From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 19 Apr 2002 08:01:35 -0000
Subject: Sky Beautiful by supernova
Source: direct

Reply To: supernova818@aol.com


Title: Sky Beautiful
Author: supernova
Disclaimer: Let's see - No, they aren't mine, and no, I'm 
not making any money off this story.
Category: MSR
Rating: PG-ish 
Spoilers: S9
Archive: Ask and ye shall receive.
Feedback: feed me at supernova818@aol.com
Summary: Mulder's thoughts on being separated from Scully 
and William.
Author's Notes: Thank you, Snick, for quickie beta. Elton 
John is for you, babe.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

There were times when the sky was beautiful, and the grass 
swaying in the wind was peaceful. There were times when 
everything beautiful wasn't like a knife in his back, or a 
bitter taste in his mouth. There were times when he didn't 
ache from a deadly form of loneliness. 

Camping. He couldn't stay in another motel room, so he 
bought all the necessary gear and headed to a campsite in 
what he now thought was the pits of hell. Actually, it was 
just Georgia in August. 

The humid air is suffocating, and he finds himself 
struggling for breath. A trickle of sweat tickles between 
his shoulder blades, and wouldn't you know it was in that 
one spot you can never reach.

The sun is setting in the west, just like it does every 
night, and he can't help but marvel at the pink-orange glow 
of the horizon. He takes a picture out of his pocket, and 
stares at the bald, sleeping infant that is his son as he 
lay huddled against his mother's breast.  His son. The 
words seem so foreign to him, even though he says them 
aloud every day, and ruminates silently over them every 
night. One picture for a thousand memories he will never 
have.

His shirt is soaked with sweat, so he takes it off and 
props himself against a giant pine tree, using the folded 
up shirt to cushion his back against the rough bark. A car 
rumbles in the distance. He looks at the picture until the 
sun goes to sleep for the night.

The next morning he eats baked beans for breakfast. He 
warms them briefly in a metal pot hung precariously over a 
low burning fire. The beans are good, if not a little 
sweet.

The sun rises from the east, as it always does, and the 
mixture of orange and purple is a quite a sight to behold. 
It is calming out here, with no one around, the wind 
caressing his cheek mercifully. He closes his eyes and 
imagines it is her small hand; he can't help but smile. 

After pulling on a fresh t-shirt, and lacing up his boots, 
he goes for a long walk. The air smells of pine and old 
smoke. The sky is a baby blue, with only a lonely cloud or 
two drifting by every now and then. The ground makes 
crunching sounds underneath his heavy footfall, twigs and 
pinecones giving way under the pressure. It is a 
bittersweet beautiful he thinks to himself, this peaceful, 
open space. He will bring his son here one day, to erase 
the memories of loneliness that mar simple perfection. 

He knows he will be sunburned by the time he makes his way 
back to camp; he doesn't care. The burn feels good, and it 
will serve as a reminder of where he's been.

That night, he watches as the sun prepares for a long 
night's rest. He stares for a long time at the picture of 
them, as he does every night, studying the innocence 
captured on Kodak's finest. There are times when he wonders 
why he is here, so far away from home.

He pulls some beef jerky from his backpack, and chomps down 
angrily. He puts the picture back in his shirt pocket, and 
gazes sleepily at the moon. A shooting star leaves a faint 
white trail against the dark backdrop of sky, the light 
gone before he has time to make a wish.

The next morning, he decides he is tired of camping. He 
rolls up his sleeping bag, and throws his backpack into the 
cab of his beaten up old Ford pick-up truck. After climbing 
into the driver's seat, he removes his shirt and wonders 
how in the hell anyone has ever made it through a summer 
here. 

His jeans chafe him in places they shouldn't, and there 
isn't a pore that doesn't ooze perspiration. He glances in 
the rearview mirror and a giant boulder vies for his 
attention. After a brief pause, he removes his swiss-army 
knife from the glove compartment, and exits the truck. He 
carves an 'M' on the rock, and doesn't look back when he 
drives away.

After driving for at least an hour with nothing but the 
sound of his tires rolling over endless miles of blacktop, 
he reaches over to turn on the radio. Static. Keeping one 
hand on the steering wheel, he continues to flip until he 
finds something other than country music. It is a 
frustrating task since Georgia apparently has about a 
hundred country music stations. It reminds him of a joke he 
heard once: What do you get when you play country music 
backwards? Your truck, your wife, your dog, and your house. 
He chuckles at the memory, and sits back against the hot, 
cloth-upholstered seat, having found a radio station that 
doesn't make him want to commit suicide. It isn't that 
country music is so horrible to listen to; it's that it is 
so incredibly sad.

An exuberant DJ informs him that it is 102 degrees, and 
warns against heat stroke. "Drink plenty of water, and 
avoid overexposure to sun," exuberant DJ announces. 

Elton John comes to life across the airwaves singing his 
little heart out. Everyone loves Elton John. 

He decides to join in a duet with good 'ole Elton: "and now 
she's in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand." He 
reaches for his shirt, thrown carelessly in the passenger's 
seat, and pulls the picture out of the pocket. He glances 
from road to picture again and again and again. It gives a 
whole new meaning to the cliche 'holding the world in the 
palm of your hand.' Indeed he does. "Hold me closer tiny 
dancer," he trails off.

The miles of asphalt stretch out in front of him, and he 
drives on, too weary to stop.

XxXxXx

He wonders if he's accidentally driven to Antarctica. It's 
so cold that even his ass is frozen. He rubs his hands 
together in a futile effort to keep them warm, and blows a 
smoky breath on them when rubbing them together doesn't do 
the trick.

He decides that he has to get out of this Chicago winter. 
He's tired of following dead-end leads. He thinks he should 
be playing Santa Claus in two days instead of freezing his 
ass off, waiting for the valet to bring his truck around. 
He regrets coming to this place. He wanted to erase the 
thoughts of her bouncing their son on her knee, and putting 
an elf hat on him. He wanted to have a great meal in a 
place too posh for words, and forget the burning ache of 
loneliness in his chest. He'd succeeded for all of two 
seconds until he saw it. The place was so posh that they'd 
hired their own fucking Santa Claus. A line of women held 
bald-headed babies waiting their turn to have a picture 
taken with Santa. A line of babies, and one was wearing an 
elf hat. What made him sick is that he'd never have known 
if it was his son in that stupid, ugly, striped elf hat. He 
had a picture. His son was growing, teething, smiling. 
Changing. He'd thrown a twenty-dollar bill on the table in 
the spirit of holiday cheer, and walked away with desperate 
longing nipping at his heels. 

His truck roars around the corner, and stops on a dime at 
his feet. A young teenage boy gets out of the driver's 
side, and he presses a twenty into his palm, mumbling his 
thanks.

After he's driven away from the restaurant, and cried a few 
good tears, he pulls into an empty parking lot, too weary 
to go on.

He wonders what she is doing tonight. Is she is out 
shopping with their son for last minute Christmas presents, 
braving the mall and all the lunatics that seem to come out 
of the woodwork at this time of year? He hopes she is safe, 
and warm. It's hard for him to wish that she is happy 
without him.

XxXxXx

Manhattan buzzes with life no matter the season or time of 
day. The energy is a relief. It seems to take over the long 
pervading quiet that consumes him. He walks up Broadway, 
taking in all the colors and bright lights. Everyone in 
Manhattan is on a mission, walking with such purpose and 
speed. People line the streets with their tables set up and 
duffel bags open, wanting to sell you a Rolex and a copy of 
a movie that just hit the theaters last week. Self-
proclaimed artists kneel on the ground; hands dirty with 
dried paint, trying to make a living. People spill out of 
restaurants onto the sidewalk, waiting their turn to be 
fed. A group of teenage girls giggle and point to him; he 
smiles awkwardly in return. 

He finds the downtown metro entrance, and takes the stairs 
two at a time. Glancing at his watch, he realizes he has 
two hours before his informant meets him at an agreed upon 
location.

He waits for his informant in the definition of "sleazy 
bar." His conscious battles his subconscious, although he 
really can't tell the difference anymore. He'd give 
anything for his cell phone to ring and for her to say, 
"Mulder, it's me." The cell phone doesn't ring. He'd give 
anything to see the way she crinkles her nose, her eyes 
shining with something akin to mischievousness when she 
says, "but I'm not sure what I saw."  

He isn't surprised when his source doesn't show up. He is 
surprised when he realizes it's Valentine's Day. A young 
couple kiss and clink their beers together before taking a 
long swig. He wonders what Valentine's Day would be like if 
he were at home. He thinks he'd like to take her to dinner, 
and spend all night making love to her. He envisions a 
night of obscene normality. After being abducted by aliens 
and buried alive, dinner, a movie, and sex with the woman 
you love is the utopian version of the only reality you 
ever want to know again. He imagines surprising her when he 
strips his jeans off, revealing red boxer shorts with big 
white lips on them. 

She would arch an eyebrow, and laugh. There are times when 
he wonders if she laughs now, and if it's because she's 
happy.

Manhattan is a distant memory by February 15th.

XxXxX

By the time spring rolls around, his picture of them is 
worn around the edges as a result of too many lonely 
nights. He wonders if he could ever look at them too much. 
'No,' he thinks to himself. 

She's going to be pissed off if she finds out he's in 
Oregon. He knows she tries to keep tabs on him, but he's 
also good at going on undetected, her finding him after 
he's already gone. It breaks his heart to have to avoid her 
careful monitoring of him, but he's almost been killed once 
already, so he lays a little lower, flies a little less, 
and drives a little more. 

He sees a petite woman going into the grocery store, and 
for a split second he thinks it might be her. Maybe she's 
looking for him, ready to bring him home. It isn't her, 
although he wishes it were.

He puts his ATM card in the slot and smiles when the name 
comes up: Rob Petrie. He withdraws his daily maximum, 
pressing 'no' for a receipt, and ambles back to his beat-up 
old truck. He climbs inside, and rests his head on the 
steering wheel. 

He wonders about his son, and her. He wonders if his son 
will know him. He wonders if by the end of this journey, he 
will know himself.

XxXxX

He couldn't stay away any longer.  There is no phone call 
made to prepare her for his arrival, and when she opens the 
door, her smile is like a little slice of heaven. 

He wraps his arms around her with a weary tenderness, and 
she falls into his embrace.

He thinks back to thousands of miles driven in Blue, his 
faithful old truck. He's missed so much this past year. 
Even still, he can think of nothing poetic to say.

"Your hair is longer," he sighs.

They both smile. 

There are times when the loneliness leaves you. There are 
times when you find yourself in another person. There are 
times when coming home is everything you dreamed it would 
be.

As he passes her living room window, he notices the sky is 
a brilliant blue, the grass lining the walkway bending 
easily to a gentle breeze.

-end-