Date: Sat, 29 May 99 08:20AM EDT
From: Brandon Ray
To: earthworm1013@netscape.net
Subject: Previous Excursions submission
TITLE: Foreshadowing
AUTHOR: Brandon D. Ray
EMAIL ADDRESS: publius@avalon.net
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Do not archive at gossamer; I've already sent it
there. Anywhere else is fine, so long as my name stays on it and no money
changes hands.
FEEDBACK: Go ahead; knock yourself out.
SPOILER STATEMENT: FTF; Little Green Men; The End, I guess -- if you've
managed to avoid finding out about Diana Fowley.
RATING: PG-13, for a few bad words
CONTENT STATEMENT: Mulder/Fowley; M/S UST; PreXF. Got it? ;)
CLASSIFICATION: VA
SUMMARY: Sometimes the ability to see the future isn't all it's cracked
up to be.
THANKS: To Brynna, Robbie & Sara, for beta reading at two in the
morning. And thanks to Shannon for brainstorming a couple of essential
details for me. :)
DISCLAIMER: In my dreams...
Foreshadowing
by Brandon D. Ray
I'm standing in the hallway outside our apartment. Across the hall our
door is standing open, the numbers "42" slightly askew as always.
Just as I get my bearings, she emerges from the doorway. Her face is
drawn and pale, and she looks as if she's about to cry. She leaves the
door standing open and heads down the hallway towards the elevator.
Before she can reach it he comes after her, looking every bit as
distressed as she does.
And of course, neither of them can see me.
"You want to tell yourself that so you can quit with a clear conscience,
you can, but you're wrong!" he says, obviously continuing a conversation
which began inside the apartment. Our apartment.
"Why did they assign me to you in the first place Mulder?" she replies,
and I can hear the tears in her voice. "To debunk your work? To reign you
in, to shut you down."
Of course, he won't accept it. He could never accept a statement like
that from someone he cares about. "But you saved me," he insists. He
seems to be struggling to find the words, and the passion in his voice is
unmistakable. "As difficult and as frustrating as it's been sometimes,
your goddamn strict rationalism and science have saved me a thousand times
over. You've kept me honest. You made me a a whole person. I owe you
everything Scully, and you owe me nothing. I don't know if I want to do
this alone .... I don't even know if I can. And if I quit now, they win."
Finally, the tears come, glistening in her eyes like tiny diamonds meant
only for him. She looks up at him and tries to smile; then she reaches
for him and they embrace. She kisses his forehead, and his hands come up
to frame her face. Their eyes meet, and they lean close, lips almost
touching ....
I awake in near total darkness, and my body is bathed in sweat.
For a moment I am lost and disoriented, and I lie perfectly still, trying
to slow my racing heartbeat and regain control of my breathing.
Gradually my surroundings come into focus: The familiar, beat-up bureau
in the corner. My father's old footlocker, which I pretend is not my hope
chest. The chintz curtains moving gently in the midnight breeze.
Finally, I think I am ready, and I turn my head -- and he is there,
sleeping peacefully next to me. Fox is there.
I close my eyes for a moment and breathe a sigh of relief. Tonight it was
still just a dream. Tonight it hasn't happened yet. Tonight he still
belongs to me.
But even as I feel my body start to relax, something deep inside me is
telling me this is a temporary reprieve. I seldom have dreams as vivid as
that one, but when I do they are never wrong.
Especially when they are repeated, as this one has been, nearly every
night for the past two weeks.
I know who she is, of course, even though I have never met her while
awake. In the dream Fox calls her by name -- he calls her "Scully".
After the second or third night, I put the Bureau's Research Division to
work on it, and based on that name and the physical description I gave
them they were able to identify her in less than a day.
Her name is Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully, 27, newly graduated from
the Academy and now teaching forensic pathology at Quantico. I even drove
down there one day last week and watched her eat lunch in the cafeteria,
and there can be no mistake: It's her.
I push her image out of my head, and angrily throw back the covers and
climb out of bed. And for just a moment I stand by the bedside looking
down at my lover, and I'm trying desperately to blink back tears.
Dear God, Fox, what's happening to us? What is *going* to happen to us?
I know things haven't been good for us the last few months, but every
relationship has its ups and downs, doesn't it? Things will get better
again, won't they?
That's what I keep clinging to -- the idea, the hope, the prayer that no
matter how bad things get, they can still get better again. Because we
both want it to get better, don't we? And if that's what we both want,
and we're both willing to work for it, in the end everything will be all
right. Won't it?
But I keep thinking about the dream; I can't help myself. I keep thinking
about the way you looked at her, the expression on your face as you walked
towards her. You have never looked at me that way, Fox. You have never
looked at me with such desperate longing, as if I were the only thing in
the universe.
You have never told me that I make you a whole person.
Perhaps I don't.
I shake my head angrily and turn away and stalk out of the bedroom. This
is ridiculous. This is absolutely fucking ridiculous. It was only a
dream, I tell myself as I move down the short hallway to the living room.
My anxiety over the problems Fox and I are having is working on my
subconscious, and this dream is the result.
Only I can't make myself believe it. I've had dreams like this before,
and they've always come true. Always. I dreamed of my parents' death
before it happened. I dreamed of my sister's husband before she met him.
I dreamed of the first man I killed before I even joined the Bureau. And
they all came true down to the smallest detail, whether I wanted them to
or not.
Now I am dreaming of Fox with another woman, and it's tearing me apart.
I find myself standing in front of the tired, worn out old leather sofa
which Fox has had since before I knew him. There are so many good
memories here: The times we sat on either end of it and worked on our
reports. The times we cuddled under a blanket watching old Grade B
science fiction movies until the wee small hours of the morning. The
times we made love on it ....
I am drawn from my reverie by the sound of a key in the lock. I turn to
face the door, suddenly acutely aware that my gun is in the bedroom, at
least 30 feet away. But before I can react, before I can so much as move,
the lock turns and the door swings open.
It's her. The redhead. Dana Scully. For just a moment I think it's
really her, and that Fox has already been seeing her behind my back, but
then she flips the lights on and it becomes clear she cannot see me.
She crosses immediately to the desk where Fox's computer rests, and sits
down in front of it. She takes a moment to look in the drawers, but
apparently doesn't find what she's looking for. She pulls out a pair of
glasses and puts them on, then turns to the computer. Her fingers fly
across the keyboard, but by the time I've walked up behind her whatever
she has typed is gone, and a screenful of gibberish appears. She seems
intent on it, and enters the command to print, and paper starts feeding
through the printer ....
And suddenly I am alone. She is gone, the lights are off, and the
computer sits silent and dark.
But she was here; I know she was. Or she *will* be here.
And I won't be.
There can no longer be any doubt, and as I consider the matter a deep
depression falls over me.
She has the key to our apartment. Possibly the very same key which
currently rests on my keychain. She knows where the light switch is, and
she has no compunction about playing back his messages. She knows how to
turn on his computer, and she knows what his password is. She finds
significance in a file on that computer, a file which I have never seen
and which I can draw no meaning from.
And in the hallway outside the apartment he will declare his love for her,
as surely as any man ever has, and he will kiss her. Because she makes
him a whole person.
It's over.
I stand quietly in front of the now-dark computer and desperately consider
my options. If this were a normal triangle, I could simply confront him
about it. I could demand to know how long he's been seeing her, and tell
him he has to choose between us. Dangerous words, I know, because deep in
my soul I am almost certain I know what his answer would be. But at least
I would retain my self-respect.
But this is not a normal triangle. He has not even met her yet, and if I
were to challenge him he would give me a blank look -- if he didn't simply
laugh.
The truth of the matter is that I have no options. I've been cursed, and
I have seen the future -- *his* future -- and I am not in it. There is
nothing I can do to change that -- that's one thing I've learned from hard
and bitter experience. All I can do is try to protect myself from the
worst of it.
Which means only one thing.
I close my eyes for just a moment. I don't know if I can do this. I
don't know if I have the strength or the courage to see it through.
But I know that I must. The words that man spoke to me when we had lunch
three months ago were persuasive, and the evidence he showed me was even
more so. The only thing that prevented me from agreeing to what he
proposed was my love for Fox, and his love for me. I managed to persuade
myself, then, that what Fox and I had was stronger and more important than
the things the man was telling me.
But I no longer have that anchor. The dream and this odd vision I've just
had have shaken me to the core, and I no longer have the confidence
necessary to turn away. I no longer have the strength to fight the
future.
And so I go to my purse and rummage around until I find the card the man
gave me. All that is printed on it is a single phone number; a number he
said I could call at any time of the day or night should I ever want to.
For just one more minute I stand before the phone, undecided. Then I
reach out and pick up the receiver and I dial the number. It's answered
on the third ring.
"This is Diana Fowley," I say, my voice sounding stronger than I had
expected it to be. "I've reconsidered. I'm ready to make a deal."
Fini
--
You may be a loser if .... you've ever had to fake an orgasm while
masturbating. :p
==========================
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