File size: 8k
Title: Five Days from Friday
Author: Aubrey Black (aubreyblack@hotmail.com) Rating: G
Category: V
Spoilers: None, really. Set in the post-"Truth" world.
Summary: "So you're leaving
In the morning
On the early train
Well I could say everything's alright
And I could pretend and say goodbye..."
Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Five Days From Friday
"Scully," I said. "We need to talk."
And we did. But where all the talking got us, I'll never know.
Well, I know where it got me. It got me to this station. To be precise, this hard, wooden bench by platform 10a. Staring over the concourse, past the tracks that a few hours ago carried away a train - a train that contained the only precious thing in my life.
Scully. Scully gone on a train. Gone to have a life. To go be a doctor. To forget about me.
We've talked before, of course. You don't know someone for ten years and not have the occasional conversation. Even the occasional conversation about something important. Something critical. Like... choices. We've talked about choices before - whether they're really ours to make. Whether there's a right or wrong choice, or maybe, in the end, whether there's any choice at all. All I know is that whatever the case, I made the wrong choice when I opened my mouth that Friday night. Last Friday night - only five days ago, in fact. Five days from last Friday until the end of the world.
The lines of communication shut down completely after that night. It's happened before - she's told me she's leaving, she's resigned, it happened before... well, before Antarctica. But this time it's different - this time there's no Bureau to leave, no X-Files - this time there's only me. And while every other time she's nearly walked out on me I've berated myself, made it personal, made it about me and not the work, this time I know it's me she's leaving. For reasons that are entirely about her, perhaps, but it's me she's leaving. These days, there's nothing else left to leave.
I tried to talk to her again last night - I should know better, but there's always been that streak of the masochist in me, after all. Casually, almost slyly, I suppose you could say, it was my last, most desperate attempt. It's not that I'm not one for grand gestures, last ditch impassioned speeches - don't get me wrong, I've pulled out the big guns on more than one occasion in our ten-year relationship, but this time... this is different. This is one of those times where I'm so hurt, so deeply confused that all I want to do is hurt her back. Childish, I know, but I thought if I acted as if I didn't really care... I don't know why I did it, now. As if she could ever think that was true. As if she could ever think that this wasn't killing me.
I slept on the couch. And when I woke up in the morning she was standing there, already packed. Just standing in the middle of the living room, not looking at anything in particular, suitcase at her feet, ticket in hand. Almost as if... almost as if she'd been going to leave, to sneak out before I woke, but something stopped her. Perhaps I stopped her, an unexpected sentinel, guarding the door to the apartment as he slept. I wonder if she was suprised to find my half of the bed empty when she woke. Every other night this week I've climbed into bed late, long after she's been asleep and stayed there until late in the morning, waking to find her already gone. Did she feel the same moment of panic I did, waking to find her not there? When she saw me back on the couch, back in my natural habitat, did that stir something in her? Maybe she caught a glimpse of what I used to be. What I will become, again, without her.
In any case, it wasn't enough to stop her.
The taxi, duly called, arrived after a silent breakfast. I don't know if she was surprised when I slid onto the dull maroon seat before her, I didn't look up to catch the start in her body, the raised eyebrow. I kept my eyes fixed stubbornly on the fire hydrant on the opposite side of the street. It was as if that hydrant could give me answers, could tell me why this was happening to me. To us. But all too soon she slid in after me, keeping as close to the other side as possible. She shut the door and the taxi pulled away, and the hydrant retreated into the distance. I didn't watch it go. I'm sure it didn't watch me.
The trip was as silent as breakfast, not long. She was out the door and struggling with her bag almost before the car had stopped. I moved to help her, automatically, to take the case from her, to plant my hand in the small of her back and propel her across the courtyard and into the building, but the look she threw my way made me stop. Amazing how she can give me looks like that without even making eye contact. So as the taxi pulled away I followed her already retreating figure through the double doors and into the station. So proud, her body held so erect, as always. I hovered by the door as she checked her bag. Watched as she disappeared into the small bookstore and reappeared a few minutes later with a paperback and a chocolate bar. My eyes followed her into a coffee shop and out again and finally over to one of the hard, white moulded-plastic rows of chairs. She didn't once look at me, but she was watching, all the same.
Eventually I crossed the crowded room and took a seat next to her. She didn't look up, she was several pages into the book already. I noticed over the next few minutes, though, that the pages never turned, her eyes never seemed to move, in fact they were glassy, fixed on a point beyond her knees but before the floor. She didn't know why I was still here. Why I had come at all, why I hadn't run off last night in a fit of anger and frustration, hit the bars, not come home. In the old days maybe I would have. Maybe I would have turned up on the guy's doorstep at two in the morning, bottle in hand and hounded Frohike for a couch for the night. Maybe he would have made me coffee, listened to me tell my story and eventually convinced me to go and sort it out with Scully before he assumed she was "on the market" again and made his long-postponed "move". But that was then. The guys are gone, and I've got nowhere to go. No one to give me coffee and sympathy. No one to stick by, except for her. So in the end, that was what I did.
They called her train eventually. She got up, walked to the concourse, waited amongst the crowd. I could have hung back but I didn't, I stuck by her side the whole way, right until the last moment. I didn't look at her - couldn't look at her. She didn't look at me. If I'd looked at her - if I'd made any move at all I would have cracked, broken right through. I would have smashed to pieces on the concrete platform, right in front of the 9:15 train. The passengers heels would have ground me to dust in no time, the wind blown me away. Perhaps some of the dust would have settled on Scully, followed her wherever she's gone. Perhaps it would have been for the best.
And then she was gone, and I walked away. I got all the way across the concourse, stood in the middle of the station atrium and realised I had nowhere to go. So I turned around, walked back to the platform and sat down here. The tears didn't come for a long time, not until the station hit a lull between trains. They came in the silence between trains.
And so here I am. The trains have come and gone, the commuters filling and emptying the platform in waves, washing over me, around me. I don't know how long I've been sitting here, but I know that I can still hear the echo of the whistle that sent her away from me. I can see her walk through that door and never once look back. I can see her last week, last Tuesday, starting to look strained. To look distant. To pull away when I touched her.
I can see her last year, eyes glowing, exquisite as she held our baby in her arms. As she kissed me over him, and everything was perfect. In hospital, knocked down but never beaten by cancer. In a forest, still singing, long after she thought I was asleep and not looking. In Oregon, laughing in the rain. In my office, hand extended, all youth and cautious enthusiasm. The enigmatic Dr Scully, sent to spy on me. Sent to rein me in.
Sent to be my partner.
My partner. Gone now.
Just... gone.
I think I might sit here forever.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Those of you who are perceptive may have noticed that this fic was inspired by the Phil Collins song "Can't Stop Loving You". Cheers now. Have a bundt cake.
Feedback is always appriciated at aubreyblack@hotmail.com
Title: Five Days from Friday
Author: Aubrey Black (aubreyblack@hotmail.com) Rating: G
Category: V
Spoilers: None, really. Set in the post-"Truth" world.
Summary: "So you're leaving
In the morning
On the early train
Well I could say everything's alright
And I could pretend and say goodbye..."
Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Five Days From Friday
"Scully," I said. "We need to talk."
And we did. But where all the talking got us, I'll never know.
Well, I know where it got me. It got me to this station. To be precise, this hard, wooden bench by platform 10a. Staring over the concourse, past the tracks that a few hours ago carried away a train - a train that contained the only precious thing in my life.
Scully. Scully gone on a train. Gone to have a life. To go be a doctor. To forget about me.
We've talked before, of course. You don't know someone for ten years and not have the occasional conversation. Even the occasional conversation about something important. Something critical. Like... choices. We've talked about choices before - whether they're really ours to make. Whether there's a right or wrong choice, or maybe, in the end, whether there's any choice at all. All I know is that whatever the case, I made the wrong choice when I opened my mouth that Friday night. Last Friday night - only five days ago, in fact. Five days from last Friday until the end of the world.
The lines of communication shut down completely after that night. It's happened before - she's told me she's leaving, she's resigned, it happened before... well, before Antarctica. But this time it's different - this time there's no Bureau to leave, no X-Files - this time there's only me. And while every other time she's nearly walked out on me I've berated myself, made it personal, made it about me and not the work, this time I know it's me she's leaving. For reasons that are entirely about her, perhaps, but it's me she's leaving. These days, there's nothing else left to leave.
I tried to talk to her again last night - I should know better, but there's always been that streak of the masochist in me, after all. Casually, almost slyly, I suppose you could say, it was my last, most desperate attempt. It's not that I'm not one for grand gestures, last ditch impassioned speeches - don't get me wrong, I've pulled out the big guns on more than one occasion in our ten-year relationship, but this time... this is different. This is one of those times where I'm so hurt, so deeply confused that all I want to do is hurt her back. Childish, I know, but I thought if I acted as if I didn't really care... I don't know why I did it, now. As if she could ever think that was true. As if she could ever think that this wasn't killing me.
I slept on the couch. And when I woke up in the morning she was standing there, already packed. Just standing in the middle of the living room, not looking at anything in particular, suitcase at her feet, ticket in hand. Almost as if... almost as if she'd been going to leave, to sneak out before I woke, but something stopped her. Perhaps I stopped her, an unexpected sentinel, guarding the door to the apartment as he slept. I wonder if she was suprised to find my half of the bed empty when she woke. Every other night this week I've climbed into bed late, long after she's been asleep and stayed there until late in the morning, waking to find her already gone. Did she feel the same moment of panic I did, waking to find her not there? When she saw me back on the couch, back in my natural habitat, did that stir something in her? Maybe she caught a glimpse of what I used to be. What I will become, again, without her.
In any case, it wasn't enough to stop her.
The taxi, duly called, arrived after a silent breakfast. I don't know if she was surprised when I slid onto the dull maroon seat before her, I didn't look up to catch the start in her body, the raised eyebrow. I kept my eyes fixed stubbornly on the fire hydrant on the opposite side of the street. It was as if that hydrant could give me answers, could tell me why this was happening to me. To us. But all too soon she slid in after me, keeping as close to the other side as possible. She shut the door and the taxi pulled away, and the hydrant retreated into the distance. I didn't watch it go. I'm sure it didn't watch me.
The trip was as silent as breakfast, not long. She was out the door and struggling with her bag almost before the car had stopped. I moved to help her, automatically, to take the case from her, to plant my hand in the small of her back and propel her across the courtyard and into the building, but the look she threw my way made me stop. Amazing how she can give me looks like that without even making eye contact. So as the taxi pulled away I followed her already retreating figure through the double doors and into the station. So proud, her body held so erect, as always. I hovered by the door as she checked her bag. Watched as she disappeared into the small bookstore and reappeared a few minutes later with a paperback and a chocolate bar. My eyes followed her into a coffee shop and out again and finally over to one of the hard, white moulded-plastic rows of chairs. She didn't once look at me, but she was watching, all the same.
Eventually I crossed the crowded room and took a seat next to her. She didn't look up, she was several pages into the book already. I noticed over the next few minutes, though, that the pages never turned, her eyes never seemed to move, in fact they were glassy, fixed on a point beyond her knees but before the floor. She didn't know why I was still here. Why I had come at all, why I hadn't run off last night in a fit of anger and frustration, hit the bars, not come home. In the old days maybe I would have. Maybe I would have turned up on the guy's doorstep at two in the morning, bottle in hand and hounded Frohike for a couch for the night. Maybe he would have made me coffee, listened to me tell my story and eventually convinced me to go and sort it out with Scully before he assumed she was "on the market" again and made his long-postponed "move". But that was then. The guys are gone, and I've got nowhere to go. No one to give me coffee and sympathy. No one to stick by, except for her. So in the end, that was what I did.
They called her train eventually. She got up, walked to the concourse, waited amongst the crowd. I could have hung back but I didn't, I stuck by her side the whole way, right until the last moment. I didn't look at her - couldn't look at her. She didn't look at me. If I'd looked at her - if I'd made any move at all I would have cracked, broken right through. I would have smashed to pieces on the concrete platform, right in front of the 9:15 train. The passengers heels would have ground me to dust in no time, the wind blown me away. Perhaps some of the dust would have settled on Scully, followed her wherever she's gone. Perhaps it would have been for the best.
And then she was gone, and I walked away. I got all the way across the concourse, stood in the middle of the station atrium and realised I had nowhere to go. So I turned around, walked back to the platform and sat down here. The tears didn't come for a long time, not until the station hit a lull between trains. They came in the silence between trains.
And so here I am. The trains have come and gone, the commuters filling and emptying the platform in waves, washing over me, around me. I don't know how long I've been sitting here, but I know that I can still hear the echo of the whistle that sent her away from me. I can see her walk through that door and never once look back. I can see her last week, last Tuesday, starting to look strained. To look distant. To pull away when I touched her.
I can see her last year, eyes glowing, exquisite as she held our baby in her arms. As she kissed me over him, and everything was perfect. In hospital, knocked down but never beaten by cancer. In a forest, still singing, long after she thought I was asleep and not looking. In Oregon, laughing in the rain. In my office, hand extended, all youth and cautious enthusiasm. The enigmatic Dr Scully, sent to spy on me. Sent to rein me in.
Sent to be my partner.
My partner. Gone now.
Just... gone.
I think I might sit here forever.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Those of you who are perceptive may have noticed that this fic was inspired by the Phil Collins song "Can't Stop Loving You". Cheers now. Have a bundt cake.
Feedback is always appriciated at aubreyblack@hotmail.com