From: "e. b.e." Date: Tue, 16 May 2000 16:48:13 GMT Subject: That Night VI: Darkest Days Source: direct Keywords: MSR, POV, A Rating: Umm....PG-13 or R. What does use of the 'f' word get you? Summery: Follow through and aftermath Spoilers: I don't think so. If so, mild and prior to season 7. For the sake of convenience, I am ignoring this season to date, mostly because I hated the way they resolved the Samantha issue. Am I alone on that one? Disclaimer: I would not be driving a '95 Accent if these characters belonged to me. I would not be driving, period. I would have a David Duchovny look-alike as my chauffeur; when not driving me around, he would be kept chained to my bed with padded handcuffs. So, long story short, they ain't mine. Also, the lines herein attributed to Shakespeare are used without permission. I tried to ask, but the only spirit I could conjure was someone named "Uncle Harry" who asked if he could possess my body and "squeeze my knockers". Archive: Will be sent to Gossamer separately. All others, feel free. Let me know, and I'll drop by for a visit. Author's notes: Obviously, this is part of a series. It can be read on its own if you accept these facts: 1) Moose and Squirrel are an item 2) Squirrel got pretty upset at Moose in the last installment when he ditched her, again. All previous works can be found at the Spooky 2000 site: http://members.zoom.com/spookyawards Thanks to Bonnie, my beta reader, who never seems to mind that I send my stories just when she's leaving on a business trip. Not that this is intentional, mind you, but it's nice to know she takes the time to correct my continuously improper usage of 'its' and 'it's'. That Night VI: Darkest Days by e.b.e. (ebe1013@hotmail.com) "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterday's have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." "Hamlet?" "Macbeth." "Well, whatever, Romeo, but it's still closing time. Want me to call you a cab?" I manage somehow to convey a negative response despite my leaden limbs and fumbling words. How I remembered and quoted that passage is beyond me; I can't even get down off my stool without clutching the bar rail for assistance. The bartender's eyes narrow as I read for my wallet, dropping it twice before extracting what I think is the correct amount, laying another bill on the bar as a tip. When I reach for my keys as well, he stop me, shaking his head emphatically. "You can either walk or ride, but you sure as hell aren't driving, not in your condition. Are you sure you don't want a cab, or maybe a friend could come pick you up? What about that girl you got a lift from a couple months back, the redhead..." "No!" I bellow, lurching backwards, my feet catching in the seemingly endless tangle of wooden legs. The blurry face in front of me looks startled and a little pissed as I steady myself, the room spinning wildly. "No," I say, quieter if a bit slurred, pocketing my wallet and keys. "I'll walk. I didn't drive in the first place. Swear." Satisfied, he grunts and wipes down the area I've just vacated, swiftly whisking away the crumpled cocktail napkins, the tinkle of shotglasses tinny and distant as he rinses and stacks my sizable collection. Swaying, vaguely nauseous, I move toward the exit, carefully watching my steps lest I trip and humiliate myself further. The cool night air is a shock to my flushed system, jolting me from my stupor, and I prepare to wend my way home. "Hey, buddy," the man calls, and I turn just enough to watch him flick off a neon beer lamp. "Whoever she is, she's not worth it. You need to move on." I would laugh if I could but my throat is parched, desolate, and a weak rasp is all that emerges. "Doesn't matter. I am the idiot, and it signifies nothing." I think he shrugged but it is lost in the tunnel of my vision. Experimentally I whip my head sharply to one side; everything is a sickening kaleidoscope of color, like life viewed from a fast-moving carnival ride, and the afterimages leave me dazed until my head settles. No more quick movements for me, that much is evident. On autopilot my feet begin to move, plot their course, plodding mechanically toward their destination. It is fortuitous that I chose a local watering hole tonight, and for reasons other that my current inability to drive a vehicle. Because I am in familiar territory I can walk without conscious thought, crossing this street or turning down that alley without the aid of my higher cognitive functions. This leaves my mind free to pursue interests other than navigation. Not that this is necessarily a good thing. I have reached that wonderfully hazy level of consciousness which can be achieved only through vast quantities of chemicals. I can feel the warm, ethereal tendrils of fog as they creep across the landscape of my thoughts, random disjointed insights and memories superimposed over my general state of being. I am inebriated, yes, but not so much so that I have lost the capacity to think entirely. Rather, my mind drifts along eddies and currents freely, there flowing gently, here tumbling swiftly. Granted, I may not remember it all in the morning, but right now I feel liberated, released from the everyday problems that plague and mire. Even the concerns of my body are remote at best, numb, detached; if I didn't know it intellectually, I could not say with certainly that my limbs are my own. Heavens knows I can't really feel them. So I walk haphazardly home, pursuing any random idea that flits through my mind. The nature of God, if such an entity exists. The life cycle of the beetle hitching a ride on my shoe. What Scully is doing right now. Despite the knowledge of its adverse consequences I jerk my head back to clear it. Intestinal discomfort and dizziness are infinitely preferable to dwelling on that thought. Unbidden she has crept to the forefront of my mind, and I push her back savagely. Now let's see, where was I? Insects. I really don't want to go there; can you say Bambi? How about that woman at the bar earlier tonight? Ah yes, better. She was hot, all legs and blonde hair and silicone, like a centerfold come to life. Pretty eyes, too, clear blue like the sea, or the sky. Blue like Scully's when she's happy. Dammit! I smack myself sharply in the temple, the blow temporarily derailing that train. Almost home, I try to empty my head of all thoughts, try to focus on getting inside so I can lay down and sleep and forget. That's why I went out tonight, why I've been going out more and more frequently these past few weeks, welcoming the slow burn in my throat time and time again. I just want to forget, if only for a while. She won't let me forget. My subconscious, unleashed by fatigue and vodka, proves deceptive. All those placid streams of meaningless thought were a ploy, a ruse to trick me into complacency and contemplation. And now the truth is revealed, that all those seemingly random images in fact led downstream to the churning, angry whirlpool of Scully and our breakup. I was determined, if only for tonight, to escape its pull, but I am caught in the undertow, dragged unwillingly beneath the surface. I drown. Inside now, the last minutes of my journey at unintelligible blur. My body sinks into the forgiving slick leather as I tumble forward, roll onto my back. Blessed darkness swallows this place; absence of light, blackness of mind. Like a scene from a movie stuck in a loop it all plays out inside my skull. My own private viewing of the show from hell. I remember every little detail of our last day together. Only a week since our fight, her ultimatum. That edict loomed over our relationship, the elephant in the room that no one looks at or discusses but which cannot be ignored. It tainted everything, cast a shadow over the surface, brought the honeymoon period of our affair to a crashing halt. It was everywhere and nowhere, a silent ominous note that hung in the air long after the chord was struck. It was a Saturday. All day we spent with each other, doing nothing in particular. Just your typical couple getting some quality time in. And yet it's all so vivid now, muted rustle of book pages, the soft faded jeans she wore, the faint sweet curtain of perfume that wafted in her wake. The quiet desperation with which we made love, her sobbing gasps as she clutched at me, urgent and quaking. A prelude of sorts, I suppose, frantic and asynchronous; it was fervent and overwhelming and heart wrenching in a way I had never known. Almost as if she knew what would happen. Almost as if she was saying goodbye. Then the call, another midnight interruption. My cell phone was in the living room, the shrill cadence startling as I shuffled by on my way to scrounge up a snack. She was still asleep when I returned to the bedroom, calculating the distance to the caller's desired rendezvous point, mentally searching for my wallet, my gun. And I saw her as she lay, peaceful in her repose, swimming in satin and moonlight. I'd like to say I gave my decision a lot of thought, that I stood there debating the issue, agonizing over every nuance. At least then I would have the comfort of rationality, a clearly delineated thought process that led me to this place. But in the free wheeling maze of my mind there is only veracity; I am incapable of deluding myself in this state, all those marvelous mental defenses a smoldering heap at my feet. For you see, the truth is that I never hesitated. I looked at her as she lay sprawled in her bed, open and vulnerable, and I walked out without a backwards glance. Oh, I rationalized it to myself. First I'll see if it's anything, then call. I'll check this out, then fill her in. As soon as I finish this interview, I'll give Scully the heads-up. And so on and so forth until three days later I found myself staring into her vacated apartment. I couldn't believe my eyes. I couldn't believe my eyes. Ironic, I know. I glimpse a distant shadow and see an alien; I listen to the ravings of a clearly unbalanced individual and hear clarity. But when I saw that barren place I ignored the obvious and jumped to the fantastic, anything other than what I knew had happened. I was in shock, thinking any second an otherworldly explanation that would bring her back to me would make itself evident. The part of me that expected to wake up, drenched in cold sweat and cradled in her understanding embrace, spluttered and died when I went to the office. I can remember that meeting, too, with painful acuity. Skinner's tightly furious features, his cool clipped voice. The grating brush of paper over wood as her transfer request was presented, scent of acid fear and smoky contempt. I moan, digging the palms of my hands into my eyelids with such force lights burst before my eyes, neurons firing blindly under the pressure. But there behind the flashes I can see it all again in all its Technicolor perfection. And what since then? I know where she is; although she has refused all my attempts to contact her, neither has she hidden from me. She is teaching at Quantico, guiding a new generation of agents through the finer points of forensic medicine. And I know where she lives, a modest two bedroom in a quiet neighborhood; ironically, she is now closer to me than ever in terms of living quarters, our apartments a mere ten minute walk away. But never have we been further apart. I've tried to apologize. Flowers and cards and long rambling phone messages, all for naught. And part of me resents her for this, for wounding me so callously, for refusing her victim any hope of treatment. What is a physician's first creed, first do no harm? A breach most foul, this; she has wielded the scalpel then stolen the salve. Is my crime to heinous as to be unforgivable? But the bitterness does not hold here, although I cling to it desperately. It is whisked away, pulled forever toward the vortex, and the loathing turns inward. Alcohol and truth are a brutal combination, and that elusive truth I seek swells, overpowers, encapsulates. I can't fight it, not in my state, can't defend myself against the onslaught. It grabs me in its claws, rips and tears my flesh and soul. Dimly I am aware of tears streaming down my face, but all is overshadowed by the ugly head reared, the truth I should have accepted immediately, but could not. I didn't believe her. I, Fox William Mulder, the man who has accepted any and all absurdities on nothing more than a wish and a dream, refused to accept the determination and fortitude of the woman I love. She told me what would happen, a solemn vow born of pain and terror. I resisted, though I understood, struggled in vain to make her see my side. Or perhaps she did see, and it wasn't enough. I knew her mind was set, the ground rules established, and the play was mine. The penalty horrified me, left me wild-eyed with fear. But I didn't believe her. Not really. Surely she wouldn't, she couldn't, abandon me for this. After we had traveled so far, overcome so many obstacles, this would be the proverbial straw, the backbone shattering under this? Absurd, unthinkable, my own balking dread proof that it would never be so. Surely if I was this afraid of our separation, the prospect must be equally unpalatable to her. So I treated her resolution as an idle threat and jumped at the first chance to prove to myself that she would never, ever leave me. Even I can see the blinding idiocy of that, now. Why wouldn't she leave me? What has kept her here for this long? It ain't my winning ways, obviously. So tragically comical, the contradictions that can thrive inside a single person. I have a textbook fear of abandonment, and yet my vanity prodded me to do the one thing she had guaranteed would drive her away. Preemptive sabotage, perhaps? Am I so ingrained to expect disaster that I precipitate it myself? All these questions teem and circle, throwing themselves into the mix again and again, battering my pulsing cranium without the release of an answer. I'm a psychologist, and can consequently dream of a thousand different theories and permutations about why I allowed this to happen. None of them matter. Nothing matters anymore. She is gone, and I don't know how to get her back. Shakespeare summed up life with a simplistic poetry that has endured for ages. My life is but a walking shadow, a ghostly imitation of a reality I can no longer conjure. Shadows are cast by light; my illumination has vanished. All my yesterdays have taught me so little, the lessons learned not averting this mistake. They only spill harshly upon the trail, sour reminders that I should have learned, avoided this dusty path, and did not. Like a character in a play I recite my lines, never heeding the previous night's performance, never altering my course, so that the ending is fixed, predictable, lamentable. An eternal tragedy. Signifying nothing. Self-pity, self-flagellation is so tempting when you are drunk. Even this is predictable, rote, my plunge and wallow into comfortable pain. Cycles and cycles, sound and fury. The tale of an idiot. Turn the page, dim the lights, and proceed according to plan. History dictates she is gone for good. I rarely recover what I lose. I never found Samantha, I never regained my parents' affection. I have a string of turbulent relationship with friends and lovers, all shattered beyond repair. I should resign myself to the fact that she is beyond my reach, neuroses or fate too powerful to fight. Well, fuck fate. Fuck fate and history and my multitude of psychological hangups. This is not over. For once in my life I will reclaim something lost, take it back and hold on for dear life. Scully. Maybe then this endless stream of tomorrows that look exactly like my yesterdays will cease. With the resolve to battle comes peace, and my thoughts slow and still. Suddenly I am heavy, gritty, teetering on the brink of slumber, poised to fall. Quiet before the storm. Tomorrow I will fight. For Scully. For Scully. Finis And as we slowly crawl towards the finish line, there is one thing that can spur the weary runner onward...feedback! Seriously, I will be offline after this month and desperately need encouragement to finish this series. So, if you care at all about the fate of Moose and Squirrel, all comments, suggestions, flattery, etc can be directed to: ebe1013@hotmail.com I promise a return to the smut you all crave in the finale.