From: Talula727 Date: Tue, 26 Oct 1999 15:08:06 GMT Subject: NEW: Black Holes in Texas (1-2/5) by LoneGunChick title: Black Holes in Texas Author: LoneGunChick Date: 10/99 feedback: s_green@yahoo.com Classification: ??? MSR/UST, I guess. Not a lot of meat. Archive: sure, fine, whatever. Disclaimer: They're not mine, but that doesn't stop me. (1/5) Starbucks Italian roast has nothing on truck stop coffee. I should have known this, after the thousands of miles we've traveled. If I haven't learned something as simple as the incredibly high caffeine content in truck stop coffee, there's no hope for me. Alas, there is no hope. I flip through the channels again--all four of them-in their staticy glory. Jerry Springer. Infomercial for an organic hair removal product. All-night weather channel. Basketball in Spanish. None of them pique my interest. A glance at the clock confirms my fears-it is 2:30 a.m., and I am beyond awake. I'm wired. Mulder had insisted we drive further; actually, he had insisted I drive further, so we could make it to El Paso before quitting for the evening. To keep driving, I had loaded upon truck stop coffee. He had had a few cups of his own, but I'm fairly sure he is sleeping like a baby. Lucky bastard. Now I'm stuck in a hotel room in the middle of Texas, wide awake, and nothing even to watch on tv. I used to bring books on these little field trips, but I found after a year or two that our work in the field was usually so grueling that I just went back to the motel and passed out. In an effort to lighten my luggage, the unread books had fallen by the wayside. Now I'm wishing I had anything to read, anything at all. A Sears or J. Crew catalog. A room service menu even. But the cleaning crew has done its job; the room is free of even the most common literature. The motel Bible is even missing. If I were superstitious I would take that as a bad omen. I could go out to the car and get my laptop, but we had had to park at the far side of the parking lot. Apparently the rodeo is in town. Yee-haw. The point being, I don't feel like walking way out there at 2:30 a.m. Like the sign says, you "Don't Mess with Texas." I flick off the Spanish basketball. It isn't even good for background noise. Tossing the (disturbingly) sticky remote onto the (equally disturbingly) stained bedspread, I get up and plod across the matted motel carpet to the window. Pushing apart the heavy curtains, I peer out into the Texas darkness. Our motel is by a freeway--how novel. At this time of night the only travelers are the big rigs whose drivers are probably just as hopped up on truck stop coffee as I am. The mammoth creatures rumble by in the darkness, too far actually to shake the room with their passage but close enough that I could sense them. A large semi rolls past, and I think I can make out the Wonder bread logo on its side. I didn't even know they still make Wonder bread. I think of the man (not to be sexist, but really, how many female truckers are there?) at the helm. Gripping the oversized steering wheel between large paw-like hands, maybe listening to country or classic rock on the radio. Watching his radar for the fuzz. Looking at the picture of his girlfriend taped next to the CB radio, illuminated softly by the instrument panel lights. And driving, always driving. But always with a clear destination. I lean my head against the cool, cloudy window, a sudden melancholy overtaking me. Tracing the dried rain-lines with my fingers, I sigh and look up at what I can see of the night sky over the freeway. I am a strong woman in the midst of others. I am a strong woman to my peers, my enemies, my family, my partner. I can take it-it being life, or shit or whatever-like no other, and, some would say, dish it out in equal measure. I am a strong woman in the sunlight. I always have been. But as strong as I am in the sunlight, the middle of the night has always been my Achilles heel. At 2:30 a.m., strung out on travel and chewy truck stop coffee, I am not strong. I am weak. And small. And soft. And I want more than anything for someone to be strong for me; to take my small, soft self and hold me up, to keep me standing. This is not the first time I've felt this way--far from it. But I am getting older. And more tired. And I can feel the years and the loneliness weigh upon me, as real as the cold of the motel window against my forehead. It has been a while since I have been up this late, alone with myself, with nothing to do but think about the state of my life. I am tired of carrying around my loneliness and my melancholy. I want someone else to carry them for me, if only for a time. I think of Mulder, sleeping soundly in the next room, and I smile slightly, without joy. I realized a long time ago that I love him, and that he loves me. And not in the platonic sense. But at the same instant I realized I was in love with him, I realized that it would never work. We are too similar; we are both the positive side of the magnet. As much as we intellectually complement each other, we emotionally clash. We could never fit together, because there is nothing to fit. If we ever tried, it would be like two black holes trying to swallow each other. It is not just emotionally and physically implausible, but cosmically impossible. Or so I have convinced myself. But the rationalization does nothing to stop the ache in my body. It surpasses the physical. After six years, either you give up and have sex or you give it up all together. I have pretty much given it up all together. But there is a greater ache than that; it is the need for the emotional connection that we have not been brave enough to forge. Yes, we are always together. Yes, we enjoy each other's company. But other than a few exceptions, we are always holding each other at arm's length, lest the black holes get too close. For as much as I know about Mulder, I know nothing about him. This fact became wildly clear with the whole Fowley episode, which I do not permit myself to bring up too often. He has still never mentioned it. I never press him. Now the distances between us are painfully drawn, as he is a mere thirty feet away yet miles more than that. For as many nights as my body has ached to hold his, tonight, the ache is deeper. I want to crack the wall. To let him carry a little bit of my weight, and maybe to take a bit of his in return. I turn back to the bed and flopped down, suddenly too weary to hold myself up. I don't want to regard truckers any more tonight. I do not want to be reminded that there is no sweetheart taped to my dashboard. All I want is sleep, but that seems farther off than ever. My mind begins to play over all the stories that I have bottled up inside me. Stories that partners traditionally share, in the domestic sense. They are my oral history, meant to be passed on. Will they die with me? What is the point of having a history, oral or otherwise, if there's no one who is interested? It's like the tree falling in the forest. Does it make a sound if no one is around to hear it? Furthermore, would anyone really give a fuck? What would he do, I wonder, if I march in there and wake him? If I just launch into the time when I was seven and got lost in the woods, and had never been so scared--before or since? Or if I tell him I like to paint my toenails blue? Or if I tell him about my secret romantic fantasy that I've never told anyone? I am tempted. God, I am tempted. It hurts so much, the luggage of a lifetime, the pain of carrying it myself. I can feel it weighing on my chest, threatening to manifest itself in tears I do not want to shed. I could go to him, ask him to take it. But it is almost 3:00 in the morning. And I'm sure he is asleep. (2/5) Lord, the no-doze I was addicted to in college had nothing on that truck stop coffee. 2:45 a.m. And here I am, wide awake. And there isn't even anything on the goddam TV, except Spanish basketball. And though I love basketball, I don't speak much Spanish. Not that it wouldn't have ever come in handy. Just chalk that one up to one of the things I always meant to do and never got around to. All the things that I meant to do. I could make a list as long as my arm. And then my leg. And then some more. But I don't dare. I have some self-loathing issues that aren't overly healthy for myself or anyone around me, so as my own therapist, I have mentally forbidden myself from making lists of any kind. They add to my auto-depreciation, if that is a word. I push myself off the bed and go to look in the mirror. The shadow is pronounced on my cheeks and chin as I run my hand over my face. I need to shave. I can see ugly yellow stains in the underarms of my T-shirt. I need to get some new ones. I wonder whether there is any way I can charge the Bureau for them. I'll have to see whether Scully can think of a way to finagle some new Hanes T-shirts; she's good at that kind of stuff. I flip off the harsh fluorescent light and walk to the other side of the room in the darkness. The Spanish announcer on the TV is getting exceited about something; somehow, though, I can't make myself share the enthusiasm. I punch the button on the set and it is quiet. Leaning against the wall and peering out the window, I can see the trucks zooming along the freeway. Gotta love Motel Six. The view may suck, but the price is right. As a truck rumbles by, I can see the unmistakable Wonder bread logo. I grew up on Wonder bread and matzo crackers. The after-school-treat of champions. No wonder I never made the Olympics. In anything. Even Spanish basketball. Turning my attention to the parking lot, I crane my neck to see whether I can make out the car. I'm not sure I locked it, and this isn't the greatest area. Scully will kill me if someone steals the car. Not because of the car, mind you, but more because of her laptop and our other assorted goodies (evidence, sweatshirts, what have you) in the trunk. I can't see it, and begin to back away from the window when a reflection in the dark catches my attention. In the chrome of the car parked just outside my room, I can see a woman standing in her window, fingers tracing some invisible line on the glass. The reflection isn't completely clear so it takes me a minute to realize who it is. Being the generally self-absorbed putz that I am, I never give a second thought to Scully not being able to sleep. I just figure I pace track marks in motel room carpet while visions of sugarplums dance in her head. Actually, the truth is, I've never wanted to think of what Scully dreams about. I know my own dreams and they are dark enough, stained by the daily existence that is ours. But tonight the coffee must have gotten to her as well. I watch her in the reflection, a mirror of reality, but real nonetheless. Even in the distorted car chrome, she looks lost in thought miles away. I wonder what she is thinking about. It doesn't look like warm fuzzies. I know Scully loves me. But I know that it would take nothing short of a miracle for that love to be brought to a head, put on the table. I know as well that I have done nothing to try to encourage her, to try to show her that her feelings are reciprocated. Oh, sure, I love her back. There is no doubt to that. And I think she knows it, too, despite my generally aloof attitude. But there is still this distance, this moat that needs to be breached between us, that I frankly don't know what to do with. And most days I don't have the energy to think about it. I take her for granted. I know that. But I have no other choice. If I let myself appreciate her presence in my life, that would be to make myself vulnerable. If I never admit that I can't live without her, then maybe, if I had to, I could. Maybe. But I don't deny that the resulting loneliness makes me miserable. Some days when we're working on a case or sparring over details, I just want to crush her to me and take her inside me, to a place that no one could ever reach her or hurt her, a place where she could never leave. But I don't dare. There are too many parameters to our relationship. Too many missing parameters that I don't know whether I'm capable of supplying. I see her withdraw from the window, almost in defeat. After a beat, the bedsprings on her uncomfortable motel bed creak. I picture her lying there, sprawled out, the heavy weight of whatever it was she was pondering lying on her like a lover. This, I'm sure, is the only lover she's known for years. How hard is her life for her? I wonder. How hard is my life for me? If I could answer that question in numeric terms, I could probably multiply by seventy times seven to get her equivalent. See, I have lived like this forever. She's lived it only since she met me. (3/5) I glance over at the clock again. 3:15. Still wide awake. I can remember when I was younger, in elementary school, I went through a phase where I couldn't sleep. It was when we were moving a lot, and I'm sure it was all connected, but we never did figure out how. But the one thing I took away from the whole experience was that the more you think about going to sleep, the harder it becomes. So I try not to think about sleep. What to think about, then? That is the question. What can I think about that will improve my mood? There isn't much tonight. Usually I have the wonderful capacity to put on a good face-it is part of Agent Scully, Superwoman. But tonight is too dark and too heavy; I can think of nothing. Nothing that doesn't lead me back to the same bad thought of some sort. Finally, I give up. I launch myself off my bed and go for my suitcase. There has to be something in there to keep my mind off--well, off my life. I rifle through it. I find not so much as a deck of cards. The only thing of even minor interest is a pack of ultra-stale and ultra-smashed Camels. I don't even remember where they came from. Plopping back down on the bed, I read the writing on the pack. Twice. I don't normally smoke, but I think tonight may be an exception. Hell, I'm an insomniac from one vice, may as well make it two. I find the complimentary pack of matches. Opening it up, I find only one match left. Apparently the cleaning crew has not done as good a job as I previously thought. Bringing one of the cigarettes up to my dry lips, I strike the match and try to light it. The end of the cigarette is so mashed that I can't get it to light. I try until my fingers burn, but no luck. I sigh and let my arms dangle down between my legs, my eyes on the floor in front of me. I think I drop the match. Tonight even my vices aren't going my way. A soft knock on the adjoining motel room door breaks my reverie. I tear my eyes off the faded blue carpet, but I can't make myself do much more than grunt affirmatively, letting him know that he can come in. The door opens and there stands Mulder. I drag my eyes up his form. He looks like hell. Apparently my assumption about him slumbering peacefully was wrong. I should have known better--Mulder is the insomniac to beat all insomniacs. "Mulder. I thought you were asleep," I say without inflection. If I were in a better state of mind, I would be startled to hear how dead my voice sounds. "Hey, Scully," he replies softly. "Same here. I thought for sure you'd be conked out." He leans against the doorjamb, crossing his arms over his chest. "The coffee get to you, too?" I can feel my lips curl in a semblance of a smile. "Yes, I guess. I was ....kind of wired." My voice trails off, as flat as before. "Hmmm," he replied, looking at me with his usually obtuse gaze. "You don't seem too wired now," he observes, still looking at me. "No, I guess not," I agree. "Still don't feel like sleeping though." "Yes, me neither. Something about Texas," he says, and pushes himself off the door jamb. Coming into the room, he looks around for a chair. My eviscerated bag is piled on the only one, so he shrugs and walks over to stand in front of me, to see if I will protest him sitting on my bed. I haven't moved since he knocked. I should say something, get up and move my luggage, or something, but I don't have the energy. When I say nothing, he sits down next to me. I feel the bed give under his weight, displacing me slightly. He leans into his knees, mimicking my posture. Our bare legs touch. I feel nothing, though, just the profound heavy that has enveloped me with the passing of the freeway trucks. My gaze returns to the carpet. "Scully, are you smoking?" he asks quietly, stroking my cigarette-holding hand lightly, amusement in his voice. "No....Yeah....Well, I tried. There was only one match, and I couldn't light it." He says nothing for a minute, and through my fog, I am afraid that he will chastise me for the habit. When he finally speaks, it surprises me. "I have a lighter in my room, if you want to light it. It looks like it has seen better days, but we could try." I look up at him, but he is not looking at me. His eyes are still on the hand holding the cigarette. "Uh, no," I say. "That's okay. I don't think I want it now." He looks back up at my face, the slightest smile playing around the ege of his lips. "You sure?" "Yea, I'm sure," I affirm. The first spark of feeling comes back to me. "You want it?" "No, that's okay. I quit a long time ago," he says, the same slight smile playing around his lips. "Mulder. I didn't know you smoked." "I could say the same about you." "Touche." And thus we reach a stalemate, the most common ground in our personal conversations. I could tell him about how I used to sneak my mother's cigarettes. I could tell him about why I did it. I could tell him about the other countless things that parallel those stolen cigarettes in my life. But instead, I sit, looking back at the floor in front of me. (4/5) For as many times as I've seen Scully in crappy situations, she still manages to maintain what I consider her "ScullyFace" (Well, at least when she's conscious). No matter what's going on, with only a few exceptions, she rarely looks like anything but the calm, composed, beautiful woman that I know as my partner. That's why the shock hits me so hard when I open the motel room door. She is in shorts and a T-shirt, no makeup, hair pulled back into a headban. We are only a few years apart in age, but I have never actually considered it until this very moment. She looks so young, so vulnerable. She seems exposed in some way I have never really seen before. Her posture contributes to the overall picture. She is just staring at the floor, looking like Atlas with the weight of the world on her shoulders. I swear it looks like it is an effort for her to drag her eyes to my face. So now here I am, sitting next to her, making small talk about smoking. I am surprised to find a cigarette dangling between her fingers. I had no idea that she smokes. Even occasionally. But then, there are lots of things about her that I don't know. Our conversation stalls. She returns her gaze to the floor After what seems like an eternity, she speaks. "Mulder, did you want something?" She sounds tired now. The bit of animation I thought I had seen returning to her has vanished. She sounds like she wants to dismiss me. "No, I just wanted to see what was up over here, since I knew you were awake." I want to sound light, but to let her know that I care. "How did you know I was up?" she asks, rubbing her forehead, her fingers still holding the cigarette. "I just knew," I say. "Do you...want to talk about it?" She turns to me again, looking me in the eye. "Talk about what?" her guard is up again. The soft, vulnerable young woman is vanishing before me. "Whatever it is that had you staring out the window, thinking." She takes a breath as if to ask how I know this, then thinks better of it. She looks away. "No. There's nothing. Really." I feel anger beginning to bubble up in the pit of my belly. Sometimes I can sense her anguish. I can see that there's almost too much pent up in that little body for her to bear. But I try, and she pushes me away. So I push back, and we never get anywhere. I'm not the most levelheaded man, God knows. But tonight is different. I don't want her to push me away. Things I wouldn't do in the daylight sometimes don't seem like such bad ideas in the middle of the night. That's how I feel. And I'm not going to let her push me away. Slowly, deliberately, I lie back on the bed, lacing my fingers behind my head. I'm standing my ground. "I took up smoking in college. Seemed like the thing to do. The only thing that sounds good at three o'clock in the morning--you know, like when you're studying--is a deep drag on a cigarette. I guess like now." I watch her out of the corner of my eye. Her head slowly turns to take in the sight of me lying on her bed, comfortable, and talking about deep, dark smoking secrets. She still has little expression to her face, but something has returned. Something good. I continue. "So, I can understand where you're coming from, wanting to smoke that. Do you....how long have you smoked?" She smiles slightly, turning more to fully look at me. "I don't do it very often. I guess I have, off and on, since I was a kid." "A kid?" I say, feigning shock. "Young Dr. Scully, the rebel." Averting her eyes, she studies the cigarette in her hand. "Oh, not really. Just a few things. Nobody's perfect, Mulder." "I know that," I say softly, moving to run my finger up and down on her wrist, trying to keep it without entendre but not without meaning. Smiling again, she looks at me, something almost akin to gratitude in her eyes. "So what else did you do that wasn't perfect when you were a kid?" I ask. I can see her shoulders visibly relax. Somehow, I have said the right thing. Tossing the cigarette onto the floor, she leans back on her elbows. "What do you want to know?" "Whatever you want to tell me," I reply, turning over slightly so my body faces her, resting my cheek in my palm. Smiling, she grunts slightly, the movement shaking her entire body. "Well, there was the time that my sister made me so angry, and I can't even remember now what exactly it was that she did to get me so mad, but for the longest time, she was the only one who could make me that angry." She pauses and looks at me. I don't explore that one. There are some things better left unsaid. "Anyway, to get back at her, I cut the hair off all her Barbie dolls. And left the hair all in her bed. It was pretty ugly." She goes on about that, and a few other incidents in her childhood. I smile and respond, chatting with her about this and that, our voices in hushed tones. I don't remember when we stopped talking, when our voices trailed to whispers trailed to silence. The next thing I do know is a sharp pain in my arm. I wake up, realizing we had fallen asleep, but not before she had curled around me like a blanket. Our limbs are entwined, and she is lying on my arm, causing it to fall asleep. She nuzzles her nose to my chest, trying to burrow into me. I tighten my good arm around her, embracing her fiercely. I could convince myself of anything I wanted, but all I need to know is wrapped around me. I kiss the top of her head. "Mmm. Mulder," she breathes, and smiles in her sleep. I move slightly, tyring to alleviate the pain in my arm. At my movement she begins to fidget and then rolls over, her back to my front. I want nothing more than to lie next to her all night, holding her close. Oh yeah, and I would love to make love to her, but that may be out of the range of the possible. But I wonder what her reaction to waking up next to me would be. Would she recoil? What would she say? What could I say to her? It wasn't something I could fathom--or risk. I begin to disentangle myself from her and get up off the bed. We had been lying on the comforter, so I pull the side that had been mine over her, inside out, so she won't be cold. Silently, I turn off the lights that are still burning brightly. It is 5:54 a.m. We need to get up in about an hour and a half. I pad back to my room and close the adjoining door. (5/5) When I awake I'm not as tired as I had expected to be. The first thing to hit me is that I am under the comforter, but the wrong side of it. Then I remember the circumstances of falling asleep with Mulder in my bed. Initially I am upset that he has left me. I then realize I can understand his reasoning. Our conversations of the night before had been a bubble. An insulated, sub-world to our regular lives. It had given us strength and reassured us that no matter what, we will still be together. But now the sun is up. And everything looks a bit different in the sunlight. I push up off the bed to go take my shower, grateful to him for taking part of the weight off me, allowing me to get the rest I needed. Happy that he understood what I needed. Glad he could give it to me. End. Extra-special thanks to beta readers Viki Goodland, sheattle sue, kimpa, and Teresa Conaway (wow, look at the response you get when you post you need a beta reader!) I'd tell you to visit my other stories at http://home.fiberia.com/gunchick, but fiberia seemed to have eaten my website. Hopefully I'll have a new place for my stories soon.