Nothing
by Slippin' Mickeys
red_phile@yahoo.com
CLASSIFICATION: V, A
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: No summary please.
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully, I suppose…
SPOILERS: The Beginning
DISCLAIMER: They don't belong to me. CC, 1013 and the bigwigs at Fox own
em. I just borrowed them to drag them through hell. Better them than me,
they are after all, fictional.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: This one is for the Monday night girls. Come on, who else
would it be for?
ARCHIVE: Go for it, just let me know precisely where it is so that I can
visit!
FEEDBACK: Do you want me to beg? Do you really? Cause I'll do it, you know!
I crave and love feedback! Constructive flames are greatly appreciated,
although I just use the flamey flames to light the sh** bombs that I will
throw at your house should I receive one! ;-) red_phile@yahoo.com
Nothing
By Slippin' Mickeys
I gave up on the truth a while ago. I can remember the exact date. January
16.
The day she quit. On me. On our work. On everything.
After the incident in Arizona with Diana and Gibson, we'd been at odds. I
must have been dreadfully insistent on pursuing one avenue of investigation
or another, and undoubtedly cruel to her when she finally drew the line and
resigned. I can't recall the case, in fact, I can't recall much of
anything.
I was steamrolled when I got the call. She didn't even do it herself.
Skinner called me, oddly enough. He wasn't even our boss anymore, but he'd
heard it on the grapevine that she'd resigned and called me to ask what the
hell I'd done to make her quit. He knew it had something to do with me. It
always comes back to me, doesn't it?
I fuck up one way or the other.
This time though, I think that I fucked up all of the Goddamn cardinal
directions, because she isn't coming back. That's what she said, the one
time she picked up the phone.
"Mulder, please don't say anything. I'm not coming back." Click.
She hasn't bothered to answer since. Actually, about a week ago, she
disconnected her phone, or some damn fool thing, I don' t know. I've sent
her emails, called her cellphone, I've even harassed her mother, the poor
woman. If her brother was in town, he'd probably already have kicked my
ass. I kind of wish he would. Maybe that way I could feel *something*.
At first I was furious, which gradually led to sadness, an angst-ridden
depression of a magnitude only one Fox William Mulder could sustain for any
length of time. I'm not sure when the sorrow drifted away, but now, I feel
nothing.
I am uncaring. Completely fucking apathetic.
I have nothing to be empathetic about.
I have nothing.
I am nothing.
I don't eat. I don't give a damn about hygiene anymore, and I sleep when it
suits me. If it were possible, I'd just as soon stop breathing. I've
considered suicide, but I can't help but think that perhaps she'll come
around. I live to see her face once more, imploring me to trust her. There
was a time when she was the only one I trusted, but like a fool I let my
past get in the way, I let down my defenses and let another in. I even
doubted her. God what a bloody fucking idiot I am.
There was a message on my answering machine a few days ago, I must have
been asleep when the phone rang. For some reason, I thought for certain it
had been her. I don't know, I'm the king of wishful thinking. Desperate to
hear the sound of her voice saying something different from the "Mulder,
please don't say anything. I'm not coming back," that had been running
through my head for these past weeks, I played the message. It had been
Kersh-- Come back to work or you're fired. I think it's safe to assume that
I am no longer a federal employee.
Then, I came across a poem that actually brought a smile to my face. It
could have been more of a grimace though, I can't really tell you which. I
don't remember how the book got into my lap. It was one of my English books
from Oxford. I think I must have stubbed my toe on it or something. It
opened to a page in the middle, and staring at me from the top of the page
was the one word that has embodied everything I stand for anymore.
Nothing.
The title of the fucking poem was Nothing. How fitting.
"I take a jewel from a junk-shop tray
And I wish I had a love to buy it for.
Nothing I choose will make you turn my way
Nothing I give will make you love me more.
I know that I've embarrassed you too long
And I'm ashamed to linger at your door.
Whatever I embark on will be wrong
Nothing I do will make you love me more.
I cannot work. I cannot read or write.
How can I frame a letter to implore.
Eloquence is a lie. The truth is trite.
Nothing I say will make you love me more.
So I replace the jewel in the tray
And laughingly pretend I'm far too poor.
Nothing I give, nothing I do or say,
Nothing I am will make you love me more."
Hallelujah Amen.
I've never really admitted to myself or anyone else that I loved her. But
of course, I do. I love her with every fiber of my being. I always have. I
assumed she felt the same, denying herself as well as me. My doubts were
realized, though, when she quit.
That James Fenton is an insightful guy. He could have been writing it for
me and me alone.
I stared at it for hours. I read it over and over and over. And then, on a
whim, I scrawled it down, stuffed it into an envelope and mailed it to her.
I didn't sign it or write a return address. She'd know who it was from.
I later thought of breaking into the mailbox to take it back, but by the
time I got the energy to make the trip, the mail had already been picked
up.
Oh well. Fuck it. One last ditch effort at saving my soul.
She is the other half of my soul. I guess with despair comes insight. I
hadn't really known until I lost it all.
I'd give any understanding back in a heartbeat if I could be saved from the
despair. But the despair is my holy land. My own private hell. So I'm
putting the jewel back in the tray, until I wither away once more into
nothing.
Without you Scully, I have nothing. Without you, I am nothing.
Nothing.
End
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