From: MystPhile@aol.com Date: Thu, 4 Feb 1999 17:02:23 EST Subject: No Memory, No Desire (1/1) Title: No Memory, No Desire Author: MystPhile@aol.com Summary: Scully's thoughts a couple of weeks after Tithonus. Classification: V, SA Rating: PG Spoilers: Tithonus, Clyde Bruckman, Humbug, FTF, Jose Chung Disclaimer: They're not mine Archive: Anywhere; just let me know No Memory, No Desire by MystPhile In T. S. Eliot's The Wasteland, after meeting the hyacinth girl, the narrator states: "I was neither/ Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,/ Looking into the heart of light, the silence." Step right up. Tune in to Geezer Central. Jesus, how do I get involved with all these deadly old men? Just my luck. Why don't I ever attract the JFK Jr type? Studs, we could use some studs here. Hey, is anybody listening? But no, only those over 60 need apply. And the problem is, they're getting older all the time. And more lethal. This last one, if I'm to believe Mulder--a big if--was almost as old as Methuselah. And he nearly took me with him. Or instead of him? I'm not too clear on what happened. Nothing's really clear, but I do know that I'm used to *them* dying. But this time, I was Death's darling. Almost. Do I fear death? Damned straight. I still have a lot I want to do. A *whole* lot. When did it start? The saga of Scully and the Geezers, I mean. There was Clyde Bruckman, another weird old man who believed he had a foreknowledge of death. Hell, I attract them like--shit, I almost said like bees to honey. Let's forget bees. Yeah, let's. And there was Jose Chung. I wasn't in at the kill, but I was sorry to read about his death. He seemed to have a thing for me, even if he did mildly trash me in the book. At least I came off better than Mulder, that ticking timebomb of insanity. Snort. I remember the end of his book. We are all alone. Scary thought. And a big part of Fellig's problem. If he'd had someone in his life, some connection....I wonder if I reached him in some way. And that well-groomed gentleman--RIP--who turned out to be one of the bad guys, or not-so-bad guys, according to what Mulder told me when we got back from the land of frost, properly but temporarily branded. His telling Mulder where I was saved my life. Hell, the first time I met him he saved my life. Of course, his warning meant that Melissa died instead. Shit. Damned old men. Harbingers of death. Out of my life! Death, everywhere my mind wanders. Not so weird, really, when I came so close to sitting in his carriage. Ironic, isn't it, that death is my field of expertise. But not *doing* it, for Christ's sake! What did I do to deserve these weird, dead old men? But some were kind. I remember Leonard, or was it Lennie? At the circus? I guess I'm not remembering things too well. Everything's kind of blurry. I do recall that case fondly, at least the first part. I grossed out Mulder by pretending to eat the cricket. I'll never forget the look on his face. And those people were cool. I loved their being so far out of the mainstream, they were livin' on dry land. God, they were great. So fuckin' freaky. I loved them. And in that case--Mulder was wrong. I should put that one on my calendar, huh? He spent the whole time sniffing around after some idiotic Fiji Mermaid. Hah. When he wasn't exhuming potatoes. While I solved the case. Scully Drew. Dana Drew? I remember how Leonard looked at me. The morning he came to my trailer. Another older man who connected with me. There was some strange affinity. I still feel it. He staring at my protuberances, up on top. I staring at his protuberance, his conjoined brother. Vicious little murderer. Symbiosis interfered with. They couldn't survive without each other. Unlike what Chung said, they were not alone. Why does thinking about that case, that need, make my heart ache? Don't think about it. Don't go there. Get back on the track. So, where's the track? Where'd it go? Oh, Clyde, Clyde, compared to the latest geezer, you were a prince. You actually liked people. Well, some of them. You weren't the warmest guy in the world, but you had compassion. I still remember our night in the hotel room. I didn't believe it when you said you could see the future--the two of us in bed together. I scoffed. You didn't tell me you'd be dead at the time. Always had to get the last laugh. But not the last cry. And I did cry for you. I wasn't sure what you saw, just that you'd ruined your life by thinking you saw death all around you. Is that so different from me? Really? Dealing with death on a daily basis? Yeah, it is. I'm fighting it, duking it out with Death. You just chose to predict when Death would visit. You studied it so much it became your intimate. Maybe we're better off being estranged from it. It's not the ideal companion. Mistress of understatement, that's me. You got too close. It was the only thing you could think of. It seduced you. If you gave in to its wicked blandishments, you'd be able to escape the turmoil, the discomfort. All the stuff that lets us know we're alive. I guess you were like Fellig, in that way. How sad--tragic--to find no joy in life. To be unwilling to seek out the joy. What really bothers me--well, shit, there's a lot that bothers me. Get a hold of yourself, Dana. Or Scully, as I told that piss ant excuse for an agent. Grow up, Junior. Try respecting the evidence. Lose the ego. Almost killed me, stupid fucker. Where was I? Ah, yes, Fellig. How could someone live as long as he supposedly did--ah, hell, he probably didn't anyway. But there were those pictures. He wasn't aging. There were fingerprints. Gotta respect the evidence. At least, that's what I'm always telling Mulder. So, how could someone live that long to so little purpose? That's what really bothers me. If he *did* live an improbably long life, why wasn't he doing something constructive? Benefiting mankind? Using the past to shape the present? Learning from his experience? Acquiring wisdom? Sharing it? Selfish bastard. He was a bottom feeder. Have I ever met someone with so little life in him? No expression, no inflection, no affect. No passion at all. No desire for *anything*, a horrifying thing to see. Just a shell of a man, refusing to get off his ass and do anything at all with the life he was given. And, despite what he said about stealing the life from the nurse, life is always a gift. I know that so well. How could he waste it like that? He wasn't doing any thing for any one. Mulder said Fellig was once a murderer. I'm surprised he could get up the energy. What little verve he had, he put into pursuing death, like a sleazy ambulance chaser. Only he got there before the kill. Revolting. When I thought I was going to die. Check that. There are too fucking many times I thought I was going to die. But every time, I fought to live. I can't imagine not fighting. What's the saying? Where there's life, there's hope. Well, Fellig was a zombie. There was no life. No hope. Just the negative quality of seeking death. Negative. Nah, I didn't mean that as a pun. So, I was lying there. Blood cascading, soaking me. Drowning in its metallic taste. I knew I was a few minutes from death. Gutshots are not the kind of thing you live through, unless you fall over in front of a fully equipped EMT. What saved me? I can't think Fellig meant to save me. He didn't give a fuck about me. All he wanted was to take my picture and add it to his grisly collection. What a creep. What about love, I asked him. He couldn't even remember her name. How could you ever forget the name of someone you loved, for one year or fifty years? Without our memories, who are we? He was no one, despite all those identities. No one. I just don't understand him. It couldn't have been love. You don't forget love and you don't stop loving. That's what makes us human. Love. Hope. Where's my mind? Maybe I should get out of this dangerous line of work and go make up slogans for Hallmark. Soupy Scully. Yeah, Scully. I finally asserted my identity. I've turned into her, after all these years. Good thing too. I was so near death. I want to die as Scully, the one who fights, and struggles, and tries to protect people, save them. That one. The one who saved the prostitute. Shit. He didn't want to save *me*. He reached out to save himself. I was his big opportunity, his ticket out, as it were. Instead of "shooting" his victims all those years, he should have reached out and shared their final moments. He never got near them. He always stayed behind his protective lens. Just the way I do sometimes. Put up the barrier when I can't afford to feel too much. Well, he showed me what happens to people who refuse to feel. They may breathe, but they are dead. But we must have had some kind of connection. I was going to die. What happened when he clasped my hand? I'll never know. Just be grateful. I have so much I want to do. So much love I want to give. I'm getting maudlin again. Stop it! He clasped my hand. Death body hopped. He got what he wanted; I got what I desperately needed--a chance. Some time. I remember Leonard dying, once his conjoined twin vacated his body. He needed that connection to survive. I think we all do. Some sort of connection. Not a using connection, a giving one. A shared one. Fellig's hand grasped mine. Symbiosis of sorts. I had what he needed. God, it's like Leonard Betts--You have what I need. I should tuck Fellig's little saying--Count your blessings--away with the immortal words of Betts. For future nightmares. Luckily, this time, Fellig had what *I* needed. Fair exchange, I guess. The grasp of hands. I remember Mulder taking my hand in the hospital, many times. *He* had what I needed too. A connection. Warmth. I hope some kind of mini-symbiosis occurred. I'd like to give him what he needs too. But I don't always know exactly what that is. And even if I do, it's not something I'm able to provide. I can only give what I have. It's a pity. I sometimes think he needs more than than I have. I wonder if anyone could fill his void. Of course, that works two ways. He can't meet all my needs either. He just doesn't have it in him right now. Don't know if he ever will. It's probably unrealistic to expect that we'll change. But I don't want to give up trying. That's what Fellig did. And he was dead. Years before he died. God knows how many years that dead man walked the earth. I feel a hand on my forehead. A large, rough, familiar hand. Mulder must have come in while I was dozing. It's good to be in my own bed again, but I'm still pretty drugged up. Obviously. My thoughts are so rambly, I can't catch up with them. They just keep whirling. I open my eyes and see his smile. I reach for his hand which envelopes mine. He draws little patterns on my hand and continues to smile, a sad little smile, meant to be reassuring, as his other hand brushes hair away from my face. His thigh settles in against my hip. Our bodies seem to be melding at that point of contact. I feel myself drifting from thoughts of death to thoughts of life. We are not involved in symbiosis. It's a voluntary attachment. A deep one. END