From: Sairobi Date: 23 Jul 1998 16:02:47 GMT Subject: NEW! "Summer in the Snow" (1/11) Title: "Summer in the Snow" (Chapter I: The Motions of Living) Author: Brinson (Sairobi@AOL.COM--feedback? Yes, please!) Rating: R (TV-MA for a mouth straight out of South Park and V-chipped straight to hell for enough violence to satisfy any well adjusted child.) Classification: TA Archive: Gossamer, por favor. Anywhere else--sure, fine, whatever. Just tell me. *Please*. I'll cry otherwise. Spoilers: Tempus Fugit/Max, Niesi/731 Disclaimer: Hypothetical question: if a unnamed television producer kills off one of his beloved minor characters in a most untimely fashion, does he still own the "dead" entity? Yeah. That's what *I* thought. Summary: What if Pendrell didn't die? Overly Tedious Author's Notes: First off: there is hardly a Scully and nary Mulder to be seen here. Sorry, shippers. (But hey, mentally paste Mulder's name over Pendrell's and you got yourself some fine MulderDiscomfort.) Second: this is not your mother's Pendrell. Hooo-boy, no. I am a firm believer in the think-one-thing, say-another side of human nature. Even those most innocuous among us have some pretty wicked thoughts. Pendrell may have blushed, but probably because he wasn't having the most *pure* of mental pictures. Third: CiCi Lean is a goddess. I bow before you, allmighty fanfictress. Without your constant help, pushing, encouragement, and general nice-ness I would have never made it this far. (This is coming from someone who's never gone beyond twenty-page territory.) I'm flattered that such a talented chick as yourself would mess around with someone as inexperienced as myself. Thank you for sharing your wit, knowledge, and boundless creativity with me. I'd also like to thank Paul for getting me through "the denial opus" with my sanity intact...well, some of it. I still think you need to get off *my* plane. And, of course, the LABB. MrsK incarnate wishes you the best, mousies. - - - - - - - - - - "We're in a room without a door And I am sure without a doubt They're gonna wanna know how we got in here.... .....they're gonna wanna know how we plan to get out." --Ani DeFranco, "Shameless" - - - - - - - - - - Chapter One: The Motions of Living - - - - "Julie found herself looking at him in mild shock. She narrowed her eyes. 'The motions of living!' she whispered. 'What a horrible thing to say.'" --Anne Rice, 'The Mummy' - - - - - - - - - - There is no gradual awareness; no blinking of the eyes once, twice, and open. It is rapid and rather unmerciful, a wham-bam-thank-you-'maam reintroduction back to the continuing saga known as my life. Chapter seven, one drunk lab tech is shot in a presumably go-for-dead attempt on his life; chapter eight, he's awake and feels to be stoned out of his mind. I nearly laugh at the thought of going from being plastered to being...well, plastered. But as soon I take in the breath to, my chest betrays me by cramping into a tight ball of breathless pain. I gasp and suddenly wish that whoever was attending to me would have gone for broke and just knocked me out. It would be a lot easier than laying here, trying to get my heaving chest under control and dealing with the questions assaulting my mind. Like for starters, where am I? This place is sort of indistinguishable, which is enough in itself to give me a bitch of a bad trip. I'm not in a hospital, though. This place is too subdued, too real to be one of those. There is a soft light to my right; an old banker's lamp sits on the night-stand, casting an emerald semi-circle of light through its pale green glass shade. It appears to be the only light, though there are cracks of far to the left which could indicate drapery or even a door. The bed I'm laying in is iron; I can tell that by the cool touch of it on my scalp. And the sheets are thin. I've got goose-bumps down to my dick. Oh well, at least that feels to be in working order. That means everything can't be all bad. I smile a little smile, a smile that is stoned nevertheless. On to the next question. Who is watching me from the direction of the drapery, or whatever the hell that is? Catching the dim movement once more, I attempt to sit up. "Jesus Christ," I mutter, half in awe of the brilliant pain that flares in my chest as I fall back to the mound of pillows. I watch through slit eyes as the shadow moves closer and is suddenly ensconced in the brackish light. A leprechaun. Funny how the mind pulls up the strangest rationalities when you're wasted. But the little upturned nose and long blonde hair taking on that lovely greenish tint as she moves closer cause me to blink twice. Great, I've got one of the little people watching over me. I wonder if people are always after her lucky charms? I grin at the thought. Lord, how I am fucked up. It's only a girl, maybe sixteen? She's not a leprechaun but she's as close as they get, stature-wise. Looking to be about five feet tall at the most, she reminds me of someone of the same height. The disconcerting thing is of whom, I'm not quite sure. I still can't tell as she circles the foot of the bed and disappears into the shadows. She resurfaces, with a chair in tow--one of those awful metal folding numbers. Now I know I that I'm on something hard. The girl is dressed in one of those medieval whore costumes, the kind I used to see at the Renaissance Festival when I was younger. She's got it down pat, from her pink ribbon adorned bodice to the wine colored lace trimming the edge of her skirt. Yet I know she is real, by the Doc Martens hidden beneath that deep purple lace. The absurdity of it all is that I'm sure she can tell I'm staring unabashedly at her; yet she sets the chair adjacent to the night-stand and plops down in it. Her light blue eyes move over me; I look away, suddenly aware that no matter how much pain I'm experiencing at the moment will not save me from that trademark blush about to creep over my face. "Danny?" she asks quietly. "Uh huh," I say, non-committedly. "Do you know where you are?" How'd I know that was coming? "No idea. Care to inform me?" God, is that my voice? It sounds so raw. "Nope. Mom won't let me." Oh great, a mother figure to deal with. Not that I have any trouble with them, except for my own. At the moment, I don't even want to think about what happened at the last family gathering. "Then who are you?" I ask, resignedly. "Summer...uh, I'm not sure if I'm supposed to tell you my last name." I turn back to her; she fidgets nervously. Her thin pale arms work at the ribbon tied at her breasts, twisting it absently in a sort of hangman's noose. She's uncomfortable; I look past her and suddenly notice the syringes laying on the table. Two hypodermic needles, both plungers buried deep within the plastic shells. Empty. Uh, oh. Not a good thing, Martha Stewart. "All right then, Summer. Do you have any idea what I'm on?" I gesture to the needles, shivering inwardly. I absolutely loathe being on something unless its by my own doing. And while that doesn't happen that often, I try to remain as much in control of the situation as I possibly can. Here I get the feeling that the element of control went out the proverbial door long ago. "Morphine." "Morphine?" I ask incredulously. I look down at my arm, seeing two Power Rangers adorned Band-Aids for the first time and groan. "Sorry. Mom had to raid my medicine cabinet. If it's any consolation, I think it's cool," she says with a little smile. So this mother of hers can obtain morphine but not Band-Aids? Somehow that scares me more than the whole being-somewhere-but-I'm-not-sure-where-with-a-sixteen-year-old-girl-for-my -keeper thing. "No, no. I mean, there's two there. Don't you have any idea what the other is from?" I say, my last words sounding slurry. This whole interrogation is losing its fun fast. I can feel a small knot of fear at the bottom of my gut. "I told you, no. Do you wanna talk to my mom?" "Please." She gets up and walks toward where I thought the drapery/door was; there is a metallic click. A lock, perhaps. A lock? Why in God's name would they lock me in? Quickly, that small knot rears its ugly head and clamps my entire mid-section in a sort of quiet terror before I can do anything about it. I stare at what indeed is a door, admitting a triangle of yellow light. Summer has left the room, but as soon as I realize this, I hear the muted approach of feet. That fear hobgoblin clenches my stomach a little tighter as I sigh, trying to appease it. A silhouette of a woman in the doorway. I can't see anything of her; the honeyed light behind her makes her a dark form in comparison. She moves into the room and shuts the door silently behind her. She stands there for a moment, illuminated by the arc of green light. Thickly built, she wears a batiked broomstick skirt. I gape like a fool at those twisting white lines for what must be a full five minutes. Something I said earlier about being completely fucked up comes back to me and I make a mental note to make it my quote of the day. "Feeling any better?" she asks, leaning against the wall. She has the same blue eyes of her daughter, only a hell of a lot more unnerving. "Any better from what?" I ask, swallowing. I'm trying to remember if I've had any conversations with this woman about the slightly numbed pain gripping my left side, and decide I haven't. "Rhetorical questions, Danny? Now I know the morphine went to your head," she says, eyeing me. I don't blush under her scrutiny; I feel like I'm about to get a panic-attack. How does this woman know me well enough to know that I'm not the type to go around doing my philosophizing on the meaning of life unless seriously medicated? "Who are you?" I ask, instead. "Debi. And don't get all paranoid, Danny. The only reason why I know jack shit about you is because I read your file," she says gently. I guess the startled look I had hoped to conceal was a bit more self-evident than I had thought. "Now I get to play twenty questions." She grins and continues. "Number one. Who are you?" "Daniel Pendrell." "Good. Two: what happened to you?" "I was shot....in a bar...," I trail off. There is a sudden flash of a red-headed woman, leaning over me. She's shouting something; I can't hear it. I know she wants me to stay awake, but my eyes are so heavy and the feeling of her rubbing her fingers through my hair is incredibly comforting. "I'm dead," I say, not really seeing the room--just the darkness and the light touch of her fingers. Scully. I have a sudden vehement wish for this Debi woman to just call me "Pendrell". Like she did. "Yes and no," she answers. I look at her; damn, I can't even remember the question. Something about being dead. "Vagueness is not becoming on you," I say as seriously as one can say when one is fuzzy around the edges and is beginning to doubt whether he is even alive or not. "You're dead to the world's knowledge," she says simply. I stare at her, with that same owl eyed expression as before. "We got you out of the hospital when we found out that you had been shot. It was the only thing to do." Same simple manner. I think I'm going to ralph, so hit the ground kiddies, because it won't be pretty. "Well, thank you Jane Bond," I say, swallowing that awful lump of bile rising to my throat. "You don't understand. When we got to the hospital there was all sorts of shit in your bloodstream; they were leaking some pretty toxic crap through your IV. We had no choice but to remove you because God only knows what else they'd attempt." I swallow again; I swallow hard. Even being on the wildest high in my life could have never prepared me for this. She's about to tell me that they all think I'm....dead. Again. "Danny, we had to. Otherwise, you would have been further pursued." Are my expressions that readable? This woman is scaring me. God, I'm already terrified at awakening in this place, stoned beyond belief and locked into a room where the furniture itself appears to be refugees from yard-sale hell. Now the Stupendous Yapp-ette is reading my mind, telling me that I'm a non-person. What a way to start the day. - - - - - - - - - I attempt to regain my composure, but that woman is still staring at me. Not only is it unnerving, but it's also embarrassing. I feel like a specimen. Maybe I am. At this point, I'm not willing to disregard anything. "You know, I don't even know why we even bothered with your scrawny ass," she says thoughtfully. "Huh?" Do painkillers affect one's hearing? Methinks not. "Never mind. Forget I said that. I'm feeling particularly heartless at the moment." She smiles warmly. For some reason, I'm thinking that this is not just a temporary thing. I mean, this woman resembles a drill sergeant at least in a physical respect--who's to say that she's not going to order me out of bed to do fifty next? "How long have I been here...Debi?" I say suddenly. "A week." I lean further back into the downy pillows; close my eyes and try to take all of this in. Seven days. In less than two hundred hours I have gone from dead to live and back again. Full circle and then some. And in the process, lost a week and what should have been my life. Maybe, in effect, he did kill me. If this woman isn't just giving me a bad over-haul of a B rate spy movie, it would mean that Agent Pendrell, the guy who was just a little too obsessed with a microchip brought to him by a fellow agent, hated Mexican food but loved sushi, had two kittens and a little thing for Agent Scully is dead. He might as well have been shot in the head. "What's wrong?" Is this woman that bone-headed? What does she think, you tell a man he's dead and off he goes, prancing off into the sunset on feather-light soles? I'm suddenly wishing I had a very large gun. To kill either one of us. Instead I mumble, "Nothing." That's right, Pendrell, live with it, chides a little voice in my head--the one that's always reminding me that that's the way life goes so just deal with it. I think I gave that little voice a "Shit Happens" bumper sticker last Christmas and left it at that. It's been pretty good since then, only bitching and moaning about the whole implant affair. And just think, if I'd listened to it, I probably wouldn't be in this present situation. Because that's what it all boils down to, right? "Are you hungry?" she asks, interrupting my train of thought and crossing her arms over her chest simultaneously. Jesus, they're big--just like the rest of her. "Not really...hey Debi, what exactly am I on?" "On?" Her eyebrows arch, making her eyes look even larger. I roll over with a little grunt and pick up a syringe, holding it up for her to see, then replace it by the side of the bed. "Oh, that. You were on morphine, but we stopped that this morning. Is your mind still a bit..... expanded?" She giggles. I think I unconsciously roll my eyes because she suddenly stops. "Yeah, what about the other one?" I look down at the yellow Power Rangers Band-Aid and shudder again. "Other one? You mean the other Band-Aid?" "Uh huh." "I don't know. No, what I mean is that you aren't on anything. You were bleeding when we picked you up. Maybe you got scraped somewhere?" she offers. "I don't think so," I say, picking at the sticky edge of the Band-Aid. The blue ranger flips over to reveal a patch of smooth pink skin. "Well, don't think too hard--after all, you still not all there." How did I know that if I left it to this woman, she'd be blunt? I send the best glare I can summon over; she just looks at me and chuckles. "Hey, Danny, can I ask you something?" she inquires, she appearing to be in good humor. "Shoot," I say, before I realize my folly. She leans against the wall and laughs heartily, her big arms still wrapped around her mammoth chest. I am steadily growing weary of this woman; she goes from B movie spy to hick down the street way too quickly for me at the moment. She is too much to comprehend right now; I just want to sleep off this high. "Do you know why you're here?" "Enlighten me." "No, I mean, do you know why we risked our asses for you?" Interesting question. It can't be related to my overwhelming attractiveness or suave ability with women--ha--it might actually have something to do with the career I've worked my ass off for. Or any number of side projects. Though I am seriously doubting someone would try to kill me for the creation of a new computer language. Which leads me to option B..... "Does it have anything to do with my job?" I say, wondering just how much Drill Sergeant Debi knows. "Not really," she says, suddenly looking disinterested. "Is it bigger than a bread-box?" I grin. I've always wanted to say that. "The implications; hell yes. But otherwise, no." I blink twice, she pushes herself off the wall and stares directly at me. "Go to sleep. I expect you to be out and about by tomorrow afternoon," she says with that level gaze trained on me. My mouth works awkwardly as I try to think of something to say, but all that comes out is a "Yes mom" that sounds a lot more good natured than I feel. - - - - - - - - - "Good morning sunshine...the earth says...Hello!" The sound of it warbles in and out of my consciousness. God, it's enough to bring on any number of awful dreams. I turn over, away from the horrible rendition of a song I never liked anyway. This only is worse; the singer turns on the lamp with a metallic snap. I groan--I've been doing a lot of that lately--and slowly open my eyes. Whew. No army queen Debi to greet me this lovely morn. Just her slightly neurotic daughter, sitting in that chair again. "Wake up, damnit," she growls. "Hey, whoa.....I'm here. Don't get your aura in a huff," I reply, grumpily. Though I'm an early riser, I hate alarm clocks. Of all types. "What time is it?" I ask, a bit nicer. It would be best not to get on this family's bad side, or so I've decided. The girl puts her lips together and looks as though she won't answer, the quickly says, "Seven thirty." She must see the surprised look suddenly come across my face because she suddenly softens and adds, "Mom just wanted me to make sure you hadn't died during the night. You know, stuff like that." Oh great, at least she doesn't have high expectations. "Actually, I wasn't really surprised about the time--well, I was. I'm usually at work by six," I say, wondering why I'm telling this to the girl leaning over my bed, dressed in some sort of sheer embroidered shirt from a time when she didn't even exist. I'm going to go stark raving mad if she stands up and is wearing bell-bottoms. "What did you do?" Nice touch emphasizing "did"; I felt like screaming. It wasn't bad enough having Debi play Miss Insensitive; she had to get her daughter in on the act. Ordinarily, I can handle kids; hell, I single-handedly raised two younger sisters while my mother went from job to job, but this one I just have a wanton urge to strangle. "Well, I was a FBI lab tech, " I say as civilly as possible. She wrinkles her nose. "What do you expect, a professional assassin skilled in the art of Tae Kwon Do?" I ask mildly. "We've had one of those." She giggles. "He was cute," she says with a impish little grin. I'm beginning to wonder just how long the effects of morphine last. "Really?" I say, rubbing my eyes. Now that I've passed into inane-land, why not just enjoy the ride? "Yeah. Curly blond hair...nice ass. But I like you better," she says with another round of giggles, this time covered behind her ring be-speckled hand. I can't help it; I feel that hot flush bloom across my cheeks. "You're blushing!!" she says, turning bright red herself, her fingers collapsing around her mouth as full throated laughs escape. "So are you," I grumble, not wishing to strangle her, just blow her brains out. I get--I GOT--enough of this at work; I really could stand to deal without it here. I turn over and hear the scraping sound of her moving the chair. Suddenly, she's looming over me. "Mom wants you up by noon," she says through a smile. Something suddenly strikes me. "What am I supposed to do until then?" I ask. I'm one of those odd people who will go nuts without some sort of a task to do. Like last winter, I caught the flu and nearly went insane, sitting in my apartment for two days straight with no laptop, microscope, or busy work and only a pregnant cat for company. On the third day, I packed up my Kleenexes and headed for work, successfully taking out the rest of the technicians in the space of a week. "Do?" she asks, as though the whole idea of work escapes her. "Yeah, like something to....do," is all I can come up with. "I don't think mom wants you doing anything," she says with that same odd look, starting for the door. "Then I want to get up now." Wow. Didn't know that was coming. But it's true; I have this overwhelming urge to be doing something. "Now?" "Now." She comes back over to the bed and pulls back the covers with a certain degree of harshness I could do without at the moment. She's staring at the same thing I am. "Summer? Clothes?" God, if you ever told me I'd be sitting in a bed with someone half my age wearing nothing but a pair of boxers a month ago, I would have laughed my ass off. But here I am, against odds a lot more fucked up, feeling like a high schooler caught with his pants down. "Yeah," she agrees, grabbing my left arm and pulling me gently up. Immediately, my whole left side cramps into one tight ball of pissy pain and I fall back, trying to breathe. Oh God oh God oh God. Summer reaches out, taking my left arm and holding it in a ninety-degree angle I inhale sharply; this hurts like a motherfucker. And there's a phrase I don't use often; I save it for special occasions like this. "....cradle your arm like this," I manage to hear through it all. I nod and take in another deep breath, sitting up again. I blink a couple of times, trying to regain the sharpness of my vision. "You think you can do this or are you going to puss out on me?" she asks. I shoot her a look that I'm sure could kill small woodland creatures; she grins just like her mother. This family is the best case for hereditary aspects of personality that I've ever seen. "I can," I say between clenched teeth. She pulls me up again, quickly. She has me out of bed before I can even get a well placed moan of agony in, which isn't that bad when I think about it. Still, it hurts. I hold my elbow in place like my life depends on it; at this minute, it might as well. I think I'm going to pass out if I go through anything like the first degree of pain I experienced. As it is, I am a bit wobbly on my feet as she leads me to the door. Looking at it close up, I still shiver. I'm really not sure why, perhaps it has to do with the soft click that occurs when there is suddenly a key in her hand, inserted into the narrow slot. She withdraws it and steps into the same golden light I saw yesterday. I stay where I am. Though it may be humiliating, cowering at the door in those flannel boxers that provide no warmth whatsoever is somehow better than following her into the light. She veers left and walks down the hallway. Then the sound of her footfalls ceases; there is a brief moment of silence and then she is coming back. She stands opposite the doorway and looks at me, arching her eyebrow dangerously high. I step into the light and look down. Her bell-bottoms pool around that same pair of Doc Martens; somehow they serve to make it all a little bit more odd. - - - - - - - - - - She grudgingly takes my good elbow and leads me slowly through the hall. I feel like I somehow wandered into the Twilight Zone and came out on the set of "Seven". I almost expect Morgan Freeman to come bounding through, chasing a deranged killer through the all this yellow light. It falls over the girl's blonde hair, giving it an unnatural cast, along with her pale skin and jeans. I can only guess how I look, but I'm betting it falls in the pretty-damn-bad category. We come to the end of the hall, to a set of slatted double doors. I shy back, not really knowing what to expect. Summer tugs me forward, throwing them open. Letting go of my arm, she disappears into the darkness contained within and flicking on a light, emerges to roughly grab my elbow. It's just a closet, a monstrous thing only a woman could love. God, this thing should have it's own zip-code. It's divided into three levels, each impressive in itself. The bottom is rows upon endless rows of shoes, followed by clothes hard-packed on hangers, and above, bright boxes of miscellaneous stuff. I run my hand lightly over what must be thirty polyester coats in my vicinity, making sure I'm still here and not on planet Woman. "'Ze clothes!" Summer proclaims, opening her arms like a third-rate magician waiting desperately for applause. I almost feel like I should answer her need; anyone who assembles this massive of a clothes collection is either truly dedicated or insane. "Dear God, where did you get so much...stuff?" I can't help but ask. At the same second I am suddenly painfully aware of how I must look: half-naked, shivering, and clutching my own elbow. As hateful as those polyester coats appear, they're looking a lot better every minute now. "Mom gets it for our guests," she says sardonically. That old strangling urge is back with a vengeance. "And are you such a nice girl to all of us special people?" I say, mimicking her tone. Hey, if I'm going to go for a verbal battle with an adolescent, I might as well lower myself to her level. "Only you. I told you, I like you," she says with a little smile. The scary thing is, she almost looks sincere. I am tempted to make a PMS comment, but think better of it. Women seem awfully protective of that special visitor. "Summer?" I ask after a minute of chattering teeth. "Yeah?" She sounds stoned. I wouldn't put it past her at the minute. "Can I get some clothes?" I inquire as nicely as possible. She looks back at me and moves a straight strand of hair from her face. And grins. "Only if I get to dress you." "No," I say, shaking my head, rocking back and forth with cold fatigue, looking at her attire once more. "Uh uh. No way." "Suit yourself--wander around the house in your beloved flannel boxers. That's about the only part of you that will stay warm, though. Mom likes to keep it sub-arctic in here," she says, pushing past me. "Summer, I can dress myself. I'm a big boy." I move toward the clothes, thinking of the part of the sentence I left out. I'm a big boy but I have no idea where to start. "Yeah, but didn't you say you're a lab boy?" she says from in the direction of the doors. "Yeah....?" I say, hearing an offended tone creep into my voice. "Then you have no idea what style is, mon frere." The grin has returned to her face, this time appearing to be genuine. Was I this moody as I teenager? I couldn't have been. "Move it, buster," she says, striding back into the closet and putting her fingers lightly on my chest, shoving me from the into the corner of the closet. I watch as she goes over to the dreaded polyester and fishes around, pulling out a brown leather jacket from between two incredibly ugly tweed ones. I glance down and sigh in relief. Looking up, I see her. Scully's leaning over me, the locks of auburn hair lightly fingering my chest. It's amazing; despite the pain surging from my shoulder I still can feel the delicate whisper of those strands. I want to touch them--haven't I always--but at this time when a little voice inside my head is finally caving in to do so, I can't. My hand feels like lead. No, take that back. Lead is movable. Lead is a physical thing that can be overcome. My hand is held by nothing more than sheer instinct--that alone is enough. And I hate myself for obeying it. I hate myself even as I blink and see Summer towering over me. "Pendrell? I'm warning you, you're scaring me." she says. I blink again; oh God, are my eyes rolling back in my head? "Pendrell! Snap the fuck out of it!" she nearly screams. The terror of it sends me reeling back into myself. I look down and realize that I'm sitting between the loafers and high heels, with my head stuck up a miniskirt. And I'm dizzy. And Summer called me Pendrell. I look up at her again--she's pissed. Her think blonde eyebrows are knitted together in anger as she stares down at me. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she asks, actually managing to fit a bit of concern in between her angry words. "You called me Pendrell," I say, watching her shape spilt and then join again. "That's no reason to go catatonic!" "I guess not," I say, not really feeling it. It just doesn't fit--this girl calling me a nickname I hear from two people, one of whom I just experienced a vicious flash-back dealing with. "Take these," she says, tossing a heap of clothes into my lap and walking off, though not far enough for me to hear her utter, "Ya fucking weirdo." - - - - - - - - - - - Title: "Summer in the Snow" (Chapter I: The Motions of Living) Author: Brinson (Sairobi@AOL.COM--feedback? Yes, please!) (See beginning for other miscellaneous junk.) - - - - - - - - - - - I sit there on the ground for what must be a full minute, waiting for the endlessly dividing and rejoining forms to come back into focus. It's almost as bad as being on the morphine; even my old confusion is back. I have to get up or they're going to find me dead of hypothermia on the floor of this God forsaken closet. Weakly, I grab ahold of that damn miniskirt and pull myself up, watching as the clothes are released from my lap and go tumbling down. Taking the pair of jeans, I put a leg in and hop around for a minute, trying to get my balance back. Lord is this hard with only one arm. But somehow I manage to hitch them up to my waist, where upon buttoning, they fall to my hips. Revenge of the teenage witch, I think, scowling. Then comes the shirt. After six years in college, and eight in the bureau, I'm doubting that fact that I can manage to put on a plain white tee. I can see it now, one of the twenty signs my life has gone to hell in a hand-basket. If I should ever get out of this mess, I should type it up and send it to all of my Internet buddies. Internet buddies that think I'm dead, I correct myself. For one selfish minute, I stop maneuvering the shirt up my arm and wonder what they're doing without me. Paul, one of my few "office friends'', is probably raiding my computer for that coveted copy of Doom. My mother is probably sitting up in her old-style cracker house in Florida, asking herself why she was she was never there for me. Take that back; I wish she's doing that, but more than likely, she's at work. Like usual. My kittens are probably hungry. That is, if they're still alive. And for Scully herself; well, she's probably off gallivanting with Mulder. Lucky bastard. But why do I care? Do I still harbor that petty jealousy for the man that I used to? I don't know if it's dimmed or become brighter in the light of what's happened. Yes, I still do have an overwhelming attraction to the enigma known as Agent Scully, but that little voice in my head is screaming that ole' Dr. Napkins could have saved me from this. But isn't that the same voice I regularly chides me about everything else? I tell it to go back to staring at its beloved bumper sticker. I can't take all of its cynicism. Maybe I don't want to hear the truth; God, I don't know. This is already hard enough, dealing with the fact that I'm alive and awake, and even a bit dizzy, but completely real and completely unhinged, when all's I've been told is that I'm dead. Dead. I toss around the word a bit, appreciating the new meaning it's taken on, even though I've never been one for irony. "Danny?" "Huh?" I wonder how long Debi has been standing at the door, staring at me. Her arms are crossed across her chest as usual, but today she's wearing khakis and a light blue tee-shirt and looking more army-ish than ever. "Breakfast's in ten minutes. I want you dressed and half coherent," she says a trace of a smile. Like I said, I think this woman aims low. "Can do...I think. Any idea how I'm supposed to get my arm into this shirt?" I say, pointing to my bent elbow. "Very painfully?" I groan. She laughs that hearty laugh of hers; for some reason I'm beginning to think she's a closet sadomasochist. "Really." "There really isn't any way around it. Just do it as gently as possible," she says a bit more seriously. I think I glare at her because she next says, "You don't need any help, do you?" I'm tempted to ask her to knock me out and let me wake up all dressed and ready to go, but I think better of it. Perhaps foolishly. "No, I think I can handle it." She nods and turns away, leaving me gingerly moving the shirt up my left arm. "Hey Danny?" I look up. I thought she was gone. For being such a big woman, she is awfully quiet. "Yeah." I slip the sleeve up to my elbow and wince. "Did you let Summer dress you?" I sigh. Up to my shoulder. And not a single girly scream. I feel like patting myself on the back. "It's not like I had any choice," I say, distracted with my small victory. Now if only I get that damn coat on. My arms are still freezing. "What else did you two do?" she asks. My ears perk; is that the hard motherly tone I detect in her voice? "Do?" She's got my attention now, but God only knows what she's talking about. "Yeah, do. Summer came out of here quite angry," she says in that same tight voice. "Oh, I just was being a jerk," I lie. I really don't feel like discussing my Scully-flashback-on-acid incident. I look at her, trying to gauge if she takes it. At this moment I'm really regretting sleeping through Psychology 101. "Oh. Well, I expect more of you. And get dressed. Breakfast soon," she reiterates just in case I've forgotten. This time I watch her leave, making sure that no one will surprise me as I mount the challenge of trying to get this coat on. If they do, I may resort to lashing out and striking at random. - - - - - - - - - - Okay, I've got it on. I can breathe now. I can breathe, I remind my lungs gently. Though they may not like it, they're going to do it. I didn't go through the fun of putting of the leather jacket from Hades only to have them wimp out on me now. This is scaring me. Breathe, damn you. Ah, that little voice that I hate has finally contributed something worthwhile to my life. I exhale slowly and take in a deep breath, savoring that feeling of fullness. Talk about your taking for granted. I take a step forward and decide that I can do this--I was beginning to have serious doubts about that the minute the pain startled me by coming back full force. Another few steps; I'm out of the closet and in the hall. Actually, I don't know if I'd call it a hall. More like a narrow space between two walls. The light seems a bit more subdued than from my previous encounters with it--maybe I'm getting used to it. Or maybe it has permanently damaged my retinas; either way doesn't sound tremendously appealing. As I walk along, I notice rooms dotting the cracking plaster wall. None of the doors are open, which only heightens my curiosity. I come to one about halfway between the closet and what appears to be the end of the hall where the door is ajar; I summon the nerve to poke my head in only to realize that it's my own. Jesus, it looks like something out of an asylum. Now that I've got a Debi's-eye-view perspective I can see that the only furniture in the room is a white iron bed--flaking paint and rust shamelessly--and a night-stand, both bathed in the greenish glow of the banker's lamp. There are no windows; I'm beginning to wonder if there are any in the house. Which bothers me. I mean, sure, I'm not an outdoorsy sort of guy, but I like a feeling of connection to the outside world. Though I willfully confined myself to a desk, there was always some sort of escape, be it going to Kotobuki with Paul after work or just hoping onto the Internet. I haven't felt any sort of connection with anything in this house since I found myself here; the inhabitants of it seem like the characters of the Lewis Carrol books I read as a child, doused with a liberal amount of acid. I can't stand here much longer; it's too depressing. Silently, I pull my door closed and venture further down the hall. I hit the end of it and having no other choice, turn left. What surprises me is where this leads to. The wall to my right melts into a kitchen divider; beyond it Debi is bent over a counter. To my left is an informal living room, where a trio of couches are loosely arranged around a big screen TV. I stand awkwardly between the two rooms, still holding my arm in that lovely makeshift cast. I don't think Debi notices me so I clear my throat quietly. Instead, a brunette head surfaces above the clean line of the muted green couch in the center. It swivels slowly and suddenly there is a man standing there, one that immediately calls to mind Paul Bunyan, down to his red flannel shirt. He extends a mammoth hand; I look at him once more and swallow dryly. "Hi, my name's Carson Maynard. I'll be your security guard for this evening," he says--no, booms--and then chuckles. I release my good hand and shake his heartily--Lord, these people do everything "heartily". "I'm Danny Pendrell. I'm slightly confused," I say, bringing out that smile I use when I have no idea what someone's talking about. "Well, Danny, sit down while that old bitch Debi cooks us some breakfast," he says, looking over at Debi, who smiles pertly back. O-kay... He winks at her then crashes back into couch, motioning for me to do the same. I don't think my shoulder would appreciate any crashing at the moment, so I lower myself into bright blue the couch to his left. He's watching ESPN, something about college football prospects for next year. I never really followed sports, only the saga of the Florida Gators, and that was only a half-assed effort for my siblings who ended up attending college there. And I'm definitely not a morning sports person. I'd rather be watching cartoons, a shameful holdover from the summer days of baby-sitting my little sisters. Scooby Doo and Space Ghost, how I miss thee. But I'm not about to tell Sr. Bunyan that. No, Carson can watch whatever his huge heart desires--I don't feel like challenging a man that must be a foot taller than me and seventy-five pounds heavier. My whole left side's quite angry enough with me, thankyouverymuch. "Get your asses in here, boys. Breakfast!" Debi announces. Ah, the magical words. Carson's up and to the table in two seconds flat. Now I have a bit more difficulty. I let go of my left side and try to push myself up; instantly I'm up and looking at Carson, who has hauled me to my feet. "Thanks," I manage, staring at him. He's too young for Paul Bunyan status--he might as well be Junior Bunyan. His dark eyes sparkle as he drags me, staggering, to the table. A solid piece of plate glass rests on modern black iron supports, littered with pancakes, fruit and bottles of syrup. I don't know if I want to pig-out or throw-up. After all, I haven't eaten real food in a week; it's been months since I've eaten anything but chocolate doughnuts for breakfast, a vice I picked up from my youngest sister, still in college. "Well, are you gonna stare at 'em or eat, you silly bastard?" Paul Bunyan Junior asks. I look at him again, and then grab a chair. To hell with my stomach; I never liked it anyway. Always deciding to throw back my happily finished meals at the most inappropriate times, making the fact that it could hold anything remotely spicy down look like a God-send. When I think about it, it was a miracle I even made it into my former profession. Summer suddenly appears, dropping herself sullenly in the only empty seat--the one to my right. Grabbing a pancake from the top of the stack, she plops it onto her plate and covers it in syrup. Following her example, I take my own--holy shmuckers, they're hot--and throw it onto my plate. Butter and syrup? Nothankyousir--I think I might actually want to keep this one down. "So Danny, what line of work were you in?" Carson asks. For some reason,. that seems to be the six-million-dollar question with these folks. "Well, I was doing forensic work at the FBI," I say, between bites. "No, I mean, what got you here?" he says, reaching for a third pancake. I think for a minute; then look up. Everyone's staring at me. "I'm not quite sure," I say falteringly. That seems to have gotten Debi's approval; she goes back to dividing her stack into eighths with the edge of the fork. Only Carson and Summer are still eyeing me. "I'm sure you have a guess," he persists, though remarkably gentle. I shrug nervously and go back to my own food. If I didn't feel like sharing this with Drill Sergeant Debi, I sure as hell don't feel like opening up to the giant sitting across from me. "So why aren't you in school?" I ask Summer, hoping to divert the attention from myself. "I'm home-schooled," she says gruffly, taking her second pancake. "Hey, maybe Danny could help you with your science?" Debi says, raising her eyebrows. "Yeah, maybe not," she says, looking at me. What does she expect me to do, fall on the ground and tell her I'm hurt by her insensitivity? I'm not in the groveling mood today. "Your decision," I say simply. Everyone seems to find the floral rim of the china captivating for a few seconds of silence following. "Where are we?" I ask, finishing my pancake. A metallic clatter to my right; Summer has dropped her fork. "A couple of miles outside of DC," Carson replies, quietly staring at Debi for approval. She nods and I sigh, trying to stop my stomach from lurching again. Why was I so stupid as to ask that when I knew I might get an answer? "So close, yet so far away, eh Danny?" Debi says in an uncharacteristically soft voice. I search for words but come short of nothing. What does one say in this situation? If only Miss Manners wrote books for the underground. "Yeah," I say, chewing on my lip, watching ESPN over Debi's shoulder. Anything to detach myself a little further from reality. - - - - - - - - - - We are sitting on the couch again before I manage to say anything. I just spent the last twenty minutes at the table, suffering through the polite conversation around me. I just sat there, staring at my legs, thinking of what Debi said over and over again. So close, yet so far away, eh Danny? Take off the "eh, Danny?" and you've got one of those over-used maxims you hear only at office parties and cheap novels. It's one of those things that, after the first ten times I heard it, I filed it away in the mental cabinet with "It was a dark and stormy night" and "Ignorance is bliss". It was something I never would have imagined would affect me; but suddenly Debi threw on my name and had my rapt attention. Funny how I'm like that. But as I sat there, alternating between the slightly more pleasant observation that my legs have really gotten thin and what Debi said, I realized something. It was abso-fucking-lutely true. It's even hard to think it now, but here I am, doing it and still reasonably intact. Oh sure, I'm not sure if I'm even thinking lucidly at the moment, but other than that I'm fine. It's like coming across like something you always suspected was always there but were never able to prove. Of course, I'm not sure if I even suspected it was there. I've never been one of those get-in-touch-with-my-sensitive-side kind of guys, no matter what everyone else said. That's why they were the Psych grads and I was the Forensic Science major. But where did that get me? Spinning in circles?, guesses that little voice in my head. Well, that too. I think I've been trying to answer that question for two days now. But back to what Debi said: to use another cliché, it's the story of my life. I've always been reaching out for something that's a little too far away. Maybe it started with my mother; Lord, I don't know, I'm not a Freudian. All's I can think of recent experiences all centered around Agent Scully, the queen of all things so close yet so far away. God, what was I thinking? She's the queen of all things unreachable. If only I had realized that sooner, I wouldn't be-- Spinning in circles. "Hey Danny, you alive?" Perhaps unfortunately, yes. "Yeah, why?" I say, sounding exhausted. "I just asked you something four times and you never responded," Carson says. He's looking at me. By George, could that be concern in his eyes? "What?" "What you're doing here." I'm seriously wanting him to drop that subject. "I'm not sure myself." Well, that's not a lie. A half truth, maybe, but not an outright lie. "What are you doing here, Carson?" I ask before he can badger me any further. He laughs but never takes his eyes off me. "Why I'm here to protect you! After the government goes to all the work of resurrecting you, they wanna make sure no bad shit befalls you," he says, still smiling. I can't help but grin; I've always wanted a body guard. "Plus, they want me to make sure you don't go nuts and kill the good doctor," he whispers, leaning closer into me. So the government does have mind-readers on staff. I nearly laugh. "Good doctor?" I ask instead. "Yeah, Debi. She's been tending to you quite well from what I hear. Same goes for Summer." "Summer? As in the teenage hippie?" I say blandly, losing interest real fast. Now I just want to crawl into bed and be done with this. No more deep thoughts for this pancake stuffed lab tech today. "Summer's actually a pretty cool girl once you get past the mood swings." "Sure......hey Carson, why do they save people like me?" I ask, feeling at as much as ease as it's going to get with Paul Bunyan. "Debi hasn't told you?" He tries to conceal his unbelieving tone but doesn't do it quite right. Though right now, he could tell me I was destined for a lobotomy at the hands of Uncle Sam himself and I don't think I'd flinch. "No." "Depends. You're a scientist, right?" I nod, yawning. "Then what were you working on that got you shot in the first place?" "The cure for cancer." Another yawn. I don't think I had much success disguising the cynicism in that one because Carson gives me a long sideways glance. Odd how I've always heard the truth is a bit more acceptable than the lies. "Fine, be a smart ass. But they're probably preserving you because of what you were researching," he says, turning his attention back to the TV. I, on the other hand, fall back and down, past the reality of the blue couch and into the darkness of sleep. - - - - - - - - - - I have decided there are exactly seven comfortable positions for someone with a gunshot wound to the shoulder/chest laying on a couch that is a foot too small for them, and approximately forty-three that will leave you gasping for breath. Mind you, this is an estimate. There are probably thousands of undiscovered positions sure to knock the wind out of even the most drugged victim. Or so I've concluded after thirty minutes of constant rolling, turning, and general chest heaving. I woke about an hour ago, surprised to find Carson perched on the edge of my couch and even more startled to find that I had slept for nine hours solid. Here I was, thinking that lunch was about to be served when dinner's coming up. "Are you comfortable yet?" asks Carson for the hundredth time. "You can always get off my couch," I grumble. "But if I do, I might get my land-legs back," he says with a smile, watching the TV. I look to it for the first time. Damn, ESPN. But lo and behold, Carson has taken most of his attention and turned it to a notepad on his lap, scribbling furiously. I lean over and pluck it from his hands. "Hey!" It's a one of those cartoon notepads; I nearly crack up at the sight of Odie frolicking up the margin. It's the first half-normal thing I've seen in two days. "What's this?" I ask. He looks away, shyly. I glance at the pad again; it's just illegible guy scribble. I think, at the minute, I lack the amount of testosterone to decode it. "Well, I have a girlfriend. Her name's Sami," he says, blushing. Isn't this a Kodak moment? "And does Sami like Odie?" I ask, raising my brows. "No, no. Sami has a little boy. The cutest little thing; his name's RJ. He loves football, so I write down the stats for him, since he doesn't know how to yet." I think he has just achieved a Pendrell-quality blush. "But I'm working on that, too," he says with a broad smile. Now this is genuine. Paul Bunyan Junior and Paul Bunyan Junior Junior? I think I'm jealous. Normal life is sounding better and better every passing minute. "Now give me that back." He rips it from my hands and gives me a manly scowl. "Don't you watch anything besides sports?" I know, best not to challenge the big government secret-agent-man who probably packs an even bigger gun any more, but I feel ballsy at the moment. Plus, I sound so whiny, which may soften the repercussions. "What do you suggest? Lifetime for Women? Perhaps that perennial favorite, the Discovery Channel?" He's smiling. I try to let that breath that I've been holding out as quietly as possible. No beat-downs for Pendy boy today. But now that he mentions it, Discovery wouldn't be half bad, though I'd rather watch Headline News or something else. I feel completely brain-dead; it could be from the fact that I haven't thought coherently in a week. "I'll watch anything but this," I mumble. "Here, then, o' whining one, take the remote...," he says, trailing off as he looks back at me. "What?" I say rather loudly, then follow his gaze. Behind me are the subdued shadows of drapery that I never even noticed before, back-lit presumably from outside. And one of the shadows is moving. Carson stands and holds his hand up, clapping his fingers together three times in a motion for me to continue talking. I nod, looking sideways at the drapery. "Hey Carson, I know I'm a geek, but how's the Discovery channel sound?" I manage to get out. This is the single reason why I never became a field agent. I usually thrive under pressure, but this kind scares me into driveling science-boy mode. He inches forward silently; for his bulk he moves like a panther. I can't say that I'm not impressed. He motions for me to continue on. "Or not. What about the Food Channel? God this cheese soufflé looks tasty," I say, even flipping the channel for effect. Carson looks back, temporarily distracted. Okay, that's a good sign...right? "Hmmm.....how does E! sound? I, uh, think Julie Brown's a babe." Well, that's not a lie, so it sounds a bit stronger coming out. Carson comes to the table; circling it, he stops for a moment and leans down, pulling a small pistol from an ankle holster. I was beginning to wonder when he'd bring out the arms. Slowly, he cocks it, so that there is only a small click. But it's a chilling sound nevertheless. On with the inane chatter. Though I could never pass as a field agent, I might have been able to handle hostage negotiations. I'm pretty good with brainless talk. Even when scared shitless. "MTV? Please? I..," I cringe as a say the only band that comes to mind, "like the Spice Girls." I am praying feverishly that these won't be my last words. Carson comes to the wall nearest to the table; he flattens himself upon it, reaching out for a brass door knob, that like the drapery, I am noticing for the first time. He cracks it open. Dusky light filters in through the small space. I hear footsteps; my head snaps painfully around to see Summer, standing between the kitchen and living room, blanched paper-white. But she's not looking at Carson. She's looking at me. There's an instant pain in my shoulder, worse than anything I've experienced to so far. I know the color drains from my own face as I delicately touch my chest, wincing as my hand comes back with blood. Summer shakes her head and turns to Carson, as if seeing him for the first time. He flings the door open, standing for a second like a tensed cat. Then he's gone. The shadow stays where it is; I feel like a flashbulb has gone off in my head with the insistent pain, and when it fades, the silhouette has vanished. A single shot splits the air, both Summer and I flinch. Carson's yelling something, muffled by the door. Neither of us move for a minute, both too stunned to make for the door. But when we recover from shocked states, Summer gets to the door first, poking her head intrepidly out before I pull her back in. Is she stupid or does she just have a particular wish to die today? I'd like to put two hundred on death wish. As for me, I look down at my torso and watch, mesmerized, as a river of crimson makes its way down my shirt. Summer takes this opportunity to step outside; I could really give less than a fuck what happens to the Pissy Princess right now. If she wants to get killed, hey, I'm all for it. It would save the assassin a lot of trouble if Carson didn't do his job right. There you go being all insensitive again, that little voice in my head says. I tell it to shut the fuck up. What has it done lately besides be a pain in the ass? I could use a little less pain overall right now, anyway, I think, staggering back to the couch. I think I'm going to pass out. No, Fate won't be that kind, I decide. Give Fate's recent record, I can probably expect to be alive and attentive as Debi intubates me with a flexy plastic straw. That is, if whoever was lurking outside hasn't killed Carson and is coming to massacre us all. Knowing Fate as I do, it's probably the latter. I collapse on the couch, waiting for a quick gunshot or even a knife to flash down. Perhaps it will hit my shoulder. I wouldn't put it beyond ole' Fate. Me? Bitter? No way. Just a little angry that I'm dying on some bright blue couch and not in Scully's arms like I should have, that's all. I was almost there. In fact, if that damn sense of self-preservation hadn't kicked in--telling me to obey Scully and just breathe--I more than likely would have gotten my wish. "Hey Danny?" Carson's head floats into my vision. "I'm here." On my way out, actually. Though I'm kind of glad the to see the big lumberjack/body guard still alive; I even manage a weak smile. "What happened?" I say, trying to sit up, but Debi's hands comes from out of nowhere, pushing me down. "Debi's here, everything's all right. You popped a few stitches, that's all," he says soothingly. That's all? This guy makes popping stitches sound like getting booster shots. Or maybe I just have a really low tolerance for pain. "No, I mean to you," I say groggily. "I'm fine; it might have been some punk-ass kid. We're by a high school here. It doesn't matter; I scared the whoever it was off," he says as though he does this everyday. Oh whoops, he probably does. "I'm going to sew you back up; I'll only knock you out if you think you can be up by tomorrow afternoon. We have to go then," Debi's voice says gently. "Do it," I order. "Are you sure?" she says, waving a syringe in my fading vision. "Yeah," I say, closing my eyes, waiting for the prick of the needle, which should be a breeze compared to what's going on over at my shoulder. I just thank God that she didn't throw any plastic straws on my lap. I might have never recovered. - - - - - - - - - - Author: Brinson (Sairobi@AOL.COM--feedback? Yes, please!) (See beginning for other miscellaneous junk.) - - - - - - - - - - Would you like a drink, Birthday girl? Because I know you're going to need it. You see, I'm already more than slightly inebriated. And it still hasn't gone away. No siree. I still have that icy feeling at the pit of my stomach; I'm beginning to think nothing short of a bottle of vodka and a fat joint are going to take care of that. So take a seat, Agent Scully. We've got a lot of catching up to do. Like, did I ever tell you that I was working on that little chip you brought me? Okay, so it was a bit underhanded--and believe you me, I'm sorry about going behind your back about it--but it was necessary. Because in those dark chasms of a few microns, I saw something that scared the living shit out of me. Theoretical cancer. Oh sure, it wasn't just stamped there next to the manufacturer's insignia; "Surgeon General's warning: contains carbon monoxide, may cause cancer". But after you brought it to me, I gave you a load of shit about how further testing would damage it. I'm sorry for it. But, honestly, I didn't want you as frightened as I was. I'm sure you were already beyond that point by the time you brought it to me--if you pulled that chip from where I think you did. So now, yeah, we've both lied to each other. We're even. I'm even willing to call a truce. Besides, both lies were self-protection--am I correct? Scully, I know I've been dancing around the point--I'm actually pretty good at that--so why don't I just speak my mind so you and army boy can go chase UFOs? Maybe you shouldn't be drunk for this. God, I don't know. I'm only a lab tech with delusions of grandeur. Happy birthday Scully. You may have cancer. There, I got it out. I know, I'm not some sort of doctor who knows this sort of shit. You are. But have you been noticing symptoms lately? Please tell me you haven't. Right now, I'm more willing to accept four months of failed research than the fact that you're going down with just about the only thing we're nowhere near curing. Oh fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Credit that to the alcohol tomorrow morning. Please? I know it's a cliché, but I'm in a cold, dark place. No amount of drinks is going to clear that up. And I want you to know... ......that I'm here. Did I actually say that? Talk about your romance novel clichés. Sad that I actually mean it. So go ahead--that's your cue--you can and storm out now; I don't care. Call me the Enola Gay and slap me silly; I've dropped the atom bomb and there's not a God damn thing I can do about it. I'm just a guy who's drunk off his ass, babbling the truth as I know it--however slurred--drowning in my own self-pity and doubt. So, maybe it's a life-preserver I'm asking for when I say, "Hey birthday girl, let me buy you a drink!" Can you spare me one? I know it's dark. I know it's cold. But I don't remember your fingers wrapping around my nose like this. Revenge of the five foot one woman? I don't think so. Because now I'm panicking; now I can't breathe. I don't think it's you anymore. "Pendrell! Wake up, damn it!" So I swear to God, I'm going to kill whoever is practically sitting on my chest, pinching my nostrils closed. I have begun to appreciate breathing too much these past few days. The sound of flesh against flesh echoes through the room like a gunshot; I raise my good arm to my cheek as it tingles numbly. "What?" I ask, trying to sound unaffected, but my voice still shakes with the side effects of the dream I must have just experienced. A dream. Make-believe. Maybe even a bad trip. Wonder upon wonders, it's Summer's voice that breaks through the gloom. "You wouldn't wake up," she says, sounding relieved. "That's nice. I'm stoned. Leave me alone." That's right, keep it civil, Pendrell. But I've got such an urge to fling Little Miss Eternal-Summer-of-Love out on her ass, screaming obscenities. "Mom told me to wake you up; I've been trying to for the past fifteen minutes. We have to go." "Where?" I ask groggily. "To a safer place," she says, turning on the banker's lamp. I blink uncomfortably. "Why? I thought that was just some kid yesterday," I say. "'Cause Carson says so," she grabs my right arm and pulls me to a sitting position. "Don't look at me that way. It's your fault we're in this shit." Oh good, let's assign blame. Let's see--for scaring me out of my mind, that goes to Summer, I think grudgingly. "My fault?" I say incredulously as she gets me to my feet. I look at her for the first time, noticing that she's wearing a deep maroon velvet pea-coat over a white linen shirt embroidered with all manner of hippie things. Excuse me while I barf. Oh wait, you actually have to have something in you stomach to do that. "We haven't had this many problems since we dealt with a CIA agent," she says, picking up the pair of jeans I apparently shed before getting into bed last night. Being so high is worse than a hangover, I decide as I wiggle into the jeans. At least when you have a hangover you bitch and moan, do a little puking, and you're done with it. I'm wondering when--if ever--this fuzziness will end. Summer holds up a white shirt; I am more than relieved to see no blood stains on it. If there was that tiny line of blood, I might have been forced to dry-heave for the next two hours. It must be psychological, but I have a feeling that I just couldn't cope with that appearance of that shirt again. "Coat?" I ask, moving my left arm ever so slightly rub the goose-bumps off my right. "You left it in the living room." "Then let's go; I'm freezing my butt off," I say, heading for the door. I open the door and realize she's not behind me. She's still over by the bed, staring dazedly at the sheets. "Summer?" I ask--no, croak. My voice is so unreliable when I'm suddenly faced with something remotely odd. She looks spooky, standing there with her arms folded over each other as she gazes placidly at the rumpled covers. Her head turns slowly to me and maybe I'm hallucinating, but I see tears glittering in the corners of her eyes. "Summer?" That comes out a whisper. Something about this makes me think her head is going to starts spinning while she spews pea-soup. "What?" she finally says. "What's wrong?" Oh, that's good, I should pat myself on the back. Being all Mr. Sensitive while hypothermia is lurking ever so near. "Nothing....I just saw something," she says, snapping out of it. She walks to the door and goes out, beckoning for me to follow. She doesn't have to ask me twice; my muscles are already cramping up from the cold. I step through the door, smelling bacon. Ah, death by cholesterol, you've never smelled so sweet. I hurry through the corridor; like pancakes, I haven't had bacon in a second shy of forever. I think the last time I dined on the fatty stuff was at my mother's house. And that was ages ago. We haven't even spoken in eight years. And what was that over?, says the little voice in my head. My career, I answer quietly. And where has it gotten you lately? I remind the voice that I told it to shut the fuck up yesterday. It's getting awfully repetitious in its old age. I round the corner, and come to the divider, realizing I've stepped on something sticky. Damn Summer; typical of her to leave gum in the middle of the hallway. I look down at my bare feet. Even drugged, I can tell that's not gum. I hiccup out a terrified breath as I follow the brackish trail left by the fluid and come to a blue shirt. Blue shirt like Debi's. Pale arms like Debi's. Oh God oh God. Blonde hair, matted with blood. Debi's eyes, blessedly closed. I turn slowly around and see Summer, giving me an evil eye. "Move it, slow poke." Oh God. She hasn't seen it yet. - - - - - - - - - - "Summer," I say, sounding raw beyond belief. Behind me, she shifts positions. Have I made her nervous? Well, this should put her nerves in more of a fray than I could ever achieve. "Someone's been in the house, Summer." Same pitiful voice. I sound awful. But how is one supposed to sound as they stare at the body of someone who has been caring for them, even if she was a hard ass? Debi stares back at me through a third bloody eye, centered like a bindi on her forehead. Go ahead, tell my daughter her mommy's got a bullet lodged in her brain, third eye Debi seems to say mockingly. Even if it just is my voice, it sounds so much like her that I want to scream. "What's going on?" Summer is gripping my good shoulder painfully. I really could do without that at the moment--I guess too many shoulder problems lately have left me a bit fazed. Or it could be the drugs; at this moment, I'm a little beyond making distinctions. "I told you," I pause, trying to collect myself with one shuddering breath. "Someone's been here." "What have they done?" She sounds so meek. I answer her with silence. The pressure of her grip increases; I turn back and see that the tears rim her thickly lined eyes. "Mom's dead, isn't she? S-s-s-." Her eyes flutter closed; she turns her head back to the hall. "....Shot between the eyes. Carson is too. Gutted on the chair," she murmurs, staring back into the yellow light. I want to say something, but Christ is this freaking me out. I think I'm a little past the hiccup thing--I stopped breathing a few minutes ago. My lungs begin to burn as she turns those huge blue eyes on me again; suddenly she pushes me so violently that I'm flattened against the wall facing the divider. My eyes close as I gasp for breath; Summer screams. "I saw it!" she shrieks. I open my eyes to ask her exactly what she saw and see movement in the direction of the drapery. It's just a vague black form, but I know what will happen next--I've seen way too many Die Hard movies for my own good. I claw for her wrist, pulling her, stumbling, back to the wall just as a shot goes off, resonating like a cannon in the small room. I flinch and she jumps, her body sliding into a kneeling position, with her head sinking to the ground between her knees. Meanwhile, my mind has switched into the oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-shit hyperventilating mode. I fall to my own knees and grab Summer roughly around the neck, dragging her to her feet with a little gurgling sound on her part. But now that's she's up, what do I do? Oh fuck, I can't think. Go back to your bedroom, that little voice in my head says. My bedroom? Am I insane? She's going to corner me in there and have me dead with two quick shots to the head. Or I could go a la Debi and do it in one. But at least you can think there. It has a point. It's not like I have anywhere else to go. I push Summer into the hallway; I think she knows what I'm thinking because she makes a mad dash through that God awful yellow light for my the open door of my bedroom. I look quickly over my shoulder-- And stop dead in my tracks. I may be wrong, but from all appearances, the creature across the room with its gun trained on me is a she. A she. There's not much time for it to sink in, but it the effect is still stunning. Coal toned hair streaming down to her waist, she pulls back the hammer and grins. Oh Jesus, they've sent Psycho Bitch for me. She actually looks like she's going to enjoy blowing my head off. I swallow with a dry click and run like a coward, half ducking as a shot goes off when I round the corner. I have to get to the room. I can see it now; Summer's sticking her hand out, waving me in. Isn't she the brave one. I near the door; she throws it open as I slow, trying not to over judge and hit the wall instead of the what should be open space. It doesn't sound too tough, but when you're plastered and scared out of your mind, little things become quite difficult. But thankfully, I make it in. She slams the door behind me, and leaning against the wall, she slides to the ground once more, sobbing. I wish I had the presence of mind to, but at this minute I'm a bit more concentrated on surviving. "Are there any guns in here?" I ask, hoping against hope as I pace. My footfalls sound so loud; I stop and stand still, rocking back and forth on my toes. "No," she says between heaving sobs, gunfire distant behind the closed door rising to meet the sound. "Fuck!" I shouldn't have let that slip, but Lord am I feeling high strung. I need a weapon. I look around the room. The lamp? No, the glass will probably shatter and then I'll be left wielding an imitation brass stand. Fine for taking out the ordinary villains, mind you, but methinks it's going to take a bit more to put La Femme Nikita here out of commission. I'm panicking. I need defense. The needles! I run over to the night-stand and grab one, holding it in my fist the way a kindergartner holds one of those fat pencils. I look back at Summer. Still weeping. "Summer," I say, willing my voice not to crack. I cannot panic I cannot panic I cannot panic. She moans. "I want you to stay right there, okay?" She doesn't answer. "Okay?" "Okay!" she screams. I feel my nerves go on end with this as I nod, my breath coming irregularly. This is why I was never a field agent in the first place; I could never handle these situations. Yet Fate's having a grand old time anyway, fulfilling my nightmares like the bitch that she is. I make my way over to the door, jumping as a sudden volley of shots occurs, not too far away. Flattening myself against the wall on the right side of the door, I switch the needle to my bad arm. After all, it doesn't take much to plunge and stab, but I might need my good arm to defend myself. And I pray to God that that isn't the morphine speaking. It's pretty sound logic, I think as my palms go slick with sweat. Though knowing me, the needle will probably fall out of my hand like greased lightning the minute Killer Bitch gets here. I hear footsteps. I can't breathe; fuck, the footsteps are louder. Or is that my heart in my ears? I know in intense situations like this you're supposed to be able to-- Four shots roar through my hearing along with a continuous scream from Summer; I close my eyes and bite my lip, tasting acrid smoke. Next comes the sound of the door flying open, as if it's been kicked. Now or never, you silly bastard. I turn from the wall throw my whole weight against the figure, wincing at how my bad shoulder catches her. Her gun falls to the ground with a clamor of plastic and metal, blasting off another deafening shot. Her resisting body is drawn into my momentum, and we hit the wall--painfully, may I add--as I throw my working palm onto her face, trying to keep the bucking woman beneath me still enough for me to stab away. "Summer, I could really use your help right now!" She answers with a particularly loud sob. Okay, I'm on my own. Just think little train that could thoughts, Pendrell. I think I can I think I can I think I can. What use is thinking I can? This is a little beyond the league of tugging presents up a hill. I need to do. I look down at my hurt wrist; it's positioned by her waist. Just angle it a bit more excruciatingly to the left-- I feel a slight pain my fingers, I look up for the first time. A pair of bright green eyes meet me, slanted exquisitely at the corners. I follow the lines of them and see flawless light skin, and of course, the long dark hair. I would think her beautiful if she wasn't trying to kill me. I come back to her gorgeous eyes; they roll downwards and I follow their path. She's got my pinkie in her mouth, positioned between two rows of bright white teeth, I realize with a start. She can have it if she wants--no, looking into her eyes again, I take that back. I'm too fond of my little finger for Psycho Bitch to get away with it, no matter how pretty she is. Now if only if she'll stop squirming so I can get a decent stab in. As if reading my mind, she does. Too startled to react, I look up at her again. I have a vague idea of what's going to happen as she raises her delicately drawn brows to make sure she has my attention. Oh yes, she's got it. Pinkie still in mouth, she smiles. And bites down, twisting her head savagely. I clench my own teeth and plunge the needle deep within her side; she screams so satisfyingly that I withdraw it and do it again, this time hitting her abdomen. She pitches forward, onto her knees and clutching her stomach; I stumble backwards with a little shriek of agony. I look down at myself, nearly fainting at the damage she's done. The first joint of my pinkie finger: gone. On the floor, she turns her head and spits it out, along with a mouthful of my blood. - - - - - - - - - - And there it lays. A tiny pink nugget of me. I think I'm going to retch. I almost expect it flop like a fish, perhaps do a little dance, make a little love, et al. God, did that thought just cross my mind? Now I know I'm truly doing the dazed and confused thing. I take two steps backward, totter, and am prepared for some serious friendliness with Mr. Floor when two arms suddenly wrap around my waist. I sag, my knees going limp for the first time through this whole experience. "Stand up!" Summer hisses, her breath sounding still weepy. I roll my eyes. I think I deserve a little respite for putting Assassin Gal here on the ground. After all, Summer wasn't exactly flying to my aide like a good side-kick should. I sigh in the silence. Clip-clip; God, is that the sound of my own blood? I nudge what should be my killer with my bare toe and she groans. "I don't want to," I say after a full minute, quite anally. I know I shouldn't be doing this; I can feel Summer's arms shaking with the strain of keeping me up. I put in a little try at getting my legs underneath me and fail, pulling Summer down a bit more, while smearing blood all over her light blue jeans. Did I mention this overwhelming urge of mine to puke? "Then I'm going to drop you, asshole," she says without a glance to her pants "Those aren't very nice words," I say, gagging at the taste of watery vomit in the back of my throat. "Fine, I'm going to leave you here," she says, lowering me to the ground. My knees fold and I'm suddenly terrified; I want to be anywhere but across a hall from an assassin. After all, it is a very narrow hall. Instinct kicks in and I forge another, more concentrated, attempt at standing. "I'll probably be--" I stop mid-sentence and sink down again, unable to stop the burning liquid from pushing up to my mouth in one go-for-broke heave. I bend over Summer's arms and let it go, not really caring to watch as the clear fluid spews forth. Hitting the floor. Splashing onto Psycho Bitch's lap. Mixing with my blood. In a weak response, the downed woman growls and clenches her fist. I go completely limp, closing my eyes through the vague feeling of movement. I think we're against the wall now; I lean back and there is Summer's chest, no longer shaking with exertion--now just solid with support. I slump to my knees when she suddenly takes an arm from my chest and then the other, slowly so that I don't crack my nearly unconscious skull on the floor. Aww, how considerate. "Fuck, Danny, you're losing a lot of blood; what the fuck do I do?" she says frantically, more to herself than me. Clip-clip; my life is deserting me in tiny droplets. "Compress," I mutter, falling slowly forward so that my forehead touches the cool ground. Ah, how sweet 'tis. I might coerce myself to stay awake for the sake of this one calming sensation found amidst all the rest of this shit. But probably not. Clip-clip. "Compress. Yeah, that's it. I guess the shirt goes," she whispers to herself; suddenly there's the sound of ripping fabric. The clip-clip drip of blood ceases as my hand is taken between her large warm fingers and swathed in whatever cheesecloth hippie shirt she was wearing. I dimly wonder if a few fanciful butterflies are going red with my blood. She leaves my side for a second and I hear the renewed moan of Assassin Gal from in front of me. Summer must have kicked her, I marvel, thinking what happened to giving peace a chance. It probably went out the door the minute bullets started flying. I guess necessity can do funny things to us. Yes, class, that's probably the lesson for today. Necessity is a fickle creature; it changes you, it fucks with your perception, yet it expects you to still obey like the prodigal son that you are. And you, being as human as you are, will follow it until it kills you. Pair it with Fate and you've got the true siblings Grim. And if Fate has her way, death will be no cake either. I've lately begun to think she has a personal vendetta against me. I jump nervously, jolted back into reality as hands suddenly clasp my shoulders. Summer pushes me up with a little grunt, throwing my back painfully against the plaster. I close my eyes even tighter; hands are lifting my chin. Shit, even that hurts. "Pendrell, we have to go. Now," she says quietly. I crack an eye open; she's appraising me thoroughly. Her blue eyes are a little less bright, her expression a little less....there. If I was capable of breaking out in frightened shivers right now, I would. "I don't think I can." Honest, yet it comes out like a puss's retort. I hate the weak creature I've become. I don't care about the circumstances under which I've been influenced--I used to have this small thing called dignity. Sad that the loss of it occurred here, sitting on this cold linoleum floor in cheap yellow light, missing a piece of a pinkie and myself. "We really don't have too many options--if you're going to wimp out on me, I'm going to leave you," she says, throwing her gaze back in the direction of Assassin Gal. Needle still sticking from her belly, she stretches a leg and winces. Summer turns back to me and presses something cold into my injured hand. I look down. Lo and behold, it's a gun. I'm about to ask where in the hell did she conjure it up when I realize it was Assassin Gal's and nearly drop it. Talk about your bad Karma. "I want you to stand up," Summer commands. No asking if I feel like I want to stand, no inquires into the fact that would inevitably follow taking the momentous feat of getting to my feet. Which would be running. I ask myself if I'm capable of handling a merry frolic through suburbia or wherever the hell we are all while dripping blood through a poorly wrapped half-finger. I doubt it. But how would staying here benefit me anymore than perhaps a quicker checkout from planet Earth? I decide I'd rather take my gamble and flee like the puss I am. I nod to Summer and place the gun on the floor, throwing my bleeding hand against the wall. Jesus, the pain. Now would be a convenient time for the morphine to kick back in, full force preferably. I lift my palm to push off, launching myself to a pair of unsteady feet. I look to Summer; she stands and gives a glance to the woman behind us. I look too, as carefully slit eyes open to reveal the cunning green irises. Assassin Gal smiles with teeth etched in crimson and inches a quivering hand to her stomach. Pulling out the syringe thick with her own blood, she laughs daintily and begins to stand. - - - - - - - - - - Title: "Summer in the Snow" (Chapter I/2: The Motions of Living/A Bitter Winter) Author: Brinson (Sairobi@AOL.COM--feedback? Yes, please!) (See beginning for other miscellaneous junk.) - - - - - - - - - - Yes, you heard me right. Daintily. A girly laugh. What did I expect? Perhaps a good Wicked-Witch-of-the-West cackle, maybe a full throated roar of devious laughter at the least. Something heinous, anything connected with my whole trite concept of good and evil. But definitely not dainty. Christ, this woman sounds like she's having high tea at a country club instead of pulling a hypodermic needle from her abdomen. Get ready to get the crap kicked out of you Pendrell, and while you're at it, pass the sugar dearie. Pass the sugar my ass, I think, looking down at the gun. Glancing back at Assassin Gal, I notice that her eyes stare blankly through me. I almost go through with my plan of bending over retrieving the weapon but stop, now caught in the web of her mindless glare. Empty....completely gone. The green globes that appeared filled with a purpose--however darker that may be--are glazed, and utterly open. To reveal nothing. Strike up the ominous music; somewhere along the line I've tripped into a Stephen King book. "Don't you ever try that again," Assassin Gal whispers in a low, cultured voice. My lip trembles; Summer tugs my sleeve. Not now Summer, I'm too busy being intimidated by Scary Assassin Gal here. Survival can come later. "Danny, haul ass...remember?" Summer says in that scared high-pitched voice of hers. I respond with a long sigh punctuated by many seconds of breathlessness. My eyes are still on Scary Assassin Gal; she's getting to her feet and it occurs to me that that can't be a good thing. Suddenly Scary Assassin Gal drops to her knees with a loud click. Were those her kneecaps? I think, momentarily too shocked to act. Holy shit is she fast; she's already halfway to the gun--I react with a stiff turn and fall to my own knees, clawing desperately for the weapon. Her slim fingers wrap around the muzzle a second sooner than mine; my mind screams curses. I still hold onto the gun though--she tugs it and probably figures that she won't win, so she digs her nails into the soft flesh of my injured hand. I yelp--fuck, they're like daggers into that sensitive area. She must sharpen them especially for these occasions, I think ruefully. She gives another pull and rips the firearm from my grasp, just as Summer's blood-spattered leg swings into view and catches Assassin Gal in the mouth. A sick crack is audible as she falls, face forward, to the ground. Summer inches her leg back, temporarily stunned. I can't say that I'm not; I may be utterly fearful of the woman but I'm not afraid to admit that she looks pitiful, her back arched as blood pools around her open mouth. I'm sure Summer didn't foresee the ugliness of the situation, but God am I glad that she did it. Or else we all would have been playing double Jeopardy with no time left on the clock. "Let's go," Summer says quietly. I nod again, unable to take my eyes off Assassin Gal as she spits a broken tooth into the ever-widening pool of blood. I think we're nearly equal now, looking at my severed finger. Shit. I can see the blood, making its way up to the top layer of the miniature turban my half-pinkie is wearing. I can already tell that it's not going to make it through the aforementioned merry chase. But I cradle my bad arm anyway, looking at Summer for directions. I don't think I should rely on myself at the moment--the combination of two injuries, fading morphine, and a whole range of shrink fodder would probably make fusion but not a good decision. So, instead, I'm putting my life in the hands of someone who probably cannot drive in most states. Intelligent, Pendrell. "Let's go," Summer repeats, louder. She leans over and hesitates as Assassin Gal spits out another mouthful of gore. I think I share her sentiments; I can only take vengeance so far. About the only thing my mother did do during my childhood was instill this awful thing called a conscience within me--I've been trying to get past it ever since. Hey, these twenty-four hours just might be the lesson in malice I've always needed. Something makes me think that Summer is as ill-equipped as I in this situation in the way that she stares at the bowed body below her before swiftly prying the gun from the white hand of Assassin Gal; the latter responds with a guttural cry. She looks up at me and says nothing as she passes the warm metal into my hand. "Let's go," I say, almost sounding in agreement to the statement she made somewhere in that long stretch of minutes ago. She takes one long look at Assassin Gal and steps carefully past the puddle of blood, reflecting Summer back in vicious maroon relief. Summer begins to head for the front door; I grab her arm and wince as a thread of blood trickles down from the severed joint of my smallest finger. Double shit. "I don't think we should go out that way," I say bluntly. She stares at me, those cerulean eyes blinking uncomprehendingly, then glazing with tears. "There's no other way out," she says, her voice fractured by a quiet catch in her throat. She looks away, turning scarlet as a tear streams down her cheek. I bite my tongue; I taste coppery blood. I feel my own tears residing menacingly at the corners of my eyes. Now is not the time to break down, says that helpful little voice. But I can't take this anymore--not the upset teenager, not the...thing sputtering blood behind me, the gunshot wound, the morphine, the Scully flashbacks, and definitely not the dead woman in the living room. But you have to. Because that's survival, right? And survival's all about irony; because this is where everything comes tumbling down and I pull back the hammer and end it all before someone else does. This is where I make peace with all the ghosts in my closet and cock the gun and join them. This is where the trigger becomes an extension of myself and my skull puts out a welcome mat for the bullet. This is where the motions of living come to an abrupt end; the ad infinitum of a full circle finally goes spinning off its rusty axis. Because this is where the past and present meet; this is where my instinct finally gives in and lets me stop breathing. - - - - - - - - - - Chapter Two: A Bitter Winter - - - - "I foresaw the outcome, and that was my agony; my star was setting, the reigns slipped from my hands, and I could do nothing about it." --Napoleon Bonaparte, 1813 - - - - - - - - - - Click. Click-click-click-click. "Pendrell, stop it, damn it!!" Summer's screaming far, far, away. Click-click-click-click. Summer's big hands are wrapped around my arm. She's tugging me, God damn, why won't she stop and just let me die? Click-click-click-click. "Stop it, Pendrell! There's no bullets, you stupid motherfucker! Stop it!!" she screams. Click. Something warm travels down my cheek; maybe Summer's wrong and I did get a good shot in. I touch it with a shaking finger with and come back with a salty teardrop. Damn. I slowly raise my eyes to Summer. She swallows, then takes my hand--now smeared with a dried coating of blood--and gently pulls it down. Her blonde head bobs; the word "Okay?" forms on her lips. I nod my acceptance, regretfully. The gun falls to my feet; the silence shatters with a metallic clatter, causing both us to jump. Summer cracks a faint smile, picking up the gun and shoving it into her jeans. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asks, quietly. I rake a hand through my hair, feeling the cool sweat slick it back down. What I supposed to say? That everything's fine and dandy, that I'm just peachy fucking keen? That I don't feel that fabled weight of the world, not only pressing down but suffocating me? Does she expect me to prance off on feather light soles?, the little voice echoes. I close my eyes.....and see myself thinking those very words to Debi. I tilt my head up, blink away the tears, and say, "I don't think so. I don't know." "Tell me you're...okay," Summer stammers. I look at her; I can feel my eyebrow raise. She's been through everything I have and lost a mother in the process. Maybe the wrong one of us has the suicidal tendencies. My eyes squint closed again. Assassin Gal moans somewhere in the far distance beyond us. "I think.....I think I can do it. Can you?" I ask, clearing my throat. "I can," she says, lip between her teeth and eyes concentrated far in the distance. I may not have liked her when we first met; I still am not sure about her now; but I know for sure that she's the gutsy one of us both. "Then--then let's go," I say before I can go back on that decision. Her teeth draw a thin line of blood on her pale lips, yet she is the first to venture forward. I follow her tiny steps, pulling my elbow back into the plasterless cast, and wondering why I didn't notice the pain searing through my shoulder earlier. Was probably too caught up in that pesky game of survival, that little voice chides. I'm not schizophrenic, but I'm really beginning not to like that voice. Nor am I liking the abrupt end of this corridor, or the way Summer has stopped with her back turned to the living room. I come up closer and see her shoulders shake inwardly with self-contained sobs. I know I shouldn't do this, but I leave her and step carefully over what I'll just call a body; if I assign it a name like....Debi, I'll find some more efficient way and knock myself off the right way. I circle the divider and walk into the kitchen, feeling the tile become steadily colder as I approach the old creme refrigerator, still spewing cool air into the brightly lit room. I close it quietly, moving on needless tiptoes. The house stands silent without them--except for the occasional sputter of bacon burnt beyond recognition on the stove--maybe that's what scares me the most. I look around the southwestern pastels of the kitchen, all blurring into a shapeless aquamarine blob, unable to pick out what I'm searching for. "Summer?" I call hoarsely. "What?" she says, appearing on the opposite side of the divider. "Where's the phone?" I ask. "On the left of the 'frige," she says, looking down at her hands. "You're bleeding again," Summer says in a low tone. "Uh huh," I say, turning back to the mammoth beige refrigerator. To the left--ah, among piles of light pink papers scattered with doodles is a beat up black telephone. "We have to change the dressing or something," she says. "Don't bother; I've got the phone. Hopefully I can get EMS," I say, brightening a bit as I pick up the receiver. Decent medical care has never sounded so good. Hell, I think I could even put up with a few shots. "No!" Summer cries vehemently. "Why not?" I ask in a wounded tone, seeing only a vague connections as to why. "Because they think you're dead! Don't you get it?" She sounds pleading. I spin around; I attempt to stare her down with contempt but my eyes are met with an imploring glare. "Well guess what? I'm not! Summer, I'm not going to bleed to death," I growl stubbornly. Her eyes go wide but I refuse to look at them any longer. Why? Because I know she's right. Instead, I punch the numbers nine, one, and one furiously, oblivious to her begging behind me. I won't let her ruin this. I deserve my life back. If nothing else, I want my dignity. Whole and untouched, thankyouverymuch. I'm gratified with three digital echoes, a ring-- --and nothing. I stand idiotically, the dead phone to my ear for thirty seconds, and then slowly lower it to the cradle. "The phone's dead," I mumble stoically, not bothering to turn around because I know Summer's going to give the I-told-you-so look. "We have to get out of here," she says in that high voice instead. "To where?" I say blandly. Running in this condition? Why don't I go ahead and add pneumonia to my laundry list of injuries? "Anywhere. Anywhere but here." She's shaking, and I know that it isn't because of grief. "Can you get," I gesture uselessly to the place where the body lays, "past that?" "Yeah," she shakes her head more to herself than to me, "yeah." She inhales deeply and closes her eyes, then surprises me by leaping into the air gazelle style and coming down solidly two inches past a blackened pool of her mother's blood and another two from the edge of the table. I shudder and move over to her. She's standing on her toes, eyes tightly shut and hands over her mouth. "You made it," I say as gently as possible. She swallows and opens her eyes, then takes a step forward. Clip-clip. I look down at my finger and see that the little white turban has gone crimson in the excitement. Shit-shit-shit-shit. "We've got to go Danny," she says from the direction of the door. I scratch my head absentmindedly, trying to decide if I should let her in on how bad my pinkie is bleeding. It would probably be best; after all, I don't want to get half-way to DC and die from pinkie related causes. After being through so much, irony would be the understatement of the year if that occurred. "Hey Summer--" I stop short, looking up. I close my eyes; pray to God that the sight caught in the far left corner of my vision is just some trauma-induced hallucination. I open them tentatively; fuck, God's not in much of a prayer-answering mood today. "Hey Summer?" I ask again, steadying myself. "Yeah?" she asks, impatiently. "Is Carson dead?" I ask with a dry swallow. She lowers her eyes. "Yeah." "How did he die, Summer?" I inhale sharply; this is almost too much. The glistening white pillows of tissue. The blood, oh Jesus, the blood. It's everywhere--on the couches, across the floor and armchair where he is splayed, even black specks on the drapery. Tiny red spatters on the Odie pad. Heave ho, said one frightened lab boy's tummy. "He was disemboweled," she says matter-of-factly, "Why?" "Where?" I say coldly. This can't be--no, I refuse for it to be. This has to be the teenage witch's work; oh God, and I trusted her. I can't believe this; this can't be happening. But what if this was real and happening and Summer just.... .....knew? "On the chair....oh God, the chair." She runs dry. "It was the fucking chair." - - - - - - - - - - "How do you know?" I'm panicking. She responds by looking ashamedly at her feet. "How did you know! Did you....Carson?" I bellow, unable to summon the actual word. I know she didn't; maybe I don't. Trust is just another one of those things I've taken for granted for way too long. A hearty welcome to Mulder's world, eh, Pendrell? I scowl. "No! No! No, you stupid bastard! I knew! I saw it!" she screams, pointing wildly to Carson's body. "How did you know!" I repeat. "I just knew! I don't know how. I just saw it!" she affirms, jaw rigid and eyes set. She's challenging me to believe her; she's challenging me to something I can't possibly do. I'd like to, but my rational mind is screaming the obvious. "You saw her kill Carson?" I charge. "Why the fuck would I do that?" She sounds stunned. You wouldn't believe how some people get their kicks, I almost say bitterly. "I have no idea! But he's dead, and you knew about it," I blurt out. Her mouth works like a fish's; her eyes search wildly. "I knew about it because I saw it! I saw it in my head, don't you get it?" she says, near hysterics. Uh oh. Best not to upset the brains of this operation, my little voice warns me. "No, I don't 'get it', but calm down. I'm not saying that you killed him," I say, lowering my voice for the first time. . "You said everything but that! What, do you think I got some sort of perverse pleasure from seeing my mom beg? Huh? From seeing Carson's belly open... and Claudia....oh shit, the blood. God, RJ's going to see the blood...," she trails off, achieving her trademark dazed look in less than two seconds flat. I almost feel myself caught in the same glazed eye reverie, but break out of it when something occurs to me. "Claudia?" I prod, though not too carefully. "Yes, Claudia. The Japanese bitch who took your finger off, you dumb fuck!" she explodes. I jump, taken aback. She stares at me coolly. "Yeah, you jump. You jump well. Because you don't know shit, that's why you just so fucking well," she mutters, looking evenly through me. Shivers break out along my spine. "What don't I know?" "Let's go," she answers, not really answering. She turns the brass knob on the door, her arched brows asking me if I'm going to join her on a trek through suburbia. I'd like to pass up, but it doesn't seem like I have much choice at the minute. "Wait a minute," I say, sidestepping to Carson's body. I peer at it, feeling voyeuristic to say the least, but I can't help it. Call me morbid, but I want a little look of him to carry me on. Something to keep myself up at night, that little voice says quietly. I have to concede with it, for once. Sacrifice asks for nothing but the memory of the deed, no matter how unpleasant it may be. And I must say, this makes the top of my unpleasant list. Still I smile sadly at him, and stretch my fingers over his cool, gray eyelids. I take one last look at his eyes--a cold, glittering brown--and pull the thin lids over them. Rest in peace, ye merry gentleman. Then I do something that catches even myself off guard: I kiss the tips of my first two fingers and lay them softly on Carson's forehead. I pause there; I haven't done that since my grandmother's funeral when I was twelve. But she used to do that all the time, brushing the long strands of red hair from my sisters' and my foreheads, and replacing them with a two-fingered kiss. And I never minded. I was usually one to shy away from affection of all types; but Gram's fingers were long and thin, and the way they became like supple leather at that brief moment of contact still amazes me. Ordinary magic, Gram called it, though she usually attributed it to her lord. Living in that old cracker house with mom and gram, miracles were abundant and prayers were never ignored, just filtered through God's selective hearing. I think when she died was when I stopped believing in it all--because for years after, my mother tried to duplicate the effect, but I stubbornly would never let her try on me. Ordinary magic must have a sorcerer to cast it, and my bony witch had fled the world with her faith. So I made an idol, called him Science, and was blessed. But where has he led me lately? A house with a psychic kiddy, two bodies, a psycho, and a situation completely out of my proverbial league. Talk about your God working in mysterious ways. I'm even beginning to think He's in on the plan with Fate and Necessity. Where this is going, I have no idea. Only the depressed ramblings of a slightly stoned lab-rat. Maybe I wish somewhere that my grandmother--that Carson--could somehow leap up and tell me that my fingers were soft then. Because the only thing that I felt when I touched Carson was my own blood, thin as it left a Passover streak above his eyebrows. "Danny? We gotta go," Summer says from the door. "Okay, hold on," I say, moving from my place near Carson's head; I close my eyes and step over what remains of his stomach--mine gives one of those predictable lurches as the ghastly mental picture my mind has conjured up takes place of the real image comes into focus--and arrive at his feet. As quickly as I can, I undo the knot of brown laces at his ankle, trying not to think of this as grave-robbing but more of as an unstated item from the big guy's will. After all, he'd want me to have his shoes, right? He wouldn't deny me footwear for this God forsaken DC weather. Right? Conscience, please fail me now, lest I go out like a barefooted fool on your account. - - - - - - - - - Title: "Summer in the Snow" (Chapter 2: A Bitter Winter) Author: Brinson (Sairobi@AOL.COM--feedback? Yes, please!) (See beginning for other miscellaneous junk.) - - - - - - - - - I think I didn't truly comprehend the concept of awkwardness until I set to removing Carson's boots. Awkward for my shoulder, terribly awkward with my damaged hand. And awkward for my mind. I don't think I got the whole gist of dancing around the point either, because my brain is swinging up a storm. Summer, my kittens, Scully, the woman from the ''Sound of Music'''--anything to keep my mind off the present massacre laid out so messily before me. Autopsy photos are one thing, but to be near the actual blood; the skin going so dimly cold. Here there's no way to step from the eerie black and white limbs back into the colored world, because this is life; and I'm sitting here, staring at the dead body of someone who was supposed to protect me, but is laying with his proverbial guts spilled instead. I am infinitely thankful that his eyes are closed. Yet his expression so serene, jelling into a happy Buddha smile before he passed into the cold netherland of death. God, how could Scully do it? How could she look at such peaceful features and then split them open? Maybe people do revert to their innocence in death. In that case, I'm might as well be a virgin on the altar, twice fucked and dressed in white. I'm thinking I'm as dead as they get now. Strange how I don't need the entrails and tacky blood to get there. No, just call me Casper and don't be too surprised if I'm not in the friendliest mood. Oh, but that thought sounds so half-assed. I guess I never was a good cynic. I tug the boot off Carson's foot with a hollow popping sound, pulling it quickly onto mine. I look at the laces dazedly, trying to remember how to tie them. Over the river, past the log--oh what the hell. I just tie them in a triple knot. Good enough. Standing, I shake my feet into the soft canvas and pray to God that I don't trip over myself. "You ready to go yet?" Summer asks, nervously twirling a blonde strand of hair around her pinkie. Lucky bitch. "Yeah, I think so," I say, stepping past Carson and to the blue couch. Buried in the corner is that leather jacket, crumpled dark and probably blood-stained. I pick it up and throw my arms back--oh shit, I'm beyond ordinary pain now--and heave my shoulders forward, swinging the coat on. Ah, dear sweet warmth. "Danny, make haste?" Summer says, gesturing to the door. I nod and swallow. I don't know what is harder--being in this house of death or leaving it. - - - - - - - - - - I move to the door and nudge Summer forward; for her part, she glances back and kisses her own two fingers, parting them in a peace sign. I think it would be disrespectful to Debi if I roll my eyes, so I hold my non-hippie sentiments in. Summer mumbles something under her breath, turns the brass knob and leans on the door, pushing herself outside. I step back quickly as she does, suddenly getting an odd image of a sniper picking her off the minute she crosses the threshold. But when no shot breaks the quiet air, I tentatively poke my head out the door. I blink. At first, the light is unrelenting, sharp white daggers into my ill-accustomed eyes; but as everything sharpens, my thoughts are arrested by the sight. Outdoors. A tangible piece of...something. Reality, perhaps? No, that's probably something I'll never fully regain. But I swear, if I didn't fear frostbite at the moment, I'd kiss the ground. I nearly laugh, gently closing the door behind me as I step into the cold winter sunshine. Frozen bits of weeds and grass crunch beneath my feet as I take it all in: a nearly cloudless blue sky above, stretched like a silk awning over the tips of far telephone poles; the whisper of traffic in the distance; and all around us, the modern oak and glass constructed comforts of suburbia. It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood--won'tcha be my neighbor? I sigh, lips curling into a faint smile--now I know I'm ready to go home. Oh but look at me, if I leave I might lose my sudden ability to wax poetic on morning in the urban development. Not half bad, either. Maybe if I get out of this I'll write Scully a nice sonnet--ha. "Where to, Summer?" I ask, watching amusedly as my breath forms tiny puffs of cold smoke. Simple minds, simple pleasures, I guess. Or stoned pleasures. God only knows the difference now. "This way," she says, turning back in the direction of the house. My heart drops to my knees as she takes a step back to where we came from. "Summer...uh...the houses...and roads...and phones! The phones, Summer! They're that way," I call frantically to her back, stabbing my thumb uselessly back in the direction of the established houses. She just motions for me to follow as she cuts around a beige corner of the house. That little voice says to stand my ground. And perhaps insanely, I do. After a minute, she stops and whips around angrily. "Danny, come on! I don't have the time to argue with you!" she hisses. I stare at her, the crystals of ice reflecting off her rings; her expression contorting into one of shallow concern. "Summer, there's houses here! With phones," I add, regretting the sarcasm immediately. I think I just earned myself one bona-fide trip into Summer tantrum hell. Congrats and enjoy the ride, Pendrell. "Dumb ass. You are such a fucking idiot," she snaps. "What?" I sound so blasé--but then, I'm getting really sick of this third-grade name calling. "That's just what they want," she says in that high voice, throwing an arm out in a loose gesture. "I'm surprised they just haven't leapt out of the bushes and...and just...blown us away yet!" "Summer, that's the most paranoid thing I've ever heard," I say levelly. It's worse than being the most paranoid thing I've ever heard: it's a pure Mulder mentality. "Fine. You go. And you get killed. It's your choice," she says, turning. She straightens her back and begins to walk, her feet lacking coordination for one split second as she stumbles over a patch of slick grass. She shoots a hot glare back to me, as if simultaneously blaming me and daring me to laugh. I say nothing and start grudgingly after her. "Summer," I say lowly. She doesn't answer; just continues along the bare lines of the bushes clinging to the house. "Summer I'm only following you because, frankly, I'm still tripping and prone to mistakes." "You need me." I stop. "I didn't say that." "Well, what are you saying?" she asks, stopping at another corner of the house. Behind her is a ring of evergreens, the thick green framing her light hair, making her appear like some sort of weird earth angel. Crap, look at me, making analogies, trying to avert the obvious answer to her question. Dancing around the point as always. But what do I say? I'll admit utter dependence when the Buccaneers win a Superbowl, which is right up there in probability with hell freezing over. "I'm saying that we might need--no, be helpful to each other," I say slowly. She turns around to privilege me with the sight of her wide blonde eyebrow raised heavenward. "Just say it, Pendrell," her eyebrows fluctuates with the statement. I do the absurd and grin. "No, Summer." "Fine. But you know it's true," she says, still eyeballing me as she turns the corner. I cradle my elbow and trail her as she comes into a clearing facing the bare, broad back of the house. So there are no windows in the place. I take in a shuddering breath and look down at my finger--or lack thereof--for the first time. Bloody just wouldn't be the right word to describe it; oh no, it's up there with grisly. I grimace as I look up to meet Summer's sideways look. "Are you going to be able to do this?" she says, glancing at me critically. "Do what?" I say, looking around. She gestures to the strip of woods. Instantly her eyebrow's shot back up. She must have caught that momentary look of frustration, brought on by the mere thought of a hike through the woods. I narrow my eyes. "Yeah. But I'm bleeding. Bad, Summer," I say, inspecting my finger again. In this sunshine the blood shimmers ever so slightly, a light coating of wet blood over wet bandages. She starts to the edge of the clearing. "Summer?" "Come on," she motions for me to follow. "We can get to the nearest house in less than half an hour. Until then, rip your shirt or something," she calls over her shoulder. Oh great, I'm going to maim the already thin piece of shit shirt I'm wearing because Summer can't stand to shred her hippie shirt any further. Gee, Summer, I love you too. - - - - - - - - - - I catch up to her where the high limbs of the evergreens cross and appear to be in a vicious tug of war for a place in the sun. Odd, how in times of late I draw such violent images from inanimate objects. Bring in Doctor Katz--I can already tell I'm going to need some serious psychiatrist-age after this. But what about Summer? Sneaking a tight glance at her, I can see her drawn features pulled into a quiet mask of apathy. The lace of morning shadows falls over her rounded cheeks, tumbles over her half-lidded eyes; it only enhances the feeling of alienation radiating from her tiny form. Her head bobs with the occasional errant foliage, popping into view in radical shades of green for this time of year, but there is no other movement other than the constant shuffle of her feet. Otherwise, she's completely gone. It's like Claudia--or whatever the hell Assassin Gal goes by--sans the evil tendencies. Does it scare me? I think there's a point when fear stopped being relevant and survival kicked in, and I've been numb ever since. Maybe I'm the empty one here. Maybe I'm the one who has shut down; maybe I'm the one leaning on the crutch of apathy. I mean, how can I possibly judge the relativity of things anymore when everything I ever thought to be true has crumbled in my fingers? Ashes to ashes, Pendrell. But this is dust through my fingers; my former life escaping me not in leap or bounds but like a hourglass set to agonizingly slow proportions. I've lost my dignity, two friends, and my faith in survival. Maybe this is the time to apply for cynic-hood. But then again, this all could be a clever segue into rebirth. Or death. Oh wacky Fate, always throwing me a curve-ball. I guess she isn't too fond of Summer either. Not the way Fate has left her riddled with anger; her jaw set in hard lines against the organic background of endless forest. "Summer?" Uh oh, here I go again, trying to make polite conversation. I should smack myself now before I piss her off. "Yeah?" She turns to look at me, as if asking since when did I initiate the conversation around here. I smile apologetically. "How long 'til we get there?" I ask, not really knowing where that came from but glad it sounds civil. I duck under a branch and she lifts a finger to her lips, tearing off a cuticle. I'm amazed as she drops it nonchalantly, even though a thick streak of blood dribbles from it. "About ten minutes. Are you holding up okay?" she inquires, stepping over a huge upturned root. "Fine," I say, willing myself not to trip over the root. I'm even more of an awkward fool than usual in these huge boots. "Hey Summer." "What?" She says, not looking up. I watch, mesmerized for a moment as her blood hits the loamy ground and is soaked in thirstily. Mother nature may be a gung-ho hippie sort of gal, but underneath it all she's still the same primitive creature, with an unspoken lust for her children's blood. Strange how people just avert their eyes to that side of the world. "What, Danny?" she asks again; I realize we've trekked for a full five minutes in silence. I blush, feeling the red wash creep over my face go unnoticed by Summer. Thank the Lord. "What did you.....see, Summer?" She turns those hot blue eyes on me, scrutinizing what is only innate curiosity, laid bare for her on my red-tinged face. "I see things, Danny," she says exhaustedly, sounding nearly condescending. "What things?" I press, expecting an explosion. But I can't go back. Not now. She sighs and stumbles over a fallen branch. "Why do you care, Pendrell? Is there a reason?" she says, the tone coming over sarcastic because she's hiding something behind it. I shrug it off and say, "I don't know why I care. It's just a thing." "Are you tired?" she asks, blinking slowly like a landed fish. Summer, the mythical carp clad in velvet and cotton. There's a ring to it--I can't say that she doesn't remind me of some crazy magical creature. Completely out of place in this world where the sun suddenly is veiled by a light gauze of clouds, and fittingly, she seems to take no notice, navigating her way around two thin trees. "Yeah." "Me too. Because I-I...I don't sleep. I haven't slept since...God, I can't remember." I look over at her, feeling my eyebrows draw together. "Why?" "I don't know. But I'm tired. I don't go to school because I'm tired." I nod, chewing on the inside of my cheek. I know something is coming; what, I can only take wild guesses to. But my imagination has been expanded recently, and I feel myself dredging up all manner of disgusting possibilities. "And because I see stuff." "Stuff?" I manage between tripping all over myself both figuratively and literally. "Yeah. I see people. And it's weird; I mean, I don't usually see morbid stuff. I just see aspects of people." "Huh," I grunt out. "You don't believe me," she says quietly. "Not a bit." "At least you're honest," she says with a little grin. "Well, what am I supposed to say? 'Hey, sign that girl up for the psychic friends network'? No. I'm just not like that. I don't believe in stuff," I say carefully. I catch a flash of weakly reflected light in the distance, worming its way through the array of tree trunks and allow myself my own little grin. Fabled light at the end of the tunnel, here I come. "You don't believe in anything though, Pendrell," she says without turning. "Why do you say that?" I ask, instantly feeling wounded tears rise absurdly in my throat. Down with ye, vile things. "Because. You're a catch twenty-two; you're a big science guy but you'd like to believe in fate and divine intervention and shit but your logic can't afford it." She catches my eye and gently raises her eyebrows. "Isn't that right?" she asks softly. Oh God, I can't shake off those blue eyes, burning like headlights into my mind. I'm the proverbial deer, caught and unable to do anything but back slowly away. "I...I don't know," I say, breaking from her gaze. "Isn't it?" She sounds saccharinely sweet. I swallow dryly. "I don't know, Summer!" I say, throwing up my good hand. "Tell me!" "Why?" I answer breathlessly. "Because! I want to know! I want to know if this is real....this...I've been having!" The high-pitched-scared-out-of-her-mind voice has made its return. I can't say that I'm glad to see it. "What have you been having?" She looks purposely away from me. "Summer! For God's sake, what's going on?" "I lied to you!" I stop, caught off guard. "Lied?" "I lied about the school thing.. And most of that sleeping rubbish." "Why?" It takes me two minutes alone to form the word, and yet another to push it out. Summer, for her part, is not sobbing hysterically. I find solace in that. "Because. I thought you would tell me easier." "Tell you what?" She licks her lips. "Okay, I do sleep. Normally. But not since you've come...God, I've been seeing the things. Like I told you." I turn a hard gaze on her; she crumples underneath it. I look away, taken aback. If she was lying before, she isn't now. I think. "And I want to know if the things are real." She pauses. "But I know they are." "How?" "Because I saw it." - - - - - - - - - -