Like Runes Written On the Night Sky
by Shalimar
5/3/99copyright 1999 [email protected]
rating: R for language
spoilers: The Unnatural
disclaimer: Stole ‘em. So sue me.
warning: I've written five episode related short stories this season and each is more miserable than the last. Only read this if you're in the mood for Angst.
Wanna get something to eat? I know a place near here-- they make a damn fine veggie tofutti soy rice burger.
Grin.
Okay.
So close we can walk.
So we walk, so close that our shoulders touch, brush, each others with each stride. Not meaning to exactly, but not meaning not to.
My coat had been hot to play ball in, now, with the sweat drying down my back, it was fine. Cool, chilly, fine.
There was something different about you tonight, something glowing. I half steal a look at you every now and again, trying to place what it was. The moon light? The shadow of beard? No, it was a glow, of castles and kingdoms behind those eyes. Of dragons met and matched.
The diner is overlit and crowded. But there's a booth, empty just for us. The waiter's smile, not quite hidden as his eyes run over me, then slide away. My partner had been here before then.
So what happened today?
I ask when we're seated. The smell of fries mingles with suede as I shrug out of my coat, turning it inside out and laying it across the banquette beside me. It was damp. Baptized. Consecrated.
What?
Mr. Innocent.
You know, I said. What's making you glow?
Glow? I'm glowing? You laugh. And then your face is serious and you just look at me. Long enough for the people in the booth behind us to laugh, first the girl, then the man, then the other man.
Then you grin. I've got a story to tell you. You're not going to believe it.
And that's going to stop me from listening? Tell me already.
So you did. You told me, your eyes on my eyes, my cheeks, my eyelashes, my mouth. You talked for an hour. While the waiter came and went with our orders, then with our drinks, our plates. I heard the whole story. Of Arthur and Arthur and Arthur. And Ex. And everything.
The weight of your gaze pushed my lips open further.
At the end you sit back and toy with the handle of your cup of coffee. The animation stemmed slightly, the boyish excitement bubbling to a halt.
So. . . . What do you think?
I sit back and look at you. I'd let the whole thing wash over me, fascinated. As always. I would never have that imagination and I knew it. You don't know that. I hide it. SO well. I could only hope to brush against it. Be held enthralled by it. Be occasionally wrapped in it.
I say. . . . Now which is Exley? One of the good guys? Or the bad guys? Hell, do we even know which ones the bad guys are? Mulder? Green? Grey? Don't we know anyone at National Geographic?
You just sit and look at me. I'm not sure what I said this time. I'm used to the look of disappointment, the one that crosses your face and your mouth goes into a tiny purse of acceptance.
Many generations in that mouth. That pout. This wasn't that.
What are you saying, Scully?
So was Exley a good alien or a bad alien? And do we even know which one is which? Was he the same as the ABH? And which ones are on the side of the Consortium?
You still don't say anything, just look at me with a kind of disbelief in your eyes, then quickly drop those grey eyes to look at your fingers. You pick at the end of your fork. You don't look up for a while.
Scully? You say finally.
Hmmmm? I was picking the end of my own fork and finding it fascinating.
I . . . I just want to say I'm sorry for the crack about your biological clock.
You meet my eyes then. I didn't say anything. You knew. And I knew. We both knew.
I didn't think before I said it. I was thinking about something else. But, I know what it means to you. Sorry.
I nod. I figured as much.
I forget, you say. I forget.
How? I want to suddenly scream. How do you possibly forget?
And the atmosphere between us changes. Click. I want to get up and run. Instead I shut my eyes. I run away inside.
You know, I whisper. I squeeze them shut tighter. You know sometimes I think it's written on my face. People see my face. On my lips. On the skin around my eyes. Men see it, and they know. Barren. She can't have kids. How fucking pathetic. Too fucking pathetic to even ask on a date.
I still don't look at you.
Scully, your voice is soft. You sound shocked.
I open my eyes, then. You're looking at me sadly. So sadly I feel like crying.
When I said it? I was just thinking of you and your normal life that you talk about. I forget about the eggs. I see you normal. I see you in a house. With your kids. Happy.
It took me a long time to open my mouth. You see me with kids?
Oh yeah. Two. Usually. Sometimes two and a baby.
Really? Where?
The burbs, somewhere.
Neither of us says anything, for close to five minutes.
My coffee's all gone. I toy with the empty cup. The waiter seems to be avoiding us.
Um. . . . So, when you see me. Am I . . . ?
What?
You know, am I by myself? Do I just have these kids by myself?
By yourself?
You sound surprised I asked. I'm surprised I asked.
Half the guys in the FBI have a crush on you. All you have to do is crook your little finger, Scully. Of course I see you with someone.
You fiddle with the sugar dispenser.
But this guy is a doctor. A gynecologist I think he is. Blond hair. Tallish. Maybe 5'11.
You have daydreams of me married to a gynecologist?
You nod solemnly.
I have this vision of you, I've had it forever.
You drop your voice. I strain to hear over the babble in the diner. I lean forward.
A day dream, a night dream. It is always there in the back of my mind.
It's of you, laughing.
Glance flickers to me then away and your eyes shut a little.
You're in the sunlight. The sky is blue, there's a little breeze. Your hair is glowing red and you're totally and utterly relaxed and happy. You're at a family picnic. The grass is green. Your family--all your family is there.
Your kids--you have three kids. And in this dream they're about seven and five and the little one's just a baby. And your mom is there and your brothers and their wives. . . .
And your husband is there, too.
Blond haired. Beautiful. He's handsome and successful.
And there's no danger in his life. And when you look at him as he barbeques, you smile and then you laugh. He jokes. You love it. Your kids tumble like puppies in the grass. Melissa is there. She smiles and smells way too much like patchouli and her hippy boyfriend strums his guitar. Your Dad is there, too. Everyone is happy.
You say something more, but I can't quite hear it, then you stop talking. Still fooling with the sugar. You spill a little on the table and draw in it with the tip of your forefinger.
I think you said: You, are brilliantly beautifully happy.
I will the waiter to come to us with more coffee, I don't know why the hell, except to break this moment. I don't know how to break it. I've already had too much coffee, it's buzzing through my veins, making me want to jump out of my seat.
And run. I don't want to hear this.
You sit there. So calm.
And where are you in this picture Mulder?
You turn your head and stare out into the night. Or maybe you're staring at our reflection in the plate glass. You seem so very far away from me in that reflection.
I'm not there. I'm not even alive. I float through like a spirit, and I watch. But in the dream I'm not alive and never was. I haven't died. So I don't haunt you. There aren't bad memories of your time with me. Because you never were with me. Your ovaries are abundant with eggs. Overflowing. Fecund. And you've never ever heard of the X-Files. Lucky you. Maybe never even joined the FBI. Whatever dark mysterious event in your mind that made you choose Forensic Pathology never happened. I think maybe you're a pediatrician. A beautiful happy red-headed laughing pediatrician. With a happy full life.
You look up at me. Defensive. Defiant.
I love that dream, Scully. You'd think I was crazy for loving it. But I'm not. The idea of you truly happy. . . . Sometimes. . . in the middle of whatever . . . I stop and summon up that dream. It's the only thing that gets me through. It's part of me now. Like my fingers, or my backbone, or my ears. That dream. Of you.
I swallow.
I try to whisper, but it comes out in a croak. How can you imagine a me where you don't exist?
The waiter chooses that moment to arrive with the check. You glance at it. Pull out some bills, toss them on the table. I don't take my eyes off your face.
You wait til he leaves again.
Because sometimes in the dream I do exist.
Uncle Fox. I'm there. I'm at the barbeque. You're laughing. Laughing up at John, the OBGYN. Uncle Fox, standing at the edge of the crowd, nursing a BudLight. Watching with sad eyes. Your friends whisper to each other. I make them uncomfortable. Then, one Fourth of July, you don't call to invite me. And that Christmas, you've misplaced my address and you don't send me a Christmas card.
You go quiet again. You look remote, distant. The glow entirely gone.
That's why I like the dream better when I'm not in it.
You stand. Come on. Let's get out of here.
Mulder, my voice is so soft, so full of tears I can barely say your name. It's all I can say.
Mulder.
Fin.