From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: 10 Jun 2002 11:45:56 -0000 Subject: Interlude: Mulder by lil_gusty Source: direct Reply To: lil_gusty@hotmail.com Title: Interlude: Mulder Classification: VA Keywords: none Rating: PG, not one cuss word Spoilers: none Disclaimer: Not my characters, don't sue me. Feedback: please to lil_gusty@hotmail.com Distribution: sure, just let me know where Note: this is a companion piece to my Trefoil Series, falling between "Phantom Pains" and "Fidelity." I guess you don't have to be following the series to read this, but it will make more sense if you are. Summary: Without Scully. <><><><><><> The heavy echo of footsteps sounds around him, drowning out the hammering of his heart in his chest, the maddening swirl of thoughts in his head. Each step brings him closer to her door, the air around him thickening, hot and humid, as if it already knew what was awaiting him. He pauses, hand going beside him to him gun, drawing it and aiming in a quick, fluid motion, borne of one too many times he had been in this same position, these same circumstances. Her door is standing open, but no light or sound filters out of the apartment. Slower steps, now, and he tries his best to be quiet, listening, waiting for the intruder to emerge, for the battle to begin. As much as he wants to hurry, he has to pace himself, lest he scare the foe into a deadly competition. The pale hardwood of her foyer floor comes into view with each muffled step - two more and an ever-expanding pool of sharp red liquid races to meet him on her doorstep, soaking into the slats and sliding away from where it came. All thoughts of stealth and personal safety are abandoned; he runs full speed towards her, hitting the door with his hand, still clutching his gun, making the door slam into the wall and deafening his scream. "SCULLY!" Lying, face down, in the puddle of blood seeping slowly from her scalp. Gun is not in her hand, phone neatly tucked in its plastic niche on her table. Dressed for work, though it's only three thirty in the morning. He rushes to her, gripping her shoulders and turning her over: her eyes glassy, her mouth slack, her lips blue, her skin gray. Dead. Too late. He's always too late. "SCULLY!" <><><><><><> He sits up on the couch, reaching blindly for his gun, screaming her name before he even realizes he's awake. She'sdeadshe'sdeadshe'sdeadshe'sdead. He bolts out of bed and smacks the light switch, illuminating his apartment instantly, making him squint his eyes shut against the harshness of the brightened world. Still panting, cold fear- sweat dripping off of his brow, soaking his shirt, he grabs the phone on the coffee table, dialing furiously, pacing back and forth around his living room. It takes him longer to separate reality from dreams, now, always wondering what is the truth and what is just another of his horrid fantasies come to life. He's always dreamed about her, since that night he sat on the floor pouring his heart out to her in that little motel room in Oregon, always watched her die, always seen her lying lifeless at his feet, him able to do nothing to help her, nothing to save her. He's always too late in his dreams: either she's already dead or she's dying, calling his name, begging him to help her. It's worse when they're apart, like his unconscious somehow knows how far away she is and adjusts his nightmares accordingly. If she's at home, just a short car trip away, the dreams are tamer: she's having a nose bleed, sagging against him and seizing. If she's on the other side of a wall in some random hotel, the dreams don't come at all. He knows she's safe, just a few feet from him. He knows he'll be able to protect her, to save her, should something happen in the middle of the night. But now, a thousand miles away, a twelve hour car trip, an hour flight, the dreams are more vivid, lifelike colors that he's only imagined seeing in real life; the deep auburn of her hair, the hot, sliding maroon of her blood. More detailed, every sense heightened: he can smell her blood, feel its heat searing his skin. He can taste her fear, what she must have been feeling just before the bullet pierced her frontal lobe, ceasing her involuntary functions, breathing, heart beating. He can see his pain, as if it were a live entity, born of her death. Or maybe it's just the profiling, sinking into the minds of killers, rapists, abductors, fueling the horror show inside his mind. All the photos he stares at feature her in their starring role, all dead, bloody and disfigured. He can't seem to let it go as easily now, flip the "Special Agent" switch in his mind to off and let himself just be another co-worker out for a drink at the end of a Friday, allow himself to relax, to see blackness instead of pain and terror when he closes his eyes. He's tried everything to make it all go away: the sleeping pills she prescribed him after his mother died - he just fights their hold on him, not letting them pull him into the unconscious oblivion. He ends up pressing against his tonsils, vomiting into the toilet, in a belated attempt to expunge them from his system. He's tried alcohol, getting so drunk that he can't walk without stumbling or see without getting dizzy. He's a sleepy drunk, though, and while it may dull his senses while awake, it does nothing to stave off the demons waiting for him on the other side of the darkness. He's tried endless caffeine, something that worked in his glory days with BSU, allowing him to stay up for days, sometimes a week, without sleep. Now, though, it only makes him jittery, more edgy, his hands trembling and his heart fluttering inside his chest. He's fought off sleeping for just over two days at the most before he collapsed and fell into fitful sleep, waking again within hours, screaming for her. Always screaming for her. Always too late. Just as his finger presses the last of her number, he hangs it up, tossing it roughly at his desk and knocking papers to the floor. No, she's safe. She's not alone. She has someone to protect her, to save her, if she needs it. He'd only wake her at this time of night - or morning, rather - and then she'd be angry with him for interrupting her peaceful slumber in her perfect suburban house, wrapped possessively in her husband's arms. Her husband. Those words just don't go together, he thinks. He can't picture her married, though he knows she's happy that way. Happy and safe. She's happy and safe. Without him. He takes a deep breath and falls heavily against his couch, reaching for his television remote and searching for an old, black and white movie. Knowing he'll never get back to sleep, his mind still whirling with pictures of her and her husband, her lying bleeding and cold at his feet, he pulls his blanket over his goose-fleshed arms and leans his head back against the cushions. The movie prattles on in front of him, keeping him company on his silent vigil against the demons that stalk him from the inside. He prefers the black and white, not wondering what he's missing. <><><>End<><><>