From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Sat, 1 Jan 2000 01:33:41 -0600 Subject: Daydream by Source: direct Reply To: callysta_yavin4@hotmail.com DISCLAIMER: All characters are the property of Twentieth Century Fox, Ten Thirteen Productions and his Majesty Chris Carter. Oh yeah, and David and Gillian. They are used without permission, but nevertheless, the author begs that the authorities don't come after her with handcuffs (hey, wait--an interesting thought!). Rating: PG13 Keywords: M/S UST.... too bad. Alternate Universe. In this one, Albert Hosteen does NOT come in. Spoilers: FTF, Tooms, Folie A Deux, 3, Fire, The End, The Rain King, WOTC, Syzygy, LARGE AMOR Fati.... a whole bunch. Haven't seen the eps and don't want 'em spoiled for ye? AVOID, it's alright. TEA AND SYMPATHY performed by Jars of Clay, and used without permission. "Daydream" by Callysta Hathaway callysta_yavin4 @hotmail.com Dana Scully walked into her empty apartment in suburban Georgetown, flinging her keys into the ceramic bowl upon the small table set by the door. Sighing, feeling every muscle inside her taunt like wire strings, she crossed the threshold and made her way towards her living room. The day had beat down upon her body, pulling out all of her reserves, leaving nothing but weariness and a dull ache inside her. And loneliness. Pervasive loneliness that threatened to topple her. She removed her black coat and folded it neatly, hanging it behind the back of a chair. She ran a hand down the worn fabric, fondly remembering that it had been the same coat she had been wearing during that midnight chase in the arid Texas wilderness, where she and Mulder had discovered the unexpected: rows and rows of corn thriving in the desert night. It was also the same coat she was wearing when she came unannounced into Mulder's apartment to announce her decision to leave, and how he almost persuaded her to stay with that one act that took so long in coming... Mulder. He was gone now, taken by the same shadow men who had taken her before, against her will. He was gone now, taken to some so-secret-no-one-knows government facilities, and being performed upon perverse experiments that would leave him a mass of incoherent flesh and bone. He was gone now, and left her all alone. She let her hand fall limply to her side. Blinking back unbidden tears, she went to her bedroom and swiftly changed into a soft cream cardigan and cotton slacks. She returned her heels to its proper place inside her closet, and padding barefoot on the hardwood floor, stepped back into the dimmed warmth of the living room. Scully made her way to the couch, falling against its firm warmth. Curling upon it, with her legs tucked underneath her, she leaned back against the pillows and picked up the remote control. Flicking her television set open to surf channels--a Mulder habit she had unexpectedly picked up from spending too many nights in his apartment--she let her mind wander, seeking hidden pathways that would help her unwind. The MTV logo loomed up on her screen, vibrant and psychedelic in all its youthful exuberance. Then it disappeared, and a video appeared. She leaned forward to read the title and the artist. "Tea and Sympathy", by Jars of Clay. The lulling guitar chords made her sit up to watch, and then the lyrics came. "Fare thee well Trading all our words for tea and sympathy I wonder why we try for things that can never be We played out parts that met Like an unrehearsed symphony..." The words hit her heart like a cold bullet. Images came inside her head, unbidden. His face, so wary and fearful, like an animal cornered in its lair. Green eyes flicked with grey like an iridescent light, full of depth and mystery. Those eyes were hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses when he first looked upon her, during those first few tense days, and afterwards in the Oregon wilderness. They were always an odd pair, even in the eyes of a casual passerby. He was tall and lanky, with a shock of dark brown hair perched atop a youthful face. She was small and slender, red-gold hair neatly brushed back, framing blue eyes in a porcelain expression. But it wasn't only in the physical aspect. She was a scientist by nature, trained to trust facts, her life a straight road where she could foresee the end. He was a wanderer, a lonely man stuck in the crossroads of his seemingly endless search, disbelieving the facts she had relied on for most of her life. And yet, they were like two halves of the same whole: she was his anchor, and he her wings, both lost without the other. "Not intent To leave this castle full of empty rooms Leave the captive in this tabernacle rescue And all the victory songs Seem to be playing out of tune..." And now it was she who was lost. A voice inside her head seemed to be playing over and over. Gradually, she realized it was her own: a younger, more innocent voice, naively saying, "I would never put myself on the line for anyone but you, Mulder." If she had known what she would go through in all those years... If she had known, she still wouldn't have changed those words. Another voice came in, of a memory more recent that that dark night on Exeter Street. Deep and husky, familiar, pleading as he twined his fingers with hers, even as it was fastened upon his bed in a Washington psychiatric unit. "You're my one in five billion, Scully." It seemed wrong, somehow, that it was he who was gone instead of her. That she should be the one who would, in entirety, save him when she was initially sent to be the bane of his existence. And yet it felt so right. Must be fate. "'Cos it's not the way It has to be Don't trade our love for tea and sympathy, no 'Cos it's not the way It has to be..." Love. Was it love? She was quite sure that she cared for him, and vice versa. Why else would he be bent on revenge against the unseen forces that took her, that wrecked havoc on her body and her health? Why else would she run after him time and again, bailing him out, searching for him in the murky shadows of his own soul, when he didn't even want to be found? Why else would she be sitting here, pondering upon their relationship, wishing she could dissect every nuance of it to unearth the answer to the question: why did she feel like a part of her body was taken away? It wasn't the first time, though. "You begin All your words fall to the floor and break like china cups And the waitress grabs the broom and tries to sweep them up Reach for my tears Soon it will be your turn, too..." She couldn't quell the rising jealousy that burned bitterly in her throat. All those women in his life, whom he irrevocably gave a part of himself. Phoebe Green. Kristen Kilar--the name sent a shudder through her spine. The brief flame that sputtered between him and Bambi Berenbaum. The peroxide-doused Detective Angela White of Comity. Sheila Fontaine from Kansas and her infatuation. And lately, another woman rising from the ashes: Diana Fowley. It was a fear that was harbored only by insecure lovers: that someone would sweep their treasure away from their grasps, leaving only a dry, crumbling shell of memories too painful to even remember. She was deathly afraid that someone would take Mulder away from her. Why was he only the one who caused her this kind of heartache? More questions followed. Did he miss her? Did he think of her while she was on the brink of death? Was he thinking of her now? Did he even love her, or was that just a daydream? "Fare thee well And words like broken leaves that fill my head I could taste the bitterness And call the waitress instead 'Cos she holds the answers Smiles and asks one teaspoon or two..." No, she thought with a bittersweet smile. Not Mulder. The same guy who wore his heart on his sleeve sometimes; no, all the time, she amended silently. He would never, ever lie to her. He never did. Mutual trust. Sounded like something from an insurance company ad. But it was applicable for them. In fact, those two words held deeper meaning than that. They held the whole weight of their partnership in its hands. And she knew, irrevocably, that he loved her. That even with her stubbornness and resolute stands and factual reasoning, he still held her in the highest esteem, and closest in his heart. That her friendship and loyalty to his cause became a part of his driving force behind the relentless pursuit of the elusive truth. Because, in the situation reversed, she also felt the same. The song ended on a mellow, somber note, striking a resonant chord inside her. Unconsciously, she pressed her finger to her mouth, remembering the heady, whisper-touch of his lips in the near-kiss. She closed her eyes. Tears welled beneath her closed eyelids as the wash of loneliness and love swept over her in a jumble of haphazard thoughts. I miss you so much I want you beside me right now oh God please let him come back alive I need him right now or I can't survive don't take him don't please don't... I love him. ***** She stood over his prone figure, tears welling in her eyes, twining her fingers in his, hoping for that pressure that would tell her that he was alive. Tears sprung in her own eyes and dripped on his face, trickling down it's stubbled side. Slowly, his fingers flexed underneath hers, gripped, tightened. His face scrunched up in pain, and slowly he opened his eyes. Unfocused, hazy, they nevertheless turned to her. Slowly, he opened his mouth. His voice came out no more than a whisper, and yet his words seared her heart. "You help me." THE END AUTHOR'S NOTES: I am not sure about the lyrics of "Tea and Sympathy"--if anyone out there has it, please correct me. And sorry about any discrepancies; I haven't watched "The Sixth Extinction II (Amor Fati)" yet! Comments and flames, please e-mail me--thank you!