From: "A. R." Date: Sun, 31 Dec 2000 18:12:26 Subject: xfc: Grey Sky Morning Source: xfc Title: Grey Sky Morning Author: conspiracy Rated: PG Timeline/Spoilers: Takes place about a year after The Way Things Are, which took place a year after Closure. lol. Discount everything after that ep. No spoilers. Category: SA Keywords: Mulder/Other, MSR, Angst Archive: Anywhere if you drop me a line so I can visit. Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully don't belong to me. They are property of 20th Century Fox and 1013 Productions. Don't sue. Summary: Sequel to The Way Things Are (which can be found at http://members.fortunecity.com/consp13/fanfic.html). It's not necessary to read that one to understand this story, as long as you know that the Samantha referred to here is Mulder's wife, not his sister. lol. Grey Sky Morning by conspiracy So you sailed away Into a grey sky morning Now I'm here to stay Love can be so boring Nothing's quite the same now I just say your name now -"Best I Ever Had" by Vertical Horizon "Can you believe that guy?" Mulder asks, helping me wash the dishes after our company leaves. "Ted," he sneers. "What kind of a name is that, anyway?" "What kind of a name is Fox?" My smile is sad, my voice distant, but he notices neither. He never does anymore. "I mean, did you *see* the way he was all over her?" He continues on his rant as though I had never spoken. "It's none of my business, but she's my friend, you know, and for God's sake, what is this? Their third date?" "They've been seeing each other for more than a month, honey." I try to sound humored and he buys it. He used to catch those things. "Yeah, well, he's still a jerk." He finishes drying the last dish and sits down at the dining table, his frustration level obviously still on high. I wish I could take him to bed and relieve some of that tension the way I used to. Now I feel like a whore whenever we make love. Like sleeping with my own husband is a sin. "Fox, tell me something." I wipe my hands with a dishtowel and join him at the table. He looks at me wearily, his fingers absently playing with the light blue tablecloth. "Shoot," he commands in a voice that makes the request sound more like the last word of a convict standing before a firing squad. I'm a fairly open person, but it still takes me a minute to work up to my question. "Why..." I look down and swallow slowly before shifting my vision to stare at him dead on. "Why did you marry me?" For a split second he looks guilty, as though he's been caught in the middle of a distasteful daydream. "C'mon, Sam, what kind of a question is that?" I take my own turn playing with the tablecloth, stalling once more. I wonder if I have the courage to say what I'm really thinking. Part of me worries that if I do say it, it will come true. *It's already true,* I remind myself. *Whether he realizes it or not.* "When we met, you were trying to get over her." His eyes instantly squint into a glare. "And you were trying to get over Gary, so what?" He's already overly defensive. I wonder if he realizes how transparent he is. "Yeah, well..." I swallow and stare at the table once more. "The difference is, I *did* get over him." Again, I shift my eyes to meet his, and this time can't help the tears that form at the very sight of him. "I fell in love with you, Fox." His emotions are so close to the surface that I can actually see his expression change from guilt to anger. "And what do you think *I* did?" There is no change in the volume of his voice, but he may as well have been screaming from the cold stare of his eyes. I am silent. It's not for me to tell him what he's feeling. As soon as I resign myself to silence, he is able to see the bloodshot, desperate eyes of the woman he's been glaring at, and his expression immediately changes to one of sadness and pain. "Samantha..." I look away in reflex as his use of my name finally brings me to full-blown tears. He leaves his chair to kneel at my feet, placing one hand on my knee, the other on the table for support. His touch just makes me cry even more. "Sam, you *know* I love you." I want to answer him right away, but my tears choke me momentarily. He takes the opportunity to pull me out of the chair and into his arms as I grasp at him like a needy child, hating myself for it even as I do. Every single touch of his skin will make this harder. My weight forces him down into the sitting position, his legs spread-eagled around my quivering form. "I know you love me," I finally sob out. "But not the way you should." Even as my mind tries to brake away from him, my body holds on tighter. "You're supposed to love me more than her." The words tumble out of me in gasps of air as the sobs wrack my body against his. "More than anyone." I feel his hand running through my hair and the gesture is soothing even though I want to shrug away from it. His mouth beside my ear is whispering soft "shhhh's", but no assurances, and I know this means that we won't make it another year. My crying finally subsides as I near the brink of exhaustion and mumble softly into his ear. "Just pretend you love me, baby. Just please tonight." The last thing I hear before falling asleep is the soft crying of the man in my arms. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Mulder, right?" Three nights I've come to this bar, and all three nights this guy has been sitting all alone on a stool, talking to no one but the bartender, and then only to ask for another shot. The first night he just gave me a look when I asked his name. Then we sat in silence for roughly an hour before he left, never saying so much as goodbye - or hello, for that matter. You'd think this would be enough to deter me from ever trying to speak to him again, but I was strangely drawn to the guy. So last night, I walk into the place, and there he is, sitting in the exact same spot at the middle of the bar. I walked up and sat right down beside him. "So, what do you do?" I asked, as though greetings and introductions had already been made. Without turning his head, he shifted his vision and looked me over for a good long while. Finally, he spoke in a low, weary voice. "FBI," he replied simply, taking another sip of a clear liquid that smelled like vodka and staring back off into space. Taking a drink of my own whiskey, I stretched my hand out in front of him. "Samantha Hansley," I started. "Child psychologist, getting shit-faced the second night in a row, after nine months without stepping foot in a bar, for the sole purpose of getting over a three-year relationship with an asshole who ran off with some 19-year-old stick figure." I took another little sip using the hand I wasn't offering greetings with. "Which is, by the way, not the psychologically healthy way of dealing with the situation. But then, they do say shrinks are the ones who most need therapy." I am not used to meeting new people outside of work and I tend to ramble when I'm nervous. "You?" The man drank down the rest of his vodka and ordered another shot. Still refusing to face me, he spoke in the same low, tired voice as the night before. "Mulder, FBI..." He turned his head slightly to stare at my still outstretched hand, then continued as I quickly withdrew it in embarrassment. "And I don't feel like talking." This was enough of a rejection to shut me up for the rest of that night. So why the hell am I approaching this jerk again? I truly have no idea. He's attractive, but it's not as though he's showing any interest. Sure, part of me wants to get laid in that immature 'the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else' kind of way, and yes, it would be a lot of fun to let this "Mulder" person help me out with that, but I'm usually not desperate enough to pursue someone who clearly wants nothing to do with me. But something inexplicable keeps drawing me back. "Mulder, right?" I ask again when he doesn't answer for a minute or two. I don't care what it takes, he's going to talk to me tonight, dammit. For the first time since we've "known" each other, he actually turns his head to face me completely. The man is downright beautiful. Getting under him is beginning to sound even more appealing. His eyes are incredibly sad, but his lips actually curve upward a little and for the first time, his voice doesn't sound dead. "Call me Fox." I must give him a strange look because he smiles a little more and explains, "It's my first name." "Oh!" I laugh, a little embarrassed. Now that I've got him actually communicating, I'm beginning to remember how difficult small-talk can be. "I thought Mulder was kind of an odd name." The smile actually begins to reach his eyes. "Stranger than Fox?" * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder suits him better. Ever since that second meeting I've thought of him as Mulder. I only call him by his first name because he asks me to. I used to think that was because his last name felt too formal. Only recently have I realized that it's because she calls him Mulder. I guess it's just too painful for him to hear it from me. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "So, what is it exactly that you're trying to drown in vodka?" I ask once we're both a little more intoxicated, our tongues a little more loose. He actually chuckles. He must be drunk. "I don't want to drown her. I'd rather drown me." "Nooo! Foxy..." I give him a hearty pat on the back. "It's okay, you've got me - drinking buddy Sam!" He laughs hard and I giggle. I know I'm making a fool out of myself, but that's the great thing about being drunk - you cease to give a shit. "My partner," he says, sobering up a little. "My FBI partner. Special Agent Dr. Dana K. Scully, MD. With the FBI." Like I said, sobering up a *little*. "So what happened?" I ask, actually feeling genuine concern for this man I've never met before. He sighs and looks up at the ceiling as if he's asking God the same question. "I'm in love with her." "Well, what's wrong with that?" I put my hand on his upper back, right between his shoulder blades, like an old friend trying to console him. "She doesn't love me." His voice is so sad I almost want to cry for him. "Now, how do you know that for sure?" My hand travels in a little comforting circle over his dress shirt. Another sigh as he stares down into his empty shot glass. "She told me." His eyes are glassy with tears that refuse to fall. "Oh, Foxy..." I wrap my arms around him, resting my head on his shoulder. "It's okay," I assure him, my voice slurred. "*I* love you." He smiles. "You wouldn't if you knew me." I sit up straight on my barstool and look at him matter-of-factly. "But I do know you. You're Foxy." He smiles a real smile and wraps one arm around me, pulling me as close to his side as possible without dragging me off of my stool. I smile back and lean my head against him. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * We slept together that night. I pretended he was Gary and I'm sure he pretended I was her. What a wonderful way to start off a relationship, huh? He looked guilty in the morning and I was surprised when he called me back a week later. Looking back, I should have listened to my mother years ago when she told me that the most a one-night stand could result in was a one-year marriage. She'd been referring to my aunt Elise, who got drunk in Las Vegas one night and ended up eloping with a 67-year-old Russian who only knew three words in English ("I want sex" - must have been an interesting ceremony), but it could apply just as easily to Mulder and me. It took us one night to jump into bed, one year to get married, and one more year for everything to fall apart. Looks like one is our lucky number, and it is true what the say - it's the loneliest. I don't think he's had an affair yet, but I still notice sometimes that he tends to linger on the "s" of my name when we're together in bed. At least he's smart enough to get the rest of it right most of the time. When he doesn't, I pretend not to notice. "Why you say your partner's name while you're fucking me" just isn't one of my favorite topics of discussion. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I wake up in bed, clad in the same green dress I was wearing the night before. Fox must have carried me in here after I fell asleep, but he apparently didn't feel like joining me. I can't say that I blame him. Our apartment isn't large. We did plan on having kids someday, but figured we could move when the time came. It's just a studio, only a little larger than his old 'bachelor pad' and roughly the same size as where I used to live. We didn't get it for the amount of space. We just wanted someplace that was *ours*. I climb out of the queen-sized bed and stumble down the hallway, feeling like I have a hangover despite the fact that I haven't consumed any alcohol for about three months. At the end of the hall, I notice the living room television is on, blaring some black and white movie on AMC. Mulder's nightlight. I round the corner and find my husband scrunched onto the couch that never looks tiny until he lays down on it, an afghan thrown over his lanky body. At least he took the time to change himself into pajamas. It's times like this that are the hardest. Watching him sleep nearly breaks my heart because to me, he's still the man I love. Knowing that he slept on the couch to get away from me kills a part of me not by fostering hatred, but simply by adding one more sadness to the tight little ball inside my gut. The pain used to be fleeting. Now it's constant. His fading feelings for me and his love for her are no longer my fears, but certainties that I have no idea how to deal with. It would all be so much simpler if it were just the two of us. Tears cloud my view of him as I run an absent hand over my abdomen. I wonder if it's merely coincidence that my anguish centers itself in the very same place that a little mass of cells and tissue continues to develop even now. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "That's impossible." Dr. Gleenan just stares at me matter-of-factly. "I assure you, Samantha, not only is it possible, it's true. You're just about two months pregnant. All the tests indicate it." My breathing is shallow. I can feel my hands begin to shake. Why? Why now? I'm not ready to have a baby. "But I'm on birth control. I've been on it since I was 16. There's no way..." He gives me a small smile and reaches out to cover my shaking hand with his steady, cool one. "Sam, you can argue all you want, but it won't change anything. The truth is, as much we try not to make mistakes, nothing is full-proof. I always try to tell my patients that contraceptives and pills are comforts, but if you really don't want kids, the only sure way is just to not have sex." He smiles a little and his voice is calming even if his words aren't exactly what I want to hear. I think I nod, but I can't be sure even as I attempt the motion. My mind is on overload. I feel violated by myself. "And as for those pills," the doctor continues, "you're going to want to stop taking them immediately." My mouth is dry and my voice feels scratchy when I try to speak. "I'm..." Dr. Gleenan stares at me compassionately, waiting for my words. I feel dirty saying them. "What if I don't want to keep it?" The short man swallows and nods his head slowly. "Well, that's up to you and your husband, Sam. Of course, you know the difference between a first and second trimester abortion and so on, so you might want to take that into consideration as far as the timeliness of your decision." He inhales and exhales through his nose, looking me over with a gaze that is compassionate yet somewhat disapproving. "And then there's adoption, of course. I always recommend that anyone considering terminating a pregnancy go to a specialist or a psychiatrist of some sort first to discuss their options and figure out what's best for her particular case." I make sure to nod this time, not wanting to seem at all interested in the prospect that I myself have brought up. I've always been pro-choice. I just never thought I'd be the one exercising that choice. I've always wanted kids. So why do I feel so unprepared now? * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder doesn't know about the pregnancy. Hell, I've only known a couple weeks and we don't exactly talk much anymore. We both go to work around seven every morning. I usually get home around four, he works later and sometimes never comes home because he travels so much. But I always get a phone call. Only that call has gotten shorter and shorter during the course of our time together. When we were first married, I remember he would talk to me for hours when he was away. He'd even run the facts by me on some of the cases and I'd throw him a few theories of my own. I don't think it ever really helped him, but he appreciated hearing a different viewpoint anyway. That's one of the things I love about him. For at least the past month or so, it seems that whenever he goes out on assignment, the call lasts about five minutes, consisting of only the basics. This is where I'm staying, here's the number, call if there's an emergency, and of course, the quick "I love you" that holds about as much meaning as those little Valentines cards kids hand out to everyone in their class in elementary school, only without the chocolate. It's usually just used as a substitute for 'goodbye', anyway. "Scully..." The word is mumbled but clear to my trained ears. Mulder speaks it through his slumber on the couch and though I've heard it said the exact same way many times before, it feels like the last straw now. Still new to the idea of my pregnancy, I should want to be near him, but given the situation, my condition makes me even more susceptible to the part of me that wishes this whole drama would just end. I pack up a week's worth of clothes and toiletries, then call my friend Jenna to make sure she's got a spare couch for the next few days. He doesn't wake up until I'm almost out the door. Saves me the trouble of writing a note, I suppose. It takes him a few seconds to realize that I'm holding a suitcase. "Sam?" he asks, his voice and face still groggy from sleep. "Where are you going?" I swallow and look at the ground before staring back at him. I need to be assertive here. "To a friend's for a little while. I'll call you tonight." He sits up quickly and apparently dizzies himself and decides not to stand. "How come?" His expression is so innocent that I have to grasp onto anger to make myself follow through. "Why the hell do you think, Mulder?" My tone is ice cold. I don't know that he's ever witnessed that in me. He flinches and it takes me a few seconds to realize that I called him by his last name. Another connection to her. This just feeds my anger, but I am so tired that it boils over into plain frustration. "Look, I need a break," I tell him in a much calmer voice, my tone born more out of exhaustion than any kind of rationale. He stares at me first in confusion and then in a mixture of understanding and grief. "Sam..." His voice is so tender that the tears I promised myself not to shed are quickly racing to fill my eyes. "No..." I cut him off. "I just need some time, Fox. I'll be fine." I whisper this last sentence to myself several times as a turn to leave, hoping each time that I'll start to believe it. I take one last look back at him as I haul my bag out of the door. His head is in his hands, eyes focused on the floor. I want nothing more than to hold him in my arms, just for a few more hours. Instead I shut the door behind me and whisper softly. "I love you." This time it's a little more than a substitute for goodbye. The End. Tune in for a third installment still in the making. Feedback to conspiracy13@hotmail.com