Thanks and great big hugs to Pookie for the beta.

Ladle on the feedback. [jenbird72 at verizon dot net]
 
 

"Day after day
Love turns gray
Like the skin on a dying man
And night after night
We pretend it's all right
But I have grown older
And you have grown colder
And nothing is very much fun anymore
I can feel one of my turns coming on
I feel
Cold as a razor blade
Tight as a tourniquet
Dry as a funeral drum..."
 --Pink Floyd, "One of my Turns"
 
 

LOVE TURNS GRAY
by: Jennifer Maurer

In the end, after all the accusations and recriminations, it boils down to something painfully simple: I left my husband, Fox Mulder, because he had become a stranger to me.

The easiest explanation is that everything was fine between us until the X-Files were reopened, but I knew it was much more than that. "Irreconcilable differences" is the kindest way to put it. Perhaps we were doomed from the start and just didn't want to admit it.

Looking back over the wreckage that our marriage became, I wonder how we journeyed so far from the people we used to be. There was a time when Fox (and how triumphant I felt when I was finally allowed to call him by his first name!) was the center of my world. I loved him, I would have done anything for him. Neither one of us were what one would describe as openly affectionate, but we didn't need to be. We knew how we felt about each other---or so we thought. I told myself that we were so in sync with each other we didn't need words to communicate. In the end, of course, I learned that there are no relationships like that, not in real life. You can wax poetic about soulmates and the like, but in the long run, nothing replaces good, old-fashioned talking.

Communication was not his strong point, nor was it mine. Maybe that is why when the rupture finally came, it was irreparable.

I had been aware of a nagging feeling of unhappiness for some time, but I couldn't pin down any specific cause. Of course, he and I weren't as deliriously happy as we had been when we'd first married, but who ever is? I was practical enough to know that the first blush was going to fade, and we'd settle down into a life together, content but perhaps not constantly overjoyed with each other. I expected some of the romance to fade, but I fell into the chasm that had grown between us before I ever realized it was there.

It was little things at first: ironically, something so big as a marriage is often torn asunder by many small things rather than one big explosion. Neither one of us cheated, there were no door-slamming fights. In retrospect, I can't help but wonder if it would have been better if we *had* fought. At least then we would have been talking, even if some of the things were said in anger, and not truly meant. As it was, we kept our hurt feelings and misunderstandings to ourselves, letting silence build the wall.

I planned ahead, I freely admit that. I knew it would be a painful parting, however far we had grown apart, and I wanted a clean break. I laid my plans for a fast escape, half-hoping he would discover what I was up to and stop me before it was too late.

He didn't. He had no idea what was coming.

On the last day, he came home in a terrible mood. Not that this would be apparent to the casual observer. There was no shouting or stamping of feet, although sometimes I almost wished he *would* get angry that way; at least then I would know he was in there. Instead, his walls climbed a little higher, and he moved around our apartment in silence.

Silence had become customary for us. Where we once spent hours in discussions about everything from the meaning of life to the Knicks, now we seldom spoke unless necessary. It was not the stony silence that follows arguments. For a long time I saw nothing unusual in our quietness; as I have said, I fancied us able to communicate without words. Gradually, however, it became clear to me that the reason we weren't talking was because we didn't have anything to say to one another anymore.

I watched him carefully as he moved around the apartment, looking for some sign that might encourage me to stay. I had moved most of my clothes and other belongings out while he was away on his latest case. If he noticed anything was missing, he made no comment. He simply changed out of his suit and put his things away as if this was an ordinary day. And I suppose to him, it still was.

He spends so much time looking for what's not there, I thought bitterly, that he never sees what's right in front of him.

I finally realized he was not going to speak, and unless *I* started, we were going to continue moving along our same, worn path of silence.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said shortly, obviously lying.

I followed him into our bedroom. We hadn't shared a bed with any regularity in quite some time; he seemed to prefer the couch.

"I can tell that something is bothering you. Maybe it would help to talk about it."

I inwardly winced at that last statement, thinking that nothing so trite would get him to open up. To my surprise, he turned around and told me.

"They told me today that I'm being assigned a new partner."

I grasped this morsel of information and tried to run with it.

"That could be a good thing. You've been working alone so long..."

He cut me off, annoyed at my ignorance.

"Because I *prefer* to work alone! You of all people should realize that I get more done that way."

I stepped back, stung, reading more than one meaning in his outburst.

"I just meant..."

"I know what you meant," he sighed, "But the X-Files have become my exclusive domain, and I'd like to keep it that way."

He turned back to what he had been doing, satisfied that the conversation was over. How, I wondered, could he have possibly "known what I meant" when he hadn't even let me finish my sentence?

We had both made too many assumptions in the course of our marriage, instead of stopping to explain ourselves. That was another reason that outweighed my desire to stay. I could no longer keep hoping that everything would be all right, somehow.

My heart started to pound as he flopped down on the couch and turned on the TV. Now, I thought, do it now and get out of here. His lack of interest in me sparked my anger and I stalked across the room until I stood in front of the TV.

"Hi," he said mildly, looking at me expectantly.

"We have to talk," I said, my voice shaking slightly. I must have looked frightened because he came over to me and touched my arm gently.

"What is it?" he asked softly. I could hear the concern in his voice and it brought tears to my eyes. When was the last time he had talked to me in such a tone? We had done nothing but exchange polite conversation for so long that I had almost forgotten what it felt like to know that he cared.

Old times, it could be just like old times, whispered the hopeful voice in my head. You weren't nuts about each other when you met, but then that changed, maybe it could change back again.

No. I had tried, and nothing had worked. It was time to stop beating my head against the wall.

I closed my eyes to block out the sight of his face, now so full of loving concern. I can't look at him and do this, I told myself. I can't remember the good times, not now. Now I have to concentrate on why this is best for both of us.

His fingertips brushed across my face gently, wiping the tears away. I choked back a sob at the touch. He kissed me on the top of my head and drew me into his arms, and that's when I really started to cry. This was my familiar haven, held tight in his embrace. I could cry into his chest and let it wash away all of the pain...but it would only be temporary.

As he held me I thought about how much we were still attracted to each other. That much had not changed, at least. Our lovemaking, if less frequent, was still good. Perhaps the only good thing left between us.

I could change my mind, I thought. I know just what to do to him to make him forget about my tears. I know how and where to touch him. It would start with a few innocent gestures, then he would kiss me and eventually take me to bed. We would be close again, our bodies fitting together perfectly.

But it would be only our bodies. After the heat of passion is over, you learn that in the long run, it's not enough.

With an effort I pulled away from him and looked him in the face. I stared quietly for a second, knowing that this would be my last glimpse of him before the pain came into his face. I wanted to remember him this way.

"Talk to me," he coaxed. He had always gotten me with that phrase, when he took the time to ask at all. Why had the reverse not been true? I had never been able to crack his shell.

I took a deep breath and stepped off the precipice.

"I'm leaving," I said softly.

To my dying day I will never forget how his face changed when I said that. It was the epitome of all our problems: he was standing in front of me, but something inside him wasn't really there.

"I'm sorry," I continued, "I don't want to hurt you, but I think it's for the best."

"The *best*? Exactly how do you figure *that*?"

"Because..." I trailed off. How could I explain this to him now? If I could have put this into words long ago, we wouldn't even be having this conversation. I had to try. I felt I owed him that.

"Oh, *because*," he said sarcastically, interrupting my thoughts, "*That's* a good reason."

"Because we never talk anymore!" I shouted, stung by his attitude. "Because we've changed from husband and wife into two people who just politely co-exist. I don't know who you are anymore."

"You *do*," he said, grasping my arms. "You're the *only* one who knows me, the only one who understands me."

"Maybe I was once, but I'm not anymore."

His hands fell to his sides.

"Something like that doesn't just...go away," he said.

I forced myself to wait until the sudden flare of anger subsided before I answered him. Could he really be so naive as to think that this was something I had suddenly decided to do? That I could turn off my love for him like a faucet?

"We've been falling apart for months!" I cried, "Can you honestly say that you haven't felt it, too? You're not the man I married---you haven't been since you got the X-Files reopened."

Looking back, I can see now that introducing the subject of work was a mistake. He took it as the only reason I was leaving because that was something concrete to focus on, an outside force to blame. Trying to figure out how *we* had changed, that was too close to home.

"Is this about the X-Files?" he asked me urgently, towering above me. "Has anyone talked to you about my work? Have they threatened you? Is that what's going on here? Because I can---"

"No, for once there is something in your life that has *nothing* to do with the X-Files!" I shouted at him. I paused, took a deep breath, then continued.

"It has to do with me and you...and the fact that I don't love you anymore."

It would have been a cruel thing to say even if it had been true. I lied to him, that one time, because I knew it would be the only way I would get him to let me go. After I had gone, and time had healed the wound, I knew he would realize that I was right. Whatever there had been between us, it was over. I knew that now. I may not have been able to pin down an exact moment. Maybe there isn't one when love ends. It's just a gradual wearing away, a corrosion.

I turned and left then, and did not look back.

*****

Mulder left for the office earlier than usual the next morning. He hadn't gotten much sleep anyway, and decided he might as well be prepared for his new partner. He had done a little background research and was not thrilled at the idea. At least it will take my mind off of...other things, he thought.

He had sat on the couch all night, twisting his wedding band around and around on his finger. He kept insisting to himself that he didn't know what had gone wrong, but inside he realized she was right. The silence between them had become a wall, growing until they had lost sight of each other.

She had tried, he supposed, but he had not noticed.

Before he left for work he removed the ring and placed it gently in a drawer. He would decide what to do with it later.

He puttered around the office, trying to find something productive to do that wouldn't require vast amounts of concentration. He had finally settled down with some slides when there was a knock at the door.

"Nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted," he called out.

The door opened and his new partner walked in.

"Agent Mulder? I'm Dana Scully, I've been assigned to work with you."

*****
End 1/1

"Modern love can be a strain..."
 --Peter Gabriel

Oh, sorry, did you think *Scully* was the wife? No, I finally broke down and wrote a RingFic. And before you ask, *no*, the wife is not Diana.