, I think I can direct
my dreams, maybe even project my will.  I
slow my breathing, put myself in a light
trance.  Now I'm standing on that beach
again, but this time, I start walking.  I
walk into the water, away from the beach.
I walk and I walk and the water is up to
my chest.  I keep walking, even though I
can feel the sand slipping away under my
feet.  It's up to my neck and I tilt my
chin up.  I want this to last.  The water
has reached my mouth and I open it, taste
the salt on my tongue.  It's over my nose
and my body fights as I breathe in
deeply, taking the salt water as far into
my lungs as possible before I gag and my
instincts take over and I start to fight
. . .

I wake up with something plastic down my
throat, air being forced into my lungs.
Wow, I had no idea it would work that
well.  All for naught, of course.  Fat
lot of good it did me to direct myself
into a dream of drowning.  With all the
monitors and shit I'm hooked to here,
they just shoved the vent down my throat
and I'm good to go -- as far as they're
concerned.

It's set too fast.  I don't want to
breath in that much.  I gag on the
plastic, it rubs right at the back of my
throat.  I pull at the restraints in a
futile attempt to free myself and pull
this fucking thing out.  Maybe I could
rip my esophagus on the way and drown in
my own blood.  Would they be able to
figure that out?  Would they know enough
to stop it in time?  Probably, but I can
dream of that, too.  I can dream of my
release from this Hell.  Even the other
Hell, that one that surely waits for me
on the other side has to be better than
this.

This time, sensory input wakes me.  I
feel a hand on my arm.  It's resting,
like Scully does when she sits by my
bedside.  I take in a breath through my
nose, which causes me to gag a little on
the vent tube.  Not Scully's perfume.
No, but it's still familiar.  I have to
wrack my brain to come up with it.  Where
have I . . .  Mrs. Scully!  It's Scully's
Mom.  I remember it's an older fragrance.
Can't name it, but I remember it from all
those nights I'd stop by and check on her
when Scully was missing.

Wait.  If Mrs. Scully is here . . . that
can only mean one thing.  Oh God.  Oh God
oh no not that oh god please not that not
that . . .

If Scully's Mom is here, it's because
Scully can't be.

How long since I remember her here?  Two
days, three?  It could have been fifty,
I've been so out of it.  But she was
here, I remember that!  Could something
have happened?  An accident?  Maybe she
was injured in the blast.  Shit!  Of
course!  She was right behind me when
that fucking barn blew!  She was injured,
too.  Why did they let her come to my
bedside?  What am I thinking, she would
have bullied her way here.  She would
have demanded to be here.  But if she
were injured . . .

I'm going to be sick.  I'm going to puke
in this tube and it will kill me just as
I've been begging for so long.  Scully's
dead, that's the only answer.  And I'm
stuck here.  I don't want to be here, I
don't want to be anywhere Scully isn't.

I'm sobbing and trying to scream around
the tube and the hand on my arm is
tightening and I gag and keep gagging.

Fuck this ventilator!  Fuck these fucking
machines!  Let me die, you sons of
bitches, just let me fucking die . . .

I'm alone again.  I think back to my
directed dream.  I've figured out my
mistake.  Drowning was a good trick, but
not effective.  No, I think I know how to
do this now.  I lie very still.  I can't
control my breathing, so I just have to
let it become a focus.  I let my mind
float.  I lose all the tension in my
body.  I turn my attention to my heart.
It's there, even though I can't hear it.
I can feel it when I'm very still.  I
direct my thoughts on it.  Slower.

Slower.  An extra second between beats,
then two seconds.

Slower.  Slower.  I can do this.  I can
stop it all.  I can make it all end.

Slower.

Slower.

Something startles me, something cold
against my face.  Oh God, they figured
out what I was doing!  They're stopping
me again!  Fuck this.  Fuck them!  Why
are they doing this?

But wait.  The tube is gone!  I can
breath on my own.  I don't have time to
ponder this when I feel something cold
against my temple again.  I'm a little
nervous, something metal is slipping
under the bandages by my eyes.  What the
hell?

Infinitesimally, light penetrates the
bandages.  I can feel hands moving around
my head, peeling back the gauze.  My full
attention is riveted on the light I see
around dark discs directly over my eyes.
The gauze falls away and the discs are
peeled off.

Soft pads of fingers press my lids shut.
My head is tilted back and I feel drops
fall into the corners of my eyes.  The
light dims just slightly.  A finger
slides down my cheek, touches my chin and
forces my head up and down.  I take that
as a signal and open my eyes.

Every thing is blurry.  I see shapes,
shadows.  The shapes move and blur.  At
first it's all grays and blacks with
little areas of white.  Slowly, colors
form.  I blink a few times and my chin is
tilted back so that more drops can be
applied.  I accept them greedily, hoping
they will clear my vision.

Oh God, I can see!

I blink again and this time, a face comes
out of the shadows.  It's close to me,
and my heart skips a beat.

Scully.

I realize my hands are no longer tied to
the bedrails.  I wrap my arms around her,
squeezing her so hard I'm afraid I'll
hurt her.  I push back and just look at
her.  There are tears in her eyes, but
she's smiling.

You'll be OK, her eyes tell me.  She
mouths words but I can't understand them.
She touches my ears and smiles.  That's
clear enough.  My hearing problem is only
temporary or she wouldn't be smiling.
She holds my hand to her cheek and then
turns it to kiss my palm.

'I'm sorry', I can make out when she
mouths the words to me.  She keeps
talking, something about the case, I
catch the word 'escape', I can just make
out 'Holzer'.

That's where she's been!  I'm so stupid!
I pull her into another hug.  When I pull
back, she tugs at the back of my neck,
pulling me toward her.  She kisses me.
She kisses me deep and hard and I feel my
toes curl and a certain 'sleeping dragon'
wakes.  She takes my breath away.

I should have seen it coming.

the end.