From: "EPurSeMouve" Date: Sat, 29 May 1999 22:08:09 -0800 Subject: NEW: The Numbing of Nightmares TITLE: The Numbing of Nightmares AUTHOR: EPurSeMouve [epursemouve@goplay.com] CATEGORY: V A RATING: PG SPOILERS: Up to "Terms of Endearment." KEYWORDS: None. SUMMARY: A simple conversation. DISCLAIMER: This story contains characters spawned by The X- Files, a show copyrighted by CC and 1013 Productions. The other cultural icons mentioned belong to their respective creators, but the actual plot and text are mine. DISTRIBUTION: Archive anywhere you like, but let me know (just because I like knowing where my stories are) and keep my name with it. I've been plugging away at this puppy for close to a month, writing about a paragraph at a time, and I will admit that I like what's come of my efforts. Email me at epursemouve@goplay.com to let me know if you agree. Shout-out to Caz for being one of the bestest beta-readers on Earth, and for being her wonderfully brilliant self (grrr...). This is dedicated, however, to my friend Nicky, for her eternal kookiness, friendship and hospitality. Just to let you know - the last story I dedicated to Nicky was breezy and cheerful, a lighthearted attempt at satire. But this is something a little different. The Numbing of Nightmares By EPurSeMouve epursemouve@goplay.com I'm on the couch. That's where he finds me. I've been there for a while, curled up under an afghan, staring at the TV, only having to get up once so far, to put in a new tape. I haven't even bothered to take off my suit from this morning. He'll notice that. At first, I thought he'd be angry at me - running out on the autopsy, running out on him - but I can tell that isn't the case right now. He's probably curious, above all else. Wondering why, after fifteen other prostitute murders, I suddenly had a problem with the sixteenth. Wondering why I'd be so bothered by a routine rape-and-mauling... I wonder what he sees. Who he sees. His steadfast partner, gone a little nuts? Or someone else entirely? Someone rattled, and scared, and shaken in her confidence, unwilling to slide the knife through flesh anymore, bothered because nothing bothers her... It isn't Scully he should be seeing. Mulder? Say hello to Dana. You've seen her once or twice before. I wonder if he followed me. If he had been waiting outside the autopsy bay to share some insight, and then, as I trotted quickly by, unseeing of anything, he moved to keep me in his sight. He would have had to wait outside the video store for at least fifteen minutes. He probably did, speculating a bit himself. Wondering about me, about how I smiled slightly at the brunette behind the counter, about how I came out with a small bag of slender black cases. Wondered about himself, for doing what he was doing. For this is not the first time this has happened. "This is the first time you've come," I say quietly, looking at the TV but concentrating on him. He's both confident and uncertain - I can tell that much, without even looking at him. Shifting his weight back and forth, taking one step forward and another back. On the balls of his feet. Prepared for quick movement. "The other times, I didn't want to disturb you. You were always all right the next day." "And now?" "I just wanted to make sure." Of what? I don't ask. He doesn't say. He's been standing behind me, watching the blood splatter on the screen, only able to see my back as I remain turned on my side. But now, I hear soft footfalls, and a change in the air near my feet. "What are you watching?" he asks softly. Not up on your New Zealand horror films, Mulder? Shame. " 'Dead Alive.' Woman become zombie, turns neighbors into zombies, and her son tries to keep them all from becoming violent. It's not bad, actually. Daria said something about a lawnmower at the end." "Daria?" "Clerk at the video store. She recommends these to me. I can't keep up with the new or obscure stuff that gets released, so she steers me in the right direction." As I speak, the cute mommy's boy on screen lifts up a power lawnmower until the blades are perpendicular with the ground. Two strong tugs of the cord, and once more into the fray he goes. The mob of zombies surrounding him starts to become mulch. Blood is everywhere. If concern and worry weren't permeating the room, this would be really funny. The lawnmower-wielder flips over a portrait of Queen Victoria so that it'll remain unsoiled. I can't bring myself to smile. He wants to ask why. That's why he's here, why I think that his eyes are on me instead of the carnage. But I'm not done watching the movie. He's quiet throughout the gruesome ten minute finish, not questioning a thing. But when the credits roll, there's a sudden tension, as if he's just opened his mouth. He wants to ask why. Wants to question, wants to learn, wants to query. He's come all this way for that opportunity. For the first time, he's here. So I decide to save him the trouble. "I used to watch these in high school, on dates. They'd be graphic and frightening and I'd always curl up against the guy in fear, so of course we just kept going to them. I actually broke up with my first boyfriend because I just didn't want to see them any more. I ended the first serious relationship of my life because I was sick and tired of watching people die." I'm surprised I said that much - but he isn't. He's thinking about this, his eyes a little wide, maybe. He's analyzing what I've just said. Putting the pieces together. Trying to figure out how I think. I bet that he hasn't figured it out yet. It's nice to know that, after six years, I can still throw him a curveball or two. "You started watching them again in med school, right?" Then again, maybe not. I nod. "Good answer. Friends of yours did?" "Yeah. They did a lot of nitpicking on the medical stuff. Loved to tear apart 'Halloween.'" "When I was in school, the really good ones - the ones that had made slasher flicks so popular originally - had just degraded into pointless sequels. But my friends and I would still get together on Friday nights and laugh at stuff like 'Slumber Party Massacre II'. Remarkably inaccurate, in regards to the human body's reaction to such kinds of abuse. And we'd sit around and bash them and prove how tough and smart we all were. This was second year, when everyone's realizing how hard it is to get the really good jobs and we're all beginning to get really competitive." "After a while, you don't notice the gruesome stuff, then." "It all blends together. Just part of life, like dissection labs and cadavers and brains in bottles. You learn not to care." "Or to look like you're not caring." I look at him, for the first time. His face is studied, his gaze thoughtful but intense. He's focusing on me, for once. Giving me the attention he'd give a serial killer or cattle mutilation. But it's a different kind of attention. I like it. I like the kindness and concern in his eyes, the hair falling casually over his forehead, the tie hanging loosely. I like this man. Hopefully, he'll stick around. "Actually, it really doesn't get to me any more. It's just that, every once in a while, I look up and realize what exactly I'm doing. It's like I'm getting a reality check, suddenly remembering all these unimportant facts about the person I'm supposed to be cutting up." "And that's when you watch these." "It helps me remember." "Remember what?" "That I can do this. That I'm not weak." The Profiler awakens once more. "You're trying to shut yourself off again," he says. Coolly, analytically. I suddenly feel exposed. Don't go poking around my head, Mulder. I like things left alone up there. I don't say anything. He gets the hint. "Or maybe it's none of my business," he says with far more softness. He starts to move away. "I'll see you tomorrow." He got the hint. He just took it too far. I have to say it, and it's hard, but I manage. "Don't go." He stops. "No?" "I'd like you to stay." And he does. The tape has long since stopped, and now it's automatically rewound to the beginning, while an afternoon cartoon show blares on screen. We watch it silently for a few minutes. He's still at the foot of my couch. I want that to change. I sit up, pulling my afghan with me, so that two thirds of the couch are available. "Mulder, come sit down." And he does, closer to me than to the other side. I smile slightly. Good boy. He's acting so attentive, so sensitive, that I can't help but explain a little more. He deserves it, I think. He's come this far for an answer - he might as well have the whole truth. "I'm not sure why I'm watching, really. I just do. It reminds me that I can be tough. I need to remind myself, at times like these." He leans over, grabs my hand. "You are tough. Tougher than me." "Sometimes." He seems a little hesitant suddenly, like he wants to say something, but isn't sure enough of what my reaction will be. He wants to be careful, doesn't want to upset me. And he doesn't want to mess things up for himself, either. I like this man. I'm glad he stayed. "You don't have to be tough all the time, Scully. Not for me." It probably isn't what he wanted to say. But I don't care. "You want to watch a movie, Mulder? I haven't done 'Evil Dead II' yet." "Sure," he says, even getting up himself to find the tape from the others stacked and put it into the VCR. I like this man. The scene opens. "Doesn't that guy look like that married demon?" I smile. And for once, it isn't that tough. "Mulder, just watch the movie." Comments to epursemouve@goplay.com Thank you for reading.