From: JGreco217 Date: 20 Jun 1999 21:28:54 GMT Subject: New! Someday He'll Laugh by Jamie Greco Someday He'll Laugh By: Jamie Greco (jgreco217@ aol.com) Rating: PG Classification: V Spoilers: Biogenesis Summary: Scully hopes to comfort Mulder in his madness Disclaimer: Not my characters, nor my show, no infringement intended Someday he'll laugh. I know he will. I'll tell him how I threw my weight around, and he'll laugh and make some sort of comment about the irony of that statement. I'll tell him how I moved mountains and gained access to him by simply asking for Social Security numbers and insinuating that people would be audited by the IRS. He'll watch me with that expression on his face that translates into pride and bemusement, his face open and delighted, and then he'll laugh and say something like "You go, girl." When I describe how steel tight the security around him was, he'll pretend to take pride in that, I suppose. It's hard to picture him now, sitting in the office or next to me in the car, although I've seen that view more times than I can count. All I can see when I close my eyes is what I saw in the monitor; Mulder in the grips of an artificial insanity, every bit as manufactured as my cancer. I'm not sure I can face that sight again. The sound of him is every bit as devastating as the sight. I can hear his madness being played out on the other side of the door that I am unable to breach. He howls and cries out my name, and I can't make myself look in the small window within the door that separates us. My back is pushed so hard against the wall adjoining the door that my legs tremble at the exertion of it. Breathe, Dana, I tell myself. Breathe. I am capable of breathing. Maybe more. I can appear to be simply angry when I am horrified and lost and full of vengeful fury. And sick. Watching him through the monitor in that padded room, I thought I might be sick; but I wouldn't let myself. Not there. Not in front of his enemies. I slapped the mortar on my brave front and swallowed down the bile in my throat. For Mulder. I had gathered myself to the point where I thought I could make it, and then he screamed my name as another would scream the name of their god. And his face...the anguish was almost unbearable, and he was holding it out to me. He screams my name once more on the other side of this wall and I suck in more oxygen, pray for courage and look into the window. I have to stretch my frame to see inside and at first I see nothing. But soon he darts by, his arms flailing, his muscles rigid and tensed, his face... I slap myself back against the wall. What will I tell him? Not what he wants, not what he expects, not what he hopes. I will tell him that I will get him out...eventually. That protocol must be followed, steps taken. That I must find the facts before I take action. I hate myself more fiercely than I hate those I left upstairs. Because when it comes down to it, I don't have the power to save him without the facts. I am impotent to deliver him, and I am his only hope. I hear him slamming the wall, and I look quickly inside to see him tossing himself at the door, over and over; and I fear he will batter himself to death. I take one more step and am fully visible to him, if he would look. "Mulder!" I cry out, demanding his attention, but he is stubborn in his new found attempt at destruction. "Mulder!" I repeat, louder, but he doesn't hear. His world is infinitesimal. What isn't inside his head doesn't seem to exist. I slap my hand against the glass and scream his name with every bit of the force he has used to invoke me. He pauses, remains still and cocks his head. Am I within or without? I slap my hand and he looks at it, focusing and drawing near. "Mulder," I say loud enough so that he can hear, but gently enough so he will know...so he will know... His eyes catch mine, and I see a veil lift. He stumbles toward me, and it seems he might try to walk straight through the door. But he stops inches from the window and searches my face. Slowly his neck bends until his forehead rests against the glass where my fingertips still press, and I ache from the ocean floor of my soul. I try to think of words that will comfort, that will promise fully enough that he will obtain some solace from them, but I simply watch him move his head as if I were stroking him. His broken voice chokes out my name, and my mortar cracks. I know I haven't the words, but it doesn't seem to matter. A small smile touches his lips, and he seems satisfied. He walks from me, never looking back, and sinks to the floor in a corner. Something was enough for him. I don't cry until I'm far enough from the hospital that no one will hear me scream his name. And then not for long. I have work to do. Jamie