Title: Graveyard Shift Author: Sarah Stella Distribution: Most anywhere is fine! Gossamer, Ephemeral, Spookys, etc. of course. Anywhere else drop me a line, I don’t bite. Classification: V, A, UST-ish Keywords: Mulderangst Rating: PG just to be safe Spoilers: second season time frame, but not a single explicit one Summary: Mulder's alone with the files, a photo and his thoughts. Disclaimer: Are they mine? Are they??? Um, no. FEEDBACK: Lovingly embraced! at starbright_89@hotmail.com *** THANKS TO: Namejumper, Lenore, Lady Disdain, Jane Lindamood, Michelle Kiefer, Kelly and her fan fiction site, Tam, Alanna, Joe, Pete at the Cutting Room Floor, Jen & Patti at the MSR Library, Lynn at Further X *** Infinite appreciation to Maria, my wonderful beta. Don't sweat it, I know how that family stuff gets (I had a bit of a reunion myself last weekend). I appreciate everything!! *************** Graveyard Shift "On the other hand, talk about himself was always like plowing up a graveyard." --Bernard Malamud, "The Natural" Sometimes he stays the night in the basement. He's waiting for the halogen light to be replaced by dusty slants of sunlight angling through the tiny windows. Walking along linoleum hallways at midnight where he feels like an alien intruder. His footsteps rebound inside his ears because he's the only one around to hear them. A tree falling. It's hard to say what he thinks about during those nights. Sometimes he thinks of nothing at all. But it's cold comfort to turn off his brain for a while because he doesn't realize he's done it until afterwards. He likes the mystery of the building at night. Shadows gather, first in corners then spreading outward like wings. The quiet is cotton in his ears, pressing gently at his eardrums. In the office, he turns off all the lights and the floor becomes like a pond, with only the faint glow from outside trickling along one corner. In ancient English poetry, the water was called 'the swan's road.' He thinks of this briefly, moving, graceful in the dark, graceful away from other eyes. There's a photo tacked to the wall behind his desk and he takes it down now and looks at it carefully, as if he wants to paint a picture of the picture. The idea of something twice removed from reality appeals. It occurs to him that this thought is thrice removed and a smile taps the corners of his mouth upwards. He balances the picture on the very tips of his fingers, moving them to watch the light from outside flash along the glossy surface. Now he watches the flashes without really looking at the picture. The room he's in now used to be filled with files. It's still filled with files, only someone, some nameless custodial worker, found space to cram a desk in as well. He considers this for a moment and finds himself suddenly surrounded by the ghosts of all those old files--clippings and memos and coroner's reports. Black words on white pieces of paper that flutter clumsily, like bats: letters winging on paper, paper winging on air. These ghosts stifle him. They crowd against him, trying to jump down his throat so that he might speak them. The air is hot with the overabundance of ideas. He roasts in his own skin. The picture crumples and he looks down on it, horrified to find that his hand is the thing that crushed it. He unclenches his hand and the photo eases open like a flower. He places it on the desk and tries to flatten it, pressing on it with his hands. Under his palms, creases run through the photographic paper like veins, as if the picture has become something living. It's ruined. Light breaks along the surface now instead of gliding off in one satin pane. One vein cuts across the face of the woman in the picture, creasing one corner of her mouth, rippling through her red hair. Beside the woman is another person, a man. His arm rests lightly across her shoulders as if he's afraid she might shrug it away at any moment. That fear is in his eyes, which seem so bold at first glance. Both people face the camera directly, like soldiers preparing for battle. Scared but ready--ready for what? Ready for something, not anything but something. His brow furrows as he considers the people in the picture. Pleats around his mouth deepen. They look so young. The woman's right arm stretches across her body--up, up, up over her waist, her stomach, the surprising swell of her breasts--reaching for the man's hand, she stops, never reaches her destination. He wonders if her skin would have been warm or cool. At night, he can feel words bursting inside him, misfiring and falling back like premature fireworks. During the day words are easier to ignore. He can cover them up with more words, burying them under a stream of conversation. His control slips. "After my sister was taken, sometimes I'd sleep in my closet because I was frightened that whoever it was would come back and take ME." He looks down at the woman in the picture and swallows hard. He feels like spitting. The woman in the picture looks out past him serenely, her hand lingering inches away. His scalp prickles. He feels as if droplets of water are threading through his hair like fingers. "When the X-Files were closed, I forgot how small they were, how hidden." His stomach feels hollow. He brushes his hand along his shoulder, searching for the woman's fingers. His own fingers close on air. The imagined feel of the phone curves smoothly across his palm. Numbers rise up under his touch like fate. The woman's hand moves, clasping his own with comforting strength. THE END ________________________________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com --------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------- The X-Files Creative Mailing List Archived at http://www.xemplary.com To subscribe, go to http://www.onelist.com/subscribe/xfc-atxc To unsubscribe, write xfc-atxc-unsubscribe@onelist.com Check out the XFC Feedback list http://www.onelist.com/subscribe/xfc-fdbk ---------------------------------- Imported to ATXC courtesy of NewsGuy news service http://newsguy.com