From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 29 Dec 2001 17:49:26 -0000
Subject: Like Chaff in the Wind (1/1) by C and Me
Source: direct

Reply To: berngard3@yahoo.com


Title: Like Chaff in the Wind
Author:  C and Me
Date Authored:  7/7/00
Rating: PG for language
Spoilers:  Dreamland I and II
Summary:  Missing scene.  Our pair reflect. . . .
Classification: VA
Keywords:  Angst, Post-Episode
Archive:  Gossamer, please notify if archiving elsewhere
Disclaimer:  The characters of this story belong to Fox Network
and Chris Carter, to have and to hold from this time forward and
forever more.  
Note to Viv:  I cleaned up my ellipses.  Hmm, I seem to use those
a lot, don't I?
Feedback:  Please.  berngard3@yahoo.com

* * *

There are thirteen.  I've counted them twice now.  Thirteen.  A
random number; no more significant than fourteen or twelve or
twenty-two.  

But thirteen.

The thought rises to my mind like bubbles in a slowly simmering
caldron:  they don't amount to a hill of beans.

I snort.  Of course not!  They're not beans.

They won't bring great wealth or riches.  I doubt their worth on
the monetary markets is more than one penny or one centime.  But
to me. . . .  

To me they are  the most precious objects. . .probably the most
valuable gift I have ever received.

I push them around with my finger, making little mounds then
spreading them out again flat against the table's faux wood
surface.

Some are perfect in shape and size.  Little triangles striped
white and black.  Like miniature delta winged fighters.  Mulder
would love that analogy.  He'd twist it to. . .oh, I don't know.
. .maybe tiny space ships, their pilots minute spacemen with
eansy weansy helmets and blast shields.

(I recognize I am getting punchy.  Perhaps it's the lateness of
the hour.  Or maybe the defeat I feel descending on my soul.)

Perfect.  Like he was.

Straight and tall and broad shouldered.

And whole.

Some of these are deformed, misshapen, their corners starkly
angular rather than round, their coatings arched or bumped as if
the meat inside tried at one time to push its way into the open
air.  These irregularities remind me God does not judge by the
outside covering; that the goodness lies deep within, hidden from
sight.

Tonight they are all that's left me of a soul equally obscured,
his husk distorted and transfigured.  But the essence -- that
which makes a man who and what he is -- remains unaltered,
reposing still far under the skin and muscles and sinew. 
Accepting this, my heart aches.

Too long I was drawn to the external countenance, reveling in the
twitch of lips, the silkiness of hair, the breadth of back, the
physique.  These do not make the man.  Rather, the man makes them
-- hones and chisels and sculpts the shell into a comfortable if
not perfect mass in which his being easily resides.

Even today I remarked upon the ugliness of the casing he now
bears.  I was kidding. . .sort of. . .but not enough.  I like his
handsome features -- the old ones -- more than I am willing to
admit to him.  I know, given time and a good physical regimen,
he'll form this present body into something of which he can be
proud, ridding it of the paunchy stomach and sagging jowls.  But
it still won't be him.  I miss *him*.

I miss him, even though the original carcass hounds me like a
lost sheep.  The body is there, but not the soul.

He rained these into my hand as I turned to leave tonight, the
harbinger of bad news.  As they slipped through his fingers, he
offered them silently.  A baptism of little shells.  A part of
him he shared with me in the light of head lamps.  They were his
gift.  Mine was the bad news.  And the humorless offer to kiss
his ugly face.

I am adrift.  Right now these are the only things tethering me to
him.  I am divested of a job, devoid of a career, dispossessed of
a partner.  From Frohike's information, it looks like this may be
a permanent status.

He told me I could persuade our superiors, present my evidence
and get my job back.  I contemplated his attempt at encouragement
for a long few seconds.  But I don't want my job back. . .not
without him.  The nod of his head acknowledged his silent
understanding.  And maybe even agreement.  Maybe if he were in my
shoes he too would turn aside from his pursuits.  I hope so.

Now he, in the guise of this alter ego, has acquired unforeseen
obligations to those who knew him as father and husband.  I am
seen as their enemy.  Not the enemy of criminals and miscreants
-- a badge I wore with pride these six years -- but the enemy of
respectable, normal people.  Of children and wife.

I am beginning to hate Nevada more and more.  It took Mulder away
from me once before, forcing him to drive across the state to the
sea.  And this time, this. . .morphing. . . .

I am not sure what will become of me now.  I have a plane ticket
for a return flight tomorrow afternoon, but I really don't feel
like going back to D.C.  There's nothing there for me.  The
Bureau has no hold on me; they don't care if I return.  But I
can't see hanging around here either, like a noose around
Mulder's neck, dragging after him.  I have no place in his life,
at least not as long as he's in this 'condition'.  I know I'll
keep searching for a cure or some way to reunite body and soul,
but there's little point in my remaining here.

I shove a few of the thirteen around with my nail again.

I wonder what he's doing tonight.  Home with the kids?  Making
out with the little woman?  I had a chance to meet her briefly. 
Shrill and whiny; plays the part of nag as if she'd trained on
the stage.  No wonder Morris does not wish to return.  He's
having too much fun enjoying the life of a single, good looking
man again.  I wonder if his wife knows of the sexual harassment
which seems to be a normal part of his persona.  Maybe she does. 
Maybe that's what makes her carp at him.  Maybe he does it
because of the treatment he receives at home.  Sounds like a
circular argument to me.  Poor Mulder; what he's in for!

So I sit and stare at my gift.  They are really quite simple and
yet complex at the same time.  Much like the man from whom I
received them.  I like them most because they are an everyday
expression of who he is.  Unlike the key chain or the scarf. 
These are purely Mulder.  He did not go to some impersonal mall
and buy these for me.  I know they were originally purchased for
his enjoyment.  But he shared.  Like he has throughout our
partnership -- not of these things necessarily, but of himself. 
And in that sharing he gave me a little part of him, something
tangible to keep, to hold, to make mine, to enjoy.  To remind me.

That hurts, not the bitter pang of pain, but the sweet
remembrance of loss.  What I had I no longer have.   And these
are to help me remember the blessings once possessed now ...
altered.  Not gone.  No, not that; hopefully never truly *that*. 
But ... changed.

I miss him ... so much.  I gather these thirteen in my hand and
slip them back into the pocket of my suit jacket, then grab the
keys off the dresser and leave the motel.  I make a quick trip
back to the rendezvous point where I last saw Mulder.  Of course
he is no longer there.  I didn't really expect him to be.   But I
wanted to be somewhere ... where he was ... recently.  Just to
stand in the same spot.  Just to see the same landscape.  I feel
the crunch of discarded hulls under my feet and know this is
where he stood waiting for me tonight.  

It is dark out here.  My mind's eye tells me there is a vast
desert stretched before me, spattered with sagebrush and cacti. 
And there is a vast night sky, deep blue speckled with stars. 
Millions upon millions of stars.   

I am awed by the knowledge my partner imparted upon me years ago:
  the light I see from these stars actually started as long as
eighty million years back, escaping their orbit just to beam to
earth now, tonight.  So what I actually am seeing is not the here
and now.  Not the present time in this light.  But time as it was
eighty million years ago.  

I wonder what the present looks like on these stars.   Are they
still burning as brightly?  How many have imploded into
themselves, radiated and died?  How many still actually exist? 
How many still burn as brightly, and will continue to burn for
the next eighty million years, long after I and Mulder and Morris
no longer inhabit this planet?  And who will see the light then?

Oh, Mulder, do you see the stars tonight?   Do you see the light?
 Not just of the stars, but also of our friendship?

I dig my hand into my jacket pocket and clench the thirteen
tightly in my fist, trying to feel the connection I am losing
with him.  I don't want to lose you, Mulder.  Please come back. 
Please God, make him whole again.

I stand under the night sky for a long time.  The wind whips a
gentle breeze along the floor of the basin, ruffling my hair but
not disturbing the dust.  I feel like chaff in the wind,
scattering on the ever shifting sands.  

It is a gentle night.   I am waiting for exhaustion to overcome
me, so I can leave and return to my room and sleep.  I do not
want to get back there and have energy to think any longer.   All
my thoughts are leading in one direction:  to a middle aged man
with thinning blond hair, stooped shoulders and an uncanny
ability to annoy me.  

And his gift.

Slowly, resignedly, I step back into the rental car and drive to
the motel.  Perhaps this is the first time in six years I am
actually obeying the speed limit on a deserted stretch of
abandoned highway.   I don't want to be here.

I want my partner.

I want my friend.

I shuffle into the motel room and shed my jacket.   Reaching into
the pocket, I extract my present.  When I later crawl into bed,
before I switch off the light, I count them again.

They sit on my night stand, awaiting my return in the morning.  I
will cherish them forever.

Thirteen.

There used to be fourteen, but he took one back.  His effort at
reclaiming me.  Bringing me back to him, telling me he isn't
loosing the tethers.

Thirteen.

Thirteen small sunflower seeds.

* * *

Great.  Just when I was becoming used to my body.  Now I have to
put up with *this*!  This ... sack of shit.  

Love handles, drooping shoulders, spare tire ... and lungs which
burn from smoking.  

I wonder what the bastard is doing to *my* body.  Standing close
to him at the bar I recognized the odor of tobacco.  I bet he's
polluting it with this shit.  Great.  I hate him already.

And what's he doing to Scully?  These types of guys have
difficulty dealing with authoritative women on an equal level.  I
bet he's pulled that macho, sexual harassment stuff on her.  I
hope she decks him but good.  And he'd better keep his hands to
himself!

Scully's right; this is an ugly body.  Too many beers, not enough
exercise, too many years, too little hair.  This guy won't make
it past fifty with a full head.

And that wife!  Jeez!  And I thought Scully was bad when she'd
comment on the state of my desk!  What I wouldn't give to hear a
little haranguing right now about the files and mess in the
office.  I'll never give her a bad time again about any snide
comment she may throw my way.

At least she's not Joanne.  Thank god she's not Joanne!  'Nough
said.  Don't want to harp on that too long.

Oh, Scully, I miss you so much!

When you told me the prognosis of returning to my 'normal' state
tonight, my first thoughts were of you and our ... partnership. 
What will become of us ... ?  I can't begin to imagine life
without you ... here in Nevada ... with Joanne and the kids from
hell.

And then to hear you sacrificed everything for me, losing your
job, your beloved career ... for *this*!  I should have known you
have no sense when to stop when it comes to me and my fuck ups.  

But the look you gave me when I told you to fight to return to
the Bureau.  What was that about?  Don't you know I want you to
be happy?  I want you to be in a job you love, a place meant for
you?  Forget about me ... this is about you and your *career*.  I
know how much you love working at the Bureau.  Well ... perhaps
not right now, not without the X-Files.  But you'll get them
back, especially now that I'm 'Kersh's golden boy'.

But that look ....  It said so much.  I know, I know you don't
want to be there without me.  But Scully, you have to go on. 
I'll get back, somehow.  But in the meantime -- however long that
may be -- you have to go on without me.  I think my heart will
break if you just give up because of this.  And Nevada is no
place for the likes of you and your fair skin.

I wish I had more ... more to give you than just some dumb
sunflower seeds.  Something more meaningful ... and less prone to
biodegrade with time.  A hug?  A kiss?  (Now that's something
I've wanted to do for a long time.  Wonder if you'd accept it now
that you're no longer in the Bureau.)  Me?

Oh, Scully ....  I can't stand the idea of remaining in this body
for the next forty years.  I want myself back.  I want you back. 
I want to return to the Bureau.  I'd even take on Kersh if that's
what I have to do.  Really big piles of manure.  Sure, I have
lots of access now to Area 51 (or at least *had* access before
Golden Boy decided to turn me in); I could have done a lot of
investigating, maybe even *found* something for once.  But I
can't imagine doing any work on aliens without you by my side. 
And the chances of that are unlikely.

Joanne wants me out of the house.  Fine.  I'll willingly go.  But
I wonder what will become of her and the kids if I have to
maintain this charade for the rest of my life.  I do feel a small
sense of responsibility.  Tomorrow I'm renting a U-Haul and
moving my stuff out.

And what will become of you, Scully?  Where will you go?  Are you
still going to search for a way out of this hell?  I need to
know, so I can follow you.  The thought of never seeing you again
really scares me.  

I toss down a quick meal at the Little A'Le Inn and head to your
motel.  Yeah, I know where you're staying, like there's much
choice in Rachel, Nevada.   I knock on your door, but there's no
answer.  Where could you have gone?

I walk around the motel to the back side, out into the desert a
little bit.  The light in your room and bath are off.  I look up
to the sky and admire the myriad of stars shining above.  I can
see the Milky Way.    Gosh, Scully!  There are so many stars up
there!  

I quickly calculate the odds:  one star in a million having
planets revolving around it; one star in a million of those
remaining having a planet capable of sustaining life; one in a
million in that mix having intelligent life.  That still leaves
... what?  Roughly millions of  possible civilizations like ours
or better?  I shake my head in amazement.  I wonder if there's a
second Mulder and Scully team out there somewhere in a parallel
universe.  Do you think they're having this time warp problem,
too?  

The stars, Scully.  I've always been drawn to them.  At first I
used to think Sam was taken to one.   I'd look up into the sky at
night and wish her 'good night', thinking I could hear her
respond likewise.  I look down at the desert floor and toe the
sand; guess I was wrong about that for a long time.  Huh?

Now they just impress me.  The millions of possibilities they
hold.  Will we ever visit even one?  Will any of the wishes I've
made on them over the years ever come true?  Did you ever wish on
the stars, Scully?  I know it's foolish, but I used to.  Not just
to find Sam, but for other things also.  I guess every kid at one
time or another wishes for a different set of parents; nothing
different there.  Go figure.   And the usual desire for a date
with what's-her-name, or better sex with so-and-so.  Good grades.
Acceptance into the college of your choice.  

I used to wish to have a better cognizance of facts.  I always
wanted to know more and understand how things were interrelated.

I wished for your return when you were abducted.  Lots of times.

I wished for a cure to your cancer, and that your heart wouldn't
break so much when Emily died, and that you wouldn't leave me.

I wished that I'd find you and be able to make you safe when you
disappeared to the Antarctic.  

I've wished for kisses and ... well ... y'know ... sex.  But more
recently my wishes have turned to permanence, having you with me
forever, a more mature version of togetherness with you.  Yeah, I
guess it still involves sex, but as a couple, equal, constant.

Guess *that* bubble's burst for now.  God, I hope not forever.  I
couldn't stand that.

Jeez, Scully!  Where *are* you?

I heave a defeated sigh and return to my car.  Guess you're not
coming back for a while.  Lover boy is in his room watching
x-rated movies and jacking off with *my* body.   Guess some
things never change .... 

Scully, I'll find you.  I will.  And together we'll find a way
through this ... a way to be together again.  I promise.

And I'll find you a better present than sunflower seeds.  
The End.