TITLE: Reflections of a Rainy Night
AUTHOR: Dlynn
RATING: PG
CATEGORY: Vignette,UST,DAL
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: dlynn1550@my-deja.com
FEEDBACK: I've never written anything before so be gentle.
SPOILERS: Red and Black, Christmas Carol, Emily
SUMMARY: An innocent question leads Mulder into
contemplation.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: When I first wrote this, I did not know
about xfc-atxc so I didn't post here. I thought I'd post it
to the group now that I've found you. Not only is this my
first foray into fan fiction, this is my first attempt at
creative writing since high school english class. I won't
even tell you how long ago that was.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Mulder and Scully or anything
pertaining to the X-FILES. I realize that all things X
belong to Fox , Chris Carter and 1013.
Reflections of a Rainy Night
Mulder stood quietly at the hotel window. He pushed back
the stiff, beige drapes the few inches needed to peer out
into the hotel's small parking lot. He could see the cars
and trucks lined up in neat little rows, each with signs
signifying the driving habits of their occupants. The
rain still drizzled down in a fine mist he could only see
when he looked at it through the outdoor floodlight's harsh
glare. The rain droplets were spattered on the hood of the
car directly in front of his window. It was there his eyes
settled.
He had noticed the vehicle earlier in the day. Now with
the darkness nestled around him, he was drawn back to look
more closely. It was a midnight blue minivan, streaked and
dirty with highway mud. But it was well cared for as
attested by the new wax job. The droplets gathered in neat
little spherical blobs on the hood.
Bringing his hand once more to the hotel window, he noticed
the large glass pane appeared to be sweating. It was that
streaky condensation which always exists when the humidity
outside clashes with cool air-conditioned air. He trailed
his hand slowly over its cold, hard surface, feeling the
moisture beneath the calluses of his palm. He gently turned
his hand over, flexing the fingers and examining the
moisture collected at their tips, mesmerized as if he had
never seen such a thing.
After staring for several seconds at his hand, like it was
some new mystery yet to be discovered, he laid it gently
back down on the window glass. Bringing his eyes up again
to the dreary parking lot in front of him, he stared.
The blue minivan was still there, still glistening with the
fine rain sheen. He let his eyes travel over the vehicle.
Even when he wasn't consciously making the effort, he still
used an investigator's eyes.
He noticed the large plastic, car top carrier shell
strapped to the top. He saw, in either haste or weariness,
the driver hadn't completely latched the lid. The van's
dashboard was strewn with little pieces of slick, yellow
paper, probably candy wrappers that hadn't made it into
the trash. There was change, and bobby pins and some little
piece of ribbon with a nipple attached. Oh. one of those
pacifier things with the little clips to clamp to baby's
shirt. It helped expedite matters when one needed to put "
a cork in it".
The car seat was visible, attached snuggly to the middle
seat. An orange stuffed animal was in it. He was perched
on his head, his furry little orange legs sticking up under
the safety seat shoulder harness. He appeared to have been
unceremoniously dropped. Assuredly someone would need to
fetch him before too long if his less than pristine
condition was testament to how well loved the little Muppet
was ---"Elmo" that was it!
A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He
remembered how Scully wanted to just "check out" the local
Wal-Mart several weeks ago in search of some elusive tickle
monster. Her whole family was on its trail in order to
fulfill young Mathew's Christmas list. Never mind her
nephew was currently less than a year old and probably
didn't know an Elmo from a Big Bird. That was beside the
point. the chase was on. He understood probably better than
most the thrill of the chase.
Bringing his thoughts back inside his room, Mulder glanced
down at a small round wooden table. On top of it were the
tell tale signs of his less than perfect housekeeping
habits. There were jumbled papers that had been rifled
through way too many times; styrofoam cups, some empty and
tipped over and others with dark, noxious looking liquid
residue he'd hate to run by any lab.
There were pencils with little teeth marks, looking like
tiny mice had gnawed them. A pile of sunflower seed hulls
had gotten interspersed with the papers and cups. Trailing
off the edge of the table, they were scattered throughout
the shag fibers of the dingy carpet. There were corners of
pictures sticking out beneath the stacks of papers.
Glossies of "crime scene" photos that were too abhorrent
to leave out where one had to see them all the time.
He gently reached under the precarious pile, pulling out
one of the photos. In the dim light from the parking lot,
he could just barely see the badly burned form of a mother
and child. It was another one of those group human
bonfires, like the one at Ruskin Dam where he had almost
lost Scully. This was black and white proof of the world
coming to an end in such small increments society at large
was still ignorant to the potential horrors that lay ahead.
Even with as much as he and Scully knew, there were still
so many questions. There were so many truths to uncover, an
overwhelming feeling time was speeding up to break neck
speed heading toward a cataclysmic ending. There was no way
to slow it down. No way to say "hey wait a minute. I've got
to catch up here!".
Surprisingly, it wasn't the "weight of the world" kind of
burden keeping him awake tonight. It was a burden of a more
personal nature. He was not grieving for those poor souls
caught up like lemmings in the upcoming holocaust, in a
battle for which they had no control over their actions or
their lives. He was grieving the loss of control in his own
life.
It wasn't like he had a lot of choice anymore. In fact,
ever since that fateful night over 25 years ago when a
young boys' innocence was yanked from him as surely as the
younger sister "he lost", he'd really had no choice. Oh
sure, he could have given into the darkness, dropped deep
into the alluring comfort of depression or worse yet
succumbed to mind numbing indifference, placing Samantha in
a box with barely recognizable memories of song fragments,
fairy tales or ghost stories... a specter only haunting him
in the darkest hours of dreaming.
But he chose. He made a conscious choice to survive,
however dysfunctional his life may seem to those who think
they know him. He had his intellect, his education, and his
tenure with the bureau. He had his memories, fragmented and
suspect though they might be. He had the x-files, his quest
for the truth, his railings against the shadows and he had
Scully. In a world so totally out of control, where order
was only an illusion, Mulder felt that he had been holding
his own.
The grainy photo fell gently from his hand to the floor,
landing midst the empty seed shells. Turning once more
toward the window, he saw the outer door next to his slam
open. He could hear frustrated voices over the din of a
crying baby, the piercing glare of that room's overhead
lights escaping into the blackness in front of his window
perch.
A harried, young man sprinted into the drizzle, hastily
unlocking the sliding door on the mini van. He reached
inside, grabbing the Elmo doll by his foot and eased back
out of the van. Grinning, he held it over his head like a
trophy and yelled back toward the room,
"Hey, I found it!" He trotted once more to the open door,
back into the warmth of the room, triumphantly returning
with his treasure. As the door softly closed behind him,
the small amount of light that had permeated the gloom
disappeared, leaving the dreariness behind.
His thoughts focused again on the rain outside. It was
picking up. The droplets were beginning to bounce off
metal, glass and concrete. No longer a fine mist, but
spattering, stinging precipitation, much like the showers
that had soaked he and Scully earlier in the day. It had
been a cold, piercing rain pelting them out at the crime
site, one of those dismal afternoons where you were chilled
to the bone and nothing you did seemed to warm you up.
Ruefully he noted that it could have been 75 blissfully
sunny degrees and they still would have suffered from the
aches of a frozen spirit. Not only did they have to deal
with the horror of another mass burning but also, the
anniversary of Emily's death. One year ago Scully found and
lost a daughter in only the space of a week. She was the
daughter that never should have been, probably her one and
only chance at biological motherhood.
He knew the day was difficult for her. She didn't let on in
such a way the casual observer would have seen anything
other than the professional agent she was. But the casual
observer didn't know what to look for, didn't know the
extra tightness around the mouth, the haunted sadness in
the eyes was far more than just empathy for so many whom
had horrifically died.
The tragedy of the day was profound on so many levels. It
was another vicious reminder of her vulnerability, their
vulnerability. Another reminder of the gray area they
traversed. Nothing was black and white anymore.
Consequences for actions, choosing the lesser of two evils
was becoming so much of who they were. Daily they were
reminded of the gradual ways control had begun to
disappear. Such subtle small instances, in hindsight
foreshadowing the increasingly painful decisions that had
to be made.
Her decision to join him in the basement was subsequently
followed by her abduction at the hands of a shadow
government. Her cancer was miraculously cured but at the
expense of her free will. She worried about being "called"
again due to the chip in her neck. He walked a fine line
between informants, the syndicate, the FBI, conspiracies,
the resistance and his own conscience. Ethics and morality
were getting so muddled up with expediency. He feared that
ignorance would not only be the death of he and Scully but
also of their world.
In the middle of all of that; in the middle of dealing with
global issues, there was also the intimate personal
tragedies coloring their lives. There never seemed to be
time to dwell on these. Sometimes he wondered how much they
could continue to handle before they lost it. How much
could two lives endure, how much betrayal and pain could
they suffer, without collapsing from the weight. To work
through the nightmares, might be psychologically
beneficial, but who had the time to afford to this self-
healing.
So they shoved it all down, pushing every monster, every
betrayal and tragedy deep into the inner recesses of their
minds. All it added was one more layer of distrust, one
more emotional wall separating them from the rest of the
world.
Mulder gently reached down, picking up the discarded
picture from the floor, laying it face down on top of the
table. Haunting him was the visage of the mother, bent
protectively over her child.
"How long have you been standing there?," he sighed rising
and facing the window again. He could hear her soft breaths
coming from the doorway between their adjoining rooms. He
had on a subconscious level been aware of her presence for
some time. Whether it had been a "feeling" or his brain's
awareness of her delicate perfume, he had known she was
there. He just hadn't been ready to recognize it yet.
"Awhile," she replied, moving farther into the room, far
enough for her to be seen in the diffused light of the
window but still distanced from him. It was as if she were
afraid of getting too close.
"What do you see out there, Mulder," Scully queried. "What
holds you tonight and keeps you from sleep?"
"Ah, Scully. You know me. Since when do I need an excuse
not to visit with the sandman. He and I haven't been on
speaking terms in quite some time. How do you spell
insomnia?..M..U..L."
"Mulder you're avoiding."
"Scully you're "mothering..he trailed off, letting the
words just hang there.
"I'm sorry Scully," he apologized slowly turning from the
window to face his partner. He could kick himself for
inflicting the hurt she quickly tried to cover up by
organizing his haphazard mess on the table.
"That was another example of me having the sensitivity of a
turnip where your feelings are concerned."
"Well maybe Mr. Potato head", she affectionately recalled,
alluding to the potato faces he had made for Emily just
last year. "Mulder, don't beat yourself up. I'm .
"fine", he finished for her with a smirk.
She chuckled, pushing a strand of auburn hair behind her
ear.
"Yes , Mulder, I'm fine. I won't say that the last few days
haven't been difficult.. but Mulder, thoughts of Emily are
always with me. Today isn't any different from any other
day with regards to that."
Mulder walked toward her, putting his hand gently over the
back of her neck, briefly touching the spot where her
implant was imbedded. Resignedly dropping his hand to his
side, he said, "Yes, but it's not every day you have to
deal with those memories as well as confronting the
possible consequences of having that thing a part of your
body."
"No, Mulder, it's been a hell of a day. You're right."
Scully reached down to the table. Picking up the photo
that had so fascinated him. "I won't lie to you. Seeing all
this again just makes me feel sick and scared and
vulnerable and so many other emotions that I can't begin to
quantify them all. And yes, my feelings about Emily are all
jumbled up in there somewhere but you know that.," she
finished.
"This," she gestured at the window and the thunderous
downpour wreaking havoc outside, "is not about all that
though. This is about you, Mulder. There's more going on
tonight than your usual guilt trip where I'm concerned.
You've been this way since this afternoon."
Scully tentatively reached out, placing her hand on his
forearm, touching the soft fleece of his sweatshirt. She
raised her face to his, forcing him to meet her eyes, to
stare into their compassionate blue countenance.
"What did the coroner say to you this afternoon?" Scully
felt the tremor in his arm as he pulled away from her. He
walked back to the window just as a lightening flash
illuminated the room and his face enough to see his pained
expression.
"I know there was something," she pressed. "I was coming to
talk with you just as you were finishing up with her. You
blew right by me as though I weren't there. And I know damn
well you saw me."
Mulder continued gazing out the window, not really with any
cognizance as to what he was seeing. The silence from her
unanswered questions filled the room but Scully waited. She
seated herself on the edge of his bed trying to get
comfortable. As the quiet loomed between them, she scooted
herself farther up pulling one of the pillows out from
beneath the spread. She lay down on her stomach, situating
the pillow up under her crossed arms. She rested her head
while she watched and waited for him.
He knew that he would eventually have to give in. She was
going to lay there and wait. More times than not they
avoided the emotional minefields of their lives. Knowing
each time they revealed a little more of themselves, it
only made it harder to deny the strength of their feelings
toward one another. And for reasons he couldn't even
remember, he knew he should keep that distance from her,
not allow himself to sink into the comfort that she could
offer.
Mulder turned abruptly. He pulled the curtains tightly
closed, effectively blocking out any light save for the
narrow glowing band spilling over the edges of the drapes
where they came together less than perfectly. The sliver of
light was no more than a night light but it was sufficient
for him to at least dimly view her face. He slid his long
body down the wall, resting with his back against the door,
facing the bed where she reclined patiently. He dangled his
hands over his bent knees and looked up at her.
"Hey Scully?"
"Yes Mulder."
"Do you remember?" he started.
"Our first case. It was the night I careened into your
hotel room in the middle of a storm scared to death I was
going to be the next abduction victim," she finished for
him.
"Ah, you were so cute Scully."
"I was naive Mulder. I had no idea of the "real life
monsters" that exist. I let your passion for your work
inspire ghost stories in my mind. I didn't give them any
more credence than a footnote in my field journal of the
ravings of my "brilliant, albeit crackpot" partner. I had
no idea the man yelling "the sky is falling, the sky is
falling" was a prophet.
" Ewhh! Scully I always hated that story, Foxy Loxy,
remember?" Mulder said with a disgusted look on his face.
Scully scrunched her pillow up a little more trying to get
more comfortable as she peered at Mulder in the darkness.
"Quit stalling, Mulder. Just talk to me. I know it's a new
concept between us. Two reasonably intelligent people
should be able to practice a little verbal communication.
The way we suppress and repress everything of importance in
our lives would keep the mental health community rolling in
dough for years to come.
"You know I love you don't you," Mulder began with
hesitation in his voice. "I mean I may be verbally
challenged when it comes to conveying it, but you do know ,
right?"
"Yes," Scully replied with equal deliberation. "But it is
nice to hear it anyway."
Mulder rubbed his hand over his face, rubbing the grime of
the day into his pores. He pinched the bridge of his nose,
squinting like he was trying to avoid a bright light. There
was nothing but muted darkness.
"Well, hell, while I'm playing true confessions, maybe I
should enumerate on your various attributes," Mulder
playfully leered as if he had just noticed the presence of
his partner decked out in her green silk pajamas lying
across from him.
"Mulder", Scully admonished. "Behave."
He looked up, dejavu from that first case where they had
settled down to talk for the first time, he sitting on the
floor, she stretched out above him on the hotel bed. He
remembered how he had told her about Samantha, trying to
shock her, see if she'd react as most people did with
patronizing disbelief.
"Mulder", Scully said pulling him out of his reverie.
"Give."
Resignedly, he began. Not quite sure if he could make it
all come out right but willing to risk it, to take a chance
for once. For a man who faced monsters and aliens on a
daily basis, facing Scully and his inner most emotions was
downright terrifying.
"The coroner came up to me as I was examining the bodies of
the mother and child from that photo you were looking at. I
guess I had been staring at them for awhile. She noticed my
reflection and asked me if I had children," he began
looking Scully fully in the eye for perhaps the first time
since she walked in the room.
"With the life I lead, with the dysfunctional family I come
from, and my search for Sam, I guess I really haven't
allowed myself to dwell on the fact I might someday have a
life past all this," he paused, moving his arm around the
room to encompass it in all its tacky Motel 6 glory.
"It's not as though I've felt pulled to procreate, Scully,
let's face it, the only connection I feel with salmon is
having them grilled with a little butter and lemon. No I
haven't felt drawn to pass on the Mulder gene pool. God,
what a joke."
Scully reached her hand down off the bed dangling it within
Mulder's reach. He slid over slightly so he could reach it.
He grasped firmly on to its cool, smoothness as though it
were a lifeline. She held on tightly, saying nothing,
allowing him to continue at his own pace. She wanted to
assure him that she was ok, this conversation was not too
much for her.
Actually it was long overdue. She knew where he was headed.
She'd already been there. She had dealt with all of this
during the last year as she grieved for Emily and mourned
the future children she would never have-not only her
future but.
"We'll never be able to have children Scully," he whispered
looking up at her with glistening eyes.
"No, Mulder, we won't," she answered. It never occurred to
her to play dumb about what he was intimating, to pretend
she didn't understand he wanted to give her children, his
children.
" I guess..ah.. I just hadn't processed the fact that
you're being..that you not being able to have," he
stumbled.
Scully smiled wistfully at his discomfort, twisting her
body until she was sitting up on the end of the bed. She
pulled him gently up beside her, wrapping her arms around
him, holding on for dear life.
Pressing her face into his shoulder, she said, "You can say
it Mulder. I'm sterile. The bastards have made me barren
and you have just come to realize."
"I'm barren too." Mulder finished, pushing away slightly so
he could look down into her eyes.
"They've stolen our children."
"Yes, Mulder, our children," she echoed, pulling him back
with her onto the bed. She kept him wrapped in her arms,
pulling the blankets over them. She settled them down
within the soft cocoon.
The rain outside was diminishing. She could barely make
out the spatters in the night. She heard the faint sounds
of a baby crying through the wall from the room behind
their headboard. She felt the tired presence of Mulder,
lying comforted in her arms.
They needed to talk, it was past time. Conspiracies and
global apocalypse be damned. But not tonight.
fin
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