Vehicle and Tenor

RATING: PG-13 

CATEGORY: Gibson POV 

FEEDBACK: Please? Growing writers need their daily supply. 

SPOILERS: Brief spoilers for "The Beginning," "Within", "Without" and "The Truth." 

SUMMARY: How Gibson and Mulder spent Season Nine or, A love song for Jeff Gulka. The poor kid's going through such a protracted awkward phase. 

DISCLAIMER: Not mine, etc.

Every literary comparison is made up of two parts, Ms. Minerva says as she stands in front of the blackboard. The vehicle and the tenor. Ms. Minverva points to each word. The tenor is the thing that is being described. The vehicle is the actual comparison.

*

It's taken Gibson ten days to get used to Mulder's presence in the trailer. Neither of them sleeps at all the first few nights. Mulder moves behind the curtains of his makeshift bedroom, broadcasting rage and despair at such high frequencies Gibson's head starts to hurt. Most people think either in a stream of non-sequiturs or in washes of feeling. Mulder thinks in both and his mind never rests.

scullyscullymissyoumissyouwilliamamidoingtherightthing A burst of grief so hard it feels like a fist to the stomach. fuckingmiddleofnowhereican'tprotectthemhereuseless

Gibson stays awake until he's so tired he collapses into a drugged sleep. Even then, Mulder's thoughts seep into his dreams. Gibson dreams of needles embedded in his face and a saw that cuts him wide open. He dreams of green blood oozing out of a baby's fontanel, the soft spot in the skull where the bones haven't knit together yet.

By the tenth day, Mulder's thoughts die down enough so that Gibson can sleep that night. On the eleventh day, Mulder cooks them both scrambled eggs and bacon and asks over the runny yellow eggs, "So Gibson, what's a guy like you doing in a place like this?"

*

Let's look at the line "When the evening is spread out against the sky, like a patient etherized upon a table," Ms. Minerva says. She writes the line out awkwardly. The words lurch up and down on the blackboard. The evening sky is the tenor. The patient on the table is the vehicle. Ms. Minerva smiles nervously at the class. She is very young. Barely out of college. She has large teeth and orange-tinged hair. She looks a little like a pleading orangutan. Don't worry, she says. This gets easier with practice.

*

How Gibson ended up in Weed Hope (population 253) is a question he can't answer. He only remembers the past four years in bits and pieces. He knows that's because of the tests the man with the cigarettes insisted the doctors perform. He doesn't remember very much about the tests themselves except for a dull scraping sound not too different from the sound the dentist makes when he scratches at a patient's plaque build-up.

If he concentrates hard enough, Gibson can remember details. Agent Scully holding his bleeding head in the backseat of a car. Cold, thick ice cream sliding down his throat in a New Mexico hospital bed. Thea's long fingers and square, blunt fingernails signing, "They were asking questions about you, Gibson." A big, bald man carrying him in the desert. A social worker walking him into a school building. "This is a school for gifted children with special needs, Gibson," she tells him in that overly sweet tone women insist on using with him even though he's fifteen now. The Lone Gunmen standing at the trailer door. "You'll be completely safe here, Gibson," Byers says in his kind, formal way. "You know how to contact us if you need anything. Right, kiddo?" Frohike asks. Langley doesn't say anything, but he gives Gibson another hundred dollars when Byers isn't looking.

Even put together, these details aren't enough. Every night, Gibson closes his eyes and tries to make the pieces fit into a whole, but he has no idea what happened in the spaces between the moments that he remembers. It's like he's trying to sing the alphabet song when he only knows five letters.

B, E, K, P, W.

I need to know my "ABC"'s. Otherwise how will I ever get to "Z"?

*

Think of it this way, Ms. Minerva says. The word "vehicle" has two meanings. There's the meaning we're all familiar with. A vehicle is a car. There's also a secondary meaning. A vehicle is a means by which something is done. So, in the case of a literary comparison, the vehicle is the means by which the comparison is made. Ms. Minerva smiles at the class again. Why don't you give us an example of a literary comparison, Gibson? she asks.

*

Some days, Mulder is like the annoying kid at the back of the classroom that Gibson never was.

It's Tuesday night and "Angel" is on the WB. Gibson sits on one end of the sagging couch while Mulder lounges on the other. The air still smells like dinner: slightly burnt tomato sauce and barely cooked pasta. Mulder keeps a silent running commentary on "Angel."

"Not another Angelus flashback," he mentally grumbles as the actors parade around in stiff eighteenth century costumes and even stiffer accents. Gibson has to agree. Angelus isn't a very impressive vampire. He always seems to get caught and then tortured in strangely kinky ways. The only thing about Angelus that's scary is his bad Irish brogue.

"Don't they have dialogue coaches on the set?" Mulder scowls at the TV. The scene has shifted back to contemporary LA where Angel confronts Lilah and tells her to drop the "femme fatale" routine. Only, he pronounces it "femme fay-tail."

"Who is this Fred character and why do the writers make her talk this way?"

Gibson wants Mulder to be quiet. Cordelia's onscreen now and she's talking to Angel. She's sharp and beautiful, even with too short, too blond hair. She looks up at Angel with understanding and something that seems like love. Next to her, Angel looks even more lumpy than usual.

"Isn't Cordelia supposed to be a bitch?" Mulder fidgets at his end of the sofa. He has a hard time sitting still for long periods of time.

Angel enters a new scene carrying Connor. He makes goofy faces at the baby and tries to sing a lullaby. Next to Gibson, Mulder has gone completely still.

missyouwilliamohfuckimissyousomuchwhatareyoudoingrightnowscully A tiny baby fist and a red, newborn baby face. Sadness so hard Gibson almost doubles over in pain. williamwilliamwilliamwillliamwilliamwilliamwilliamwilliamwilliam

The Verizon commercial comes on. Mulder's eyes are closed. His knuckles are white from clenching the remote too hard. Gibson wants to throw up. Mulder's feelings are too strong. Mulder himself is too close right now.

The end credits roll and Mulder still hasn't said a word. Gibson doesn't know what to do. Part of him knows he should say something comforting, or at least sympathetic. Part of him just wants to slide the remote from Mulder's grasp and change the channel. Maybe he can find a basketball game.

Twelve minutes into the ten o'clock news Mulder finally lets go of the remote control. He gives Gibson a thin smile. "I can't believe they pay that Boreanaz guy to act," Mulder says in a choked voice. He looks like he's about to cry.

Gibson tries to smile back. He knows he can't have smiled very convincingly, but it's enough to reassure Mulder somehow. Mulder closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. When he opens his eyes again, his thoughts recede into a dim, staticky hum in Gibson's mind. He looks at Gibson with wry amusement. "I was beginning to think nothing made you laugh."

Gibson can feel himself starting to turn red. He knows he's a weirdly solemn kid. He's heard that from too many people's thoughts for it not to be true.

"Hey," Mulder leans in towards him. "Don't worry about it, Gibson. Scully's an even tougher audience than you are."

*

Then, there are the times Mulder is like the older brother Gibson never had.

Mulder is trying to teach him how to play basketball. The two of them stand on the court under the night sky and Gibson bounces the ball. Even in the winter, the air is warm and heavy. Gibson tugs at the Kobe Bryant jersey the Gunmen sent him for Christmas. It's too tight around the neck and the shoulders and is so long it covers the shorts he's wearing. He looks like a yellow and purple reject from the Peanuts. "You have to put more bend in your wrist when you shoot," Mulder says as he steals the ball. "Like this." His jump shot arcs through the net, textbook perfect. "Try it."

Gibson lines the ball up with the basket the best he can. He feels clumsy. The ball barely touches the rim.

"Try it again," Mulder tells him.

Gibson walks across the court to get the ball. The blacktop sinks under his shoes with every step he takes. Under the lights, Mulder bounces on the balls of his feet.

Aim and shoot, Gibson tells himself. The ball goes over the backboard.

"Again," Mulder says neutrally.

Gibson aims just as Mulder's mind flashes to an image of a gawky redheaded kid with Coke-bottle glasses and knobby knees. Jerry Kroner from tenth grade. Jerry stands at the foul line, elbows jutting out at an awkward angle. He shoots and the ball falls short of the basket. Gibson shakes his head and tries to aim again. Jerry Kroner's gone from Mulder's thoughts. A tall, brown-haired boy stands in his place. His face is in the shadows. This boy hits a fade-away jumper with lithe grace. He's William as Mulder pictures him at fifteen. The ball drops from Gibson's hands.

"You've almost got it," Mulder says. He looks embarrassed. "Try it one more time, Gibson, and we'll call it a night."

Gibson wants to say no. They both know the truth. The Kobe Bryant jersey is an ironic joke. Playing basketball is an ironic joke on a kid who only ever won at chess.

"One more time, Gibson," Mulder isn't exactly pleading, but his eyes are hooded and pained.

Gibson lines the ball up with the basket. He takes his time. He bends his wrist and releases the ball. It makes a soft swish as it falls through the net.

In Mulder's mind, Jerry Kroner aims and hits a three from way beyond the arc. A tall, blurry figure, Mulder's mental version of himself, slaps Jerry on the back in congratulations. Jerry smiles.

"Lemonade's on me," Mulder says. He puts his hand on Gibson's shoulder and Gibson feels like he's been made a member of a super secret club.

*

It's easier to separate the vehicle from the tenor in a simile than it is to separate the vehicle from the tenor in a metaphor, Ms. Minerva says. In a metaphor, the vehicle and tenor are Siamese twins joined together at the hip. In a simile, the vehicle and tenor are like a mother and a baby connected by an umbilical cord. Ms. Minerva smiles. She's pleased by the examples she's given the class.

*

Someone keeps howling, "Noooo!" and Gibson needs a few minutes to realize that he's the one screaming. His throat hurts and he's somewhere cold and dark and cramped.

"Gibson," a voice says. "Gibson," it repeats with greater urgency. "It's okay." The voice sounds like Mulder's, but Gibson doesn't want to open his eyes to see if he's right. "Gibson. You had a bad dream." A strong hand suddenly closes around his arm and Gibson opens his eyes with a gasp. He's huddled in the corner between his bed and his desk. Mulder crouches before him, hair standing up at wild angles.

"Gibson," Mulder half-smiles in relief. "You were having a bad dream."

"I'm sorry," Gibson whispers and the words make his throat feel raw. His arms and legs can't stop trembling.

"I'm going to turn the light on, okay?" Mulder asks. Gibson nods. If he had the energy, he would be offended by Mulder's sickbed tones.

The desk lamp shines down and Gibson feels a sudden, sharp panic. He doesn't usually remember his nightmares, but this time he's back where it's cold and it's bright and he screams and he screams while a doctor saws open his head and his mother and his father stand in line to look inside his brain.

"Gibson," Mulder has him by the shoulders and is shaking him gently. "It's a bad dream. You're here. You're safe."

Gibson can hear his own breathing, harsh and rasping in his ears. He leans his head against the edge of his bed and closes his eyes against the light. He's too tired to pull away from Mulder's grasp. Even more embarrassingly, he wants to curl into Mulder's calm understanding.

"I'll be right back," Mulder says. There's the click of a cupboard and the hiss of the faucet. Gibson tries to open his eyes, tries to unbend himself enough to get up. He manages to stand up and take a few steps before his unsteady legs give out.

"I've got you, Gibson." Mulder has him in a grip that's half embrace, half chokehold. Gibson can just imagine the picture they make.

"I'm okay," he says, even as he sags further into Mulder's arms.

"Let's get you to bed," Mulder says with a small, wry smile. In his mind, he has his arms around Scully. The two of them are lying in bed with the sheets tangled around them. Scully is all big blue eyes and swollen red mouth in Mulder's memory. "I don't want to wrestle," she tells him as he tugs her closer to him.

Gibson turns his head away and closes his eyes again. He can still see Scully's blue eyes and red lips. The hair on Mulder's arms and legs rubs against him thick and coarse and it's all Gibson can do not to start crying. He is fifteen and either genetics or the tests he's been subjected to have left him as smooth and hairless as a baby.

Mulder eases him onto the bed, pulls the blankets around him, and holds out a glass of water. Gibson wraps his fingers around the cool, smooth glass, puts the rim to his mouth. Before he can take a sip, his teeth start to chatter and his hand starts to shake.

"Easy," Mulder says. He steadies Gibson's hand, cups his head at the base of his neck so that he can drink. Gibson's reminded of his mother and the way she would feed him hot chocolate spoonful by spoonful when he was sick. He's surprised to discover he's crying silent tears that slip into his glass.

"Do you think you can go back to sleep?" Mulder asks. He wipes sweat and tears from Gibson's face with a warm washcloth. Gibson nods, puts on a brave front. He can hear his mother saying, "You're a big boy now, Gibson. I can't stay with you the whole night."

"I'll sit right here for a while if you want," Mulder offers. He smoothes Gibson's hair from his forehead. Gibson sighs, nods.

When he wakes up again later that night, Mulder's silhouette is still etched sharp against the soft glow of the lamp.

*

When you think about it, similes are the saddest literary comparisons of all, Ms. Minerva says. Only the word "like" or "as" connects the vehicle to its tenor. Ms. Minerva's smile begins to droop. That one small word may not be enough to keep the vehicle and the tenor together. A tear slides down Ms. Minerva's cheek. She is crying and the whole class knows she isn't really crying about figures of speech. What happens if the tenor doesn't want its vehicle anymore? Ms. Minerva stands in front of the blackboard, her face helplessly twisting into a tragic mask.

*

Gibson and Mulder sit in Annie's Home Cookin' Diner, the only restaurant within a two hour driving distance, and poke at huge plates of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and carrots. Neither of them has said a word since Annie, a mousy woman with startled eyes, took their orders. Every few minutes, Gibson glances at the present next to his plate. It's wrapped in lime-green paper dotted all over with gray alien heads. Mulder can't resist loud, obnoxious wrapping paper anymore than he can resist making a bad pun.

"Don't forget to take out the garbage tomorrow night," Mulder says. His eyes constantly scan the restaurant's small dining room.

Gibson nods and plays with his glazed carrots. Mulder's been like this all day, edgy and full of reminders about the things Gibson can't forget in his absence.

"And don't eat the leftover hamburgers. They've been in the refrigerator for almost a week now." A middle-aged man in a rumpled business suit walks into the restaurant. Mulder tenses, watches the man out of the corner of his eyes. The man head towards the kitchen and the restrooms.

"He's okay," Gibson says. "He just really needs to go."

Mulder relaxes a little and takes a bite of his mashed potatoes. "These are good," he says around a mouthful. "Definitely better than the stuff that comes out of a box."

Gibson drags his fork through his mashed potatoes. They're thick and creamy and look homemade. He'd eat, but these past few days, everything he puts in his mouth tastes like dust.

"Try some," Mulder urges and Gibson wishes he'd just shut up. Mulder's not very good at playing mother hen.

"I'm not hungry," Gibson says.

Annie comes around at that moment to ask if everything's okay. Gibson nods, eats a carrot, tries not to think about how baby carrots look like small, blunt fingers. Mulder smiles politely and says, "Everything's great." Annie's cheeks turn a dull red. She refills their water glasses with hands that shake.

"She likes you," Gibson says once Annie's out of earshot. "She noticed you weren't wearing a wedding ring and she wanted to know how long your wife has been dead." He knows he's being spiteful, but Annie also wanted to know why such a good-looking man could have such a gawky looking son.

Mulder puts his fork down and looks at Gibson levelly. Gibson stares down at his plate, takes a drink of water.

"If you're really not hungry, why don't you get that wrapped up and we'll go?" Mulder asks. He signals Annie, who comes over to their table immediately.

"Is it somebody's birthday?" she asks in a quavering voice.

"Fifteenth birthday," Mulder says smoothly. "Going away dinner" probably would sound a little strange.

"Isn't that nice?" Annie gathers plates and cups together. She glances at Gibson. "I'll be right back with your check."

Gibson catches a glimpse of their reflections in the window. He and Mulder do present a familial scene: sulky son and frustrated father. He straightens up in his seat and reaches for his present. "Nice wrapping paper," he says. He tries for teasing and almost succeeds.

"Everyone's a critic," Mulder says. He chews on a toothpick. "Don't just sit there admiring the aliens. Open it."

Gibson rips at the big-eyed aliens and discovers a sleek-looking modem and a pair of season tickets to the Wizards.

"That's the latest in Internet technology," Mulder tells him in a carefully casual voice. "You should write to Scully. She'd like to know how you're doing."

"I will," Gibson promises.

"These are for next year," Mulder points at the tickets. "You and me. We'll see if we can drag Scully and William along." His mind flashes to the four of them sitting courtside. Gibson's holding William while Mulder has his arm around Scully.

Gibson's breath catches and he blinks tears away. Mulder smiles a genuine smile for the first time tonight. "Jordan's supposed to make a comeback. I figured you'd want to see that."

*

When word comes that Mulder's in trouble and needs his help, there's only one choice Gibson can make. He leaves the trailer and steps out into the hot summer sun without a backward glance.

*

"People they come together, people they come apart, " the radio sings. Gibson sits in the backseat of a speeding car and tries to sort out everything that's happened since he left Weed Hope. In front, Agent Doggett drives while Agent Reyes naps. They've been taking turns driving for the past thirty-six hours straight.

"Nothing can stop us now. We are all made of stars," the radio promises. Gibson isn't so optimistic. It's precisely because only some people are made of stars that he and Agent Doggett and Agent Reyes and Mulder and Scully are all on the run now. Star-stuff runs through his genes and probably runs through William's as well.

Gibson closes his eyes against his last memories of Scully's strained, white face and Mulder's fierce, feral eyes. Scully had kissed him on the forehead, a soft, gentle kiss that could only remind him of mothers and home. Mulder had put his hand against his cheek in a good-bye that threatened to undo Gibson altogether. He swears something tore inside him when Mulder turned away.

"You hungry, Gibson?" Agent Doggett asks. His eyes are numb, but his mind is one long howl of outrage and bewilderment.

"Not right now, thank you," Gibson says. He stares up at the night sky. He's made of stars. He's a satellite that's lost the planet it used to revolve around. He's like a satellite without a planet. He stares up at the night sky, thinks about similes, and wonders how long it's going to take him to get used to Agent Doggett and Agent Reyes' thoughts.

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