From: "Marci Phillips" Date: Fri, 9 Feb 2001 09:13:46 -0500 Subject: "A Thousand Moons" by The Red-Headed Snippet Source: direct A Thousand Moons Author-The Red-Headed Snippet Rated - I guess PG-13 for language and "adult situations." Disclaimer - If you don't like this story, that's okay. Oh, yeah. I guess I should mention that Chris whatsisname guy. Summary - "Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end" Spoilers -We discover that Agent Scully has a first name. Category - Angst? Is that a category? Archive- Sure, but please E-mail me. The world is dark tonight, and she is dead. I have failed in a way that is completely alien to me without knowing how. I am so hollow that all the sadness in the world could never fill me up, though lord knows it's trying as we speak. Nothing has ever been as cold as the world seems now to me. Nothing has been so dark. I am aware of him watching me, as I watch pictures in my own head of things beyond horror. Things beyond evil that I had no way to prevent and should somehow have stopped. A corpse at seven, never a woman at twenty. My god, twenty sounded young to me. Ages ago, an island on a sea that I have long since crossed. But to her, twenty must have sounded ancient. Older than old. Two numbers! Not teenaged, but older even. I sigh, the shuddery kind that camouflages sorrow in a long breath. I sip wine numbly. This is her body, this is her blood. I don't deserve the misery I'm shovelling on myself, but there's decadence in self-pity. It's such a twisted kind of indulgence. "Stop it," he says softly. "You didn't know." Without turning, I begin to speak. "What didn't I know? That it was her father? Of course I didn't know. No one knew. I still can't belive it. How could he....." I trail off. Unconsciously, I have drawn my knees up to my chest. I am surprised by them, but rest my head there anyway. My skin is, as ever, slightly cool to the touch. I have not yet discovered if my numb heart makes my skin cold, or if my chilled exterior spreads roots down inside of me. Icy blue irisies, frosty white skin. The only splash of color is this ridiculous red mop, which I try to diminish by keeping it short. Fire and ice. Dana Scully who is never quite real. At some point my hand has begun to tremble. I only know this because wine has splashed my leg. I speak again, my voice muffled from my flesh, but I do not look up. "These things, Mulder. These moments, we take them... we just think they always come. She'll never be twenty. Did you know that there's a full moon tonight? Only twelve a year. A thousand moons in a lifetime, maybe. I've only seen two. Do you know why? Because they're always there, Mulder. Nothing uncommon about a full moon. So I never look. No one looks and we die without seeing them. These stupid milestones that come so quietly no notices. I don't remember my twentieth birthday." I sound like an idiot, but I don't care. There's something important to me in my tumble of words, and it seems so unbearably sad to never turn twenty. I cannot tell you why. I hear him take a breath, like he is about to speak. I pause, waiting. He puts a hand out, which I know from feeling its warmth a fraction of an inch above my shoulder. "Don't touch me," I say and my voice sounds low and dangerous. I feel the slight breeze on my neck as his hand pulls away. "I'm sorry," he says. I feel angry now. Why is he here? He has dragged my good name through the mud, he has caused me this pain I feel now. If not for him, I would be somewhere respectable. Somewhere where the young agents respectfully averted their eyes as I walked by, chin up and proud. Not here in the dark and the cold. Not in this endless nightmare filled with the sad, the crazy, and the lonely. I lift my head and catch my reflection in the mirror. I barely recognize myself. Wild tumble of hair than has no beginning or end, each strand curled and twisted through the next. My eyes look huge to me, dead blue of snowstorm sky. No flush of color in my face, just the pallor that only sorrow and fear and rage can create. When did I get so thin? Sharp little bones jut from my throat and elbows, my eyes and cheekbones sunken and deeply shadowed. Add that to my list. I was beautiful before you, Mulder. I was curvy and healthy and creamy then. Not these empty sockets and papery skin. Not this bruised chest from my ribs scraping from the inside. I'm so thin it hurts to sit for too long. No padding on my once round backside. He is watching me again. He thinks I'm beautiful still, I know. This wreck of the girl who became a woman beside him. Who became the laughingstock of her peers under his careful tutelage. Who still maintains a facade of disbelief in his ideas. You want to know the truth? Damn straight I believe Mulder. What kind of idiot do you take me for? Seven years and you think I'm still saying, "Gee wiz, Mulder. That pesky piece of metal probably got into my neck when I blew up a fork in the microwave"? It's just easier this way. And at least it looks like I'm still trying to hold onto my integrity. What's left anyway. Today was hard. The corpse I'm so broken up about was finally identified when the seventeen pieces could be assembled. I've seen death before. It is my companion. I break it down into its components and figure out how it unwound this mortal coil. Easy as pie. Even children. I can look at a dead child and start my procedure. I will bring them justice, and I will save the world. It's just that you get to a point when you realize that you will never save the world. No matter how many rapists, murderers, kidnappers and government conspirists you bring to light, another two will slide in place. They're like crabgrass. But you can't just give up. Fidelity, bravery, integrity and all that other shit won't let you. And so, you keep gutting children like fish as though the next one will carry some magic sign. "Here ya go, Miss FBI lady! A map to the house of every criminal in the world!And documentation that will be irrefutable at trial!" I hate every corpse I see. And that is why I am so sad. I hate the seventeen pieces of a butchered little girl because she had the unmitigated nerve to die in my jurisdiction. If you can imagine. We have to find the truth, Mulder says. It's out there, it's in me, it's in here, it's been seen having champagne with Margaret Thatcher. It could be like the follow up to "Where's Waldo?" Millions of images. I can remember every single gruesome wound, and recall every grisly crime scene in shocking scientific detail. I guess that's the key word. Scientific. Because I sure as hell stopped crying over every gunshot beveling. It's more of a filing system for future reference. A thousand moons and I can only see two. Mulder begins to move again. I'm too angry to stop him. If he wants to touch me so he can feel better, what do I care? His left arm snakes around my shoulder to rest on my left arm. His right on my knees. I am still huddled in a tight ball. My knees are getting cold, but my shorts, formerly sweatpants, are too soft to reconsider. Besides, I deserve to be cold. Seventeen pieces, cold in the ground forever. His chin has come to rest on my right shoulder, curve of my neck. Asshole. His breath is warm and unscented. It feels like summer. I shove him away and look up. His eyes are bleeding with hurt. It makes me feel good in a horrible way. Good to hurt things like they hurt me. Childish, but still satisfying. "Dana..." "Fuck you, Mulder." I enunciate the moniker we have agreed on. He has never heard me talk like this. I like the way it pains him. "No Dana here. You saw to that. Little darling Dana died seven years ago in Oregon. You may remember her. She was young and innocent and she trusted you. You raped everything good inside of her and this is what's left." My voice is fairly hysterical. He is going to cry and I want to see it. There's no going back now. The rubicon is several miles behind me. "I wanted you back then. You know that? I would have done things to you that you didn't know were possible. Not now though. My ass is so thin the bones might tear through if I bent over that far." My voice is low and taunting now. I sound like a phone sex operator. He is stunned. To be honest, I'm pretty stunned too. I hadn't meant to say that. It wasn't really true. "Did you think I was hot, Mulder? Is that why you put up with my bullshit? I've seen you watch me." Another lie. His eyes are shifting in confusion. "No, Scully. It's nothing like that. I just..." He has walked into my little snare. "Oh, I see. So I'm not good enough for you? Are my tits not big enough?" I honestly hate myself right now. True, he had led my down my little self destructive path but I followed him willingly. And why was I teasing him like this? He had been a gentleman. All his little wiseass comments amounted to nothing. That man had risked life and limb for me, and I was treating him like some creepy guy in a bar. Didn't stop me though. His voice is the voice of the betrayed. "Why are you doing this to me?" he askes, his head down and his shoulders slumped. Because you're better than me, I think. "Because you want me to," I say. I stand up in front of him. "Don't you? You want a reason to stop walking on eggshells. To stop being so goddamned deferential to my feminine sensibilities." Where am I getting this from? I drop to my knees and lean forward, my breath now in his ear. "Why don't you fuck me, Mulder?" I make an obvious click with the k sound. It sounds like sin itself. He looks up at me. "Go to bed, Scully. Don't do this." I unbotton my Oxford shirt. Nothing underneath. I don't really need to wear a bra anymore. I slip my hands between his legs. He blushes and I like the look of discomfort on his face. "You coming with me? Pardon the pun." "No. You're drunk and you're angry and you're acting like a child. I'm putting you to bed and I'm leaving. We'll forget the whole thing." He extends a hand to me. I slap him across the face with all the steangth in my body. His eyes tear with the force of it. I have actually left a handprint. "You wish I were drunk, don't you? That would explain this quite neatly. Don't tell me how I feel, you bastard. Get out of here." "Fine," he says. His voice is sad. "Goodnight, Scully." I turn and walk to the balcony. I sit out there and stare at that moon, drinking wine from the bottle. That stupid one-in-a-thousand moon. It's beautiful. All pearled and shining, like the purest orb in heaven. Suddenly, I hate Neil Armstrong for defiling it. I hold a glass of wine to it and fling the crystal over the railing. Then I begin to smoke a cigarette. Exquisite evening. I do not hear Mulder approach the sliding door. He slips out and kneels beside me. I stare at the sky and my eyes burn with unshed tears and my face burns with shame. Gentleman that he is, he understands that I am powerfully sorry for what I have done. Even more, he understands what drove me to it. He takes my hand, and I almost weep. His other hand gestures to my cigarettes. "May I?" I nod, and hand them over. He lights one and takes a drag. "Nice moon," he says. And then, "I've missed you. You've been far away for a while now." I've missed me too, but mostly I've missed Mulder. He's my best friend. "Over the mountains of the moon, Mulder. Through the valley of the shadow. That's where I've been. I needed to go a little crazy for a while. I'm sorry it was you." I'm drunk, but it feels wonderful and freeing now. I feel silly and Mulder is kind enough to indulge me. "You in El Dorado now?" "Could be. Thank you for riding with me. " "Let's forget this, huh?" I shake my head. "Bad idea. You always have to watch the damned moon mountains. If you don't, they can creep right by you like a copperhead. And you go crazy all over again. Best not to forgetto watch the moon." I am a raving loon. He smiles warmly and cuddles up, his head on my elbow. "A thousand moons to watch, Scully. That's a lot" I smile at the sky and puff smoke at it. "I'm at three now. It's a start."