Author: Kate C. Massery
Title: In Dreams…
Summary: When two people have a connection that extends beyond all
boundaries…Post Within.
Spoilers: Requiem, Within
Archive: Go ahead, but ask me first.
Feedback: is loved, adored, and cherished above all else…be kind, please rewind, er, I
mean review.
Disclaimer: The characters in this fic, sadly, do not belong to me. So I solemnly swear to
put them back when I'm done. J
Author's Note: I've warped the scheme of events a little in this story, but if no one notices, I suppose that's all right. It just fit better with the way the story was progressing. Also, I'm a rookie, so don't flame me too much if you hate it. But constructive criticism is always welcomed, especially since this is my first attempt at an X-Files story (and my second attempt at anything). Hope you enjoy! Now, on with the fic…
When he first opened his eyes, he could not tell that they were open. Darkness so thick and black that it seemed almost tangible enveloped him, closing him in; it would have been stifling except for the chill that pervaded the room. Shivering, his teeth chattering, he folded his arms across his chest for warmth. That was when he realized that the shirt and fleece pullover he had been wearing were gone. Instead there was a numbing pain along one of his lower ribs. Gingerly he felt the area, long fingers gently pressing against the skin until he found the scar. The sudden jolt of pain that assailed his senses caused him to jerk, his breath hissing as he quickly inhaled. His first instinct was to clap his hand over it as if it were a gunshot wound, but that only made the pain increase. He folded his arms across his chest again and huddled into a ball, waiting as the ache in his side slowly eased to a dull throb.
He sat like that, shivering in the dark, his mind chasing itself round and round all of the usual trains of thought. Sometimes he felt as if he had worn his brain smooth from use, like a coin that he used to carry in his pocket every day for luck when he was in college. The coin had worn smooth, the engraving barely even discernable. His mind felt the same way, hazy, everything melded together into one big mess that he could not even begin to understand. But there were the usual questions that he asked to help orient himself. They always aided him before, but now they made little to no sense, the calming certainty they once evoked long gone. But habit won out over his confusion, and he tried it anyway.
He mulled the first one over in his mind for a little while, trying vainly to clear his head enough to get a grip around the concept and what it implied. Why am I here? There was no answer. He decided to try it again, this time aloud, as if actually saying the words would give them the meaning that they had lost.
"Why am I here?" His voice cracked over the syllables, and he suddenly realized how dry and parched his throat was. The words had been barely audible, but they had been a strain. Sighing heavily, he decided to move on to the next question, hoping that it would provide something akin to an answer. The Truth, maybe. The phrase popped up unbidden, out of nowhere. That's it then, he realized. You're trying too hard. He sat in absolute silence, the blood singing in his ears in the quiet as he tried not to think about anything at all. It did not work though. The only thing that came to him was the way a bat sounds when the wood cracks against the hard leather of a baseball thrown hard and fast…a curve ball. I was never good at those, he thought. Then, so I liked baseball. Well, that narrows it down some. The sarcasm felt good, natural. His brain felt a little less muddled. Something suddenly occurred to him in the form of a familiar voice in a dull, bored monotone: "…and the effects it produces are somewhat akin to a hangover, only more severe. Side effects include possible memory loss, headache, disorientation, dizziness…" It all came back to him in a sickening rush: her voice fading as she went down the list, the image of her standing next to the slide projector, the sickly glow of it washing over her face as she idly ticked off each item on her fingers. She had been boring even herself that day, merely going through the motions for yet another mindless case that he had gotten them assigned to. It had been something about a drug, a hallucinogen, no…narcotic? No, that wasn't it either. Some weird kind of depressant maybe…that was probably right. She had undoubtedly given him the name of the thing ten thousand times, and he had just never listened. He wondered how much he had missed because he had been too busy drowning in his own speculations, discounting hers even before she had the chance to voice them. Of course, he had learned over the years to never completely overlook anything she said. Half the time she was right and she just never knew it, never saw the connections beyond her own science. But she had learned too, had learned to accept some of his views, or at least to understand. My one in ten billion, he thought sadly. Where is she now, when I need her?
"How, Mulder? Make me understand." That voice again, inexorable in its precision. How can I make you understand when I don't, he wanted to ask. "Don't give up..." Fine, he grumbled silently. Try, try, try again…
"How did I get here?" He did not fumble so badly over the words this time, but even so there was no answer. There was nothing but a mind-numbing blankness where the answer should be. He knew it though, recognized the roadblock. He had felt it before. The dashboard of a car in front of him, a military installation behind, and her in the driver's seat… "They took it from me, Scully." And those blue eyes, trying to understand…
He slumped against the floor, suddenly very, very tired. His eyes shifted closed, black to black…
Diana was there, standing by the graveside. She had her back to him, but he could tell it was her. She was standing next to the marker, the dark stone recently cleaned and polished. There was a new engraving there, light against the granite, creating a stark contrast to the older names on the marker. Mom, Dad, and Samantha, he thought, reading the names. Then, taking in the newest addition, the one on the bottom…me. There was a clod of dirt left behind by a clumsy cemetery worker in front of the F of his name, making it read "Ox Mulder". And I thought Fox was bad, he thought dryly as he slowly crossed the lot to where the small group stood huddled next to the grave. He paused, just in front of the coffin, hands jammed into his pockets as he took a closer look, knowing instinctively that she would not be able to see him. It was Diana, all right, standing very quietly with her head down, but her eyes were focused on the coffin in front of her. Her hands were folded against the black of her skirt, and he could see the glitter of a wedding band on her finger. He was more startled by that than by the fact that she was alive, and attending his funeral. Looking away from her, he surveyed the rest of the small cluster of mourners. The Gunmen were there, staring dully at the ground in front of them. Skinner was there, too, standing beside them, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his overcoat. Aw, that's sweet, he thought. Skinman came to my funeral…That was when he realized who was missing. Mulder scanned the faces again even though he knew he could not have missed her the first time. Her red hair would have shone like a beacon in the night…
His gaze returned to Skinner, somehow knowing that it would be him who would give him the clue. The balding man raised his eyes from the coffin before him and focused on a knoll about a hundred yards away. Looking in the same direction, Mulder felt his breath catch in his throat. There she was. She was standing on the knoll, leaning with her back against a tree, watching from afar. Mulder glanced over at Diana, hovering almost possessively over his coffin, and felt a flash of anger. You don't belong here, he thought, staring at the dark-haired woman in front of him. You're dead.
Resolutely turning his back on the funeral, he quickly crossed the distance to where she was standing. Now that he was closer to her, he could see that she was sagging against the tree, using it for support. She was wearing a black skirt and tailored blazer, typical Bureau attire. An unruly strand of red hair was in her eyes, and all he wanted to do was brush it gently out of the way, but he was invisible to her. He could never touch her again.
"Oh, Mulder, why didn't you tell me," she whispered. Tell you what? What haven't I told you? he wondered. He could see the unshed tears glistening in her eyes. Oh, Scully, don't do that, he pleaded silently. "I thought I knew you, I thought that you trusted me…if what that…man says is true, I don't know what I believe anymore," she continued, spitting out the word man with all the hate and anger she could. I don't know what he told you, whoever he is, he thought, but don't believe a word of it. Scully, I…
Abruptly her face changed, convulsing into some incarnation of complete and utter hatred. She turned her body and he found her blue eyes staring directly at him. They glittered with a cold, bitter light that he had never seen in her eyes before. He took a hesitant step away from her, his hands held palms out in front of him. Her voice stopped him from backing away any further.
"You did this to me," she accused, her voice as flat and lifeless as her eyes were violently alive. "You are to blame, you did this, and you will pay for it." He started to protest, but suddenly he found himself back at the graveside, standing next to Diana. She was saying something over the grave, in his honor.
"Oh, Fox, there is so much that I could still give you. The kind of life that you always wanted but never knew you could have. Quiet, simple, no complications. Just you and me, and two-point-five children playing in the back yard with the dog. I wanted to give you the picket fence, the warm bed to come home to. I wanted to make your dream a reality," she said softly, her voice rising and falling, lulling him. She paused for a moment, then continued in the same lilting cadence. "I don't know how to explain it. I don't even know whether to believe it, but…I'm pregnant." The words hung in the air, heavy as lead yet refusing to follow the law of gravity by dropping out of existence. The horrible, maimed look on Scully's face came back to him, melding into the peaceful, almost bored expression on Diana's as she stood next to the coffin. "You did this to me." The words echoed in his mind. "You did this, and you will pay."
His eyes snapped open, and he stared blindly into the dark that stretched on all sides of him. He could feel himself sucking air in and out of his windpipe, his breath ragged in his ears. Slowly he regained control of himself. It was a dream, he told himself. But how do you know this isn't a dream? a voice whispered maliciously in his ear. Shuddering convulsively, he pulled his knees up tight against his chest, unmindful of the pain in his side. The remnants of a greater pain filled his thoughts.
*
The key felt cold and slippery against her palm as she jammed it into the lock, then slowly twisted the knob. Very gently she nudged the door open with her hand, the darkness of the room reaching out like fingers to catch and pull at her throat, forcing the lump there to grow and choke her. Hurriedly she switched on the light, and the familiar room was enveloped in a warm glow. She stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. It looked exactly as it had the last time that she was here with him. Her eyes strayed to the cracked leather of his beat-up couch. They had been sitting there, eating popcorn, sipping beer, and watching Caddy Shack. It had been that, or a marathon of old, derelict monster movies. She had brought over her copy of Steel Magnolias, and he had merely shrugged at the subtle, unspoken suggestion, but she had seen the mischievous glint in his eyes.
Abruptly she shook the memory away, knowing that it only made the pain harder to bear. But then, what was she doing here if she did not want to remember? She had always come here when she needed his comfort because he had always been here when she needed him. Now, he was gone…
She wandered aimlessly through the apartment, trailing her hands over familiar things, feeling his presence all around her. The fish. The thought leapt unbidden out of nowhere. You have to feed my fish. She glanced over at the fish tank, glowing unobtrusively in its corner by the window. She could see the fish swimming lazily in the water, their translucent fins tinted blue by the tank's light. Scully found herself wondering, ridiculously, what their names were. Don't be stupid, she chided herself. You're not helping him by coming here and being nostalgic. You should be at work, or at home, doing something constructive…She sighed heavily, knowing that for now reason was losing the battle that emotion habitually forfeited.
Turning her back on the living room, she stepped inside his bedroom and paused in the doorway. She clenched her teeth against the sudden onslaught of fear and despair that welled up inside of her. She would not let it win, she would not let it beat her, this was not the time to be weak when he needed her to be strong…her face impassive but her heart in a shambles, Scully slowly crossed the room to his bed. One of his shirts was lying across the comforter where he had left it. He was probably debating on whether to take it with him to Oregon, she realized. Oregon…Her fingers smoothed out the creases along the collar, then closed around the soft cotton and pulled it almost mechanically to her cheek. She could smell his after-shave…
She collapsed slowly onto the bed like a wilting flower, drawing the shirt with her. Laying there, clutching something that was his, she could almost imagine that he was there. Almost, but not quite. Reluctantly she closed her eyes, afraid that she would sleep but knowing that her imagination worked best in the dark. Yes, she could almost feel him there with her, next to her, his eyes alight as he made a crack about her taste in movies. She could feel her hand clasped around her bottle of beer, cold against her palm. Pass the popcorn, Mulder, she thought, and then she was asleep.
*
This was too vivid, too real to be a dream. Quickly he pinched himself, hard, on the arm, and was surprised when the pain made him yelp. He was awake then, he was sure of it. And he was in his apartment.
He stood there in his living room, his brain reeling, awash with confusion. Was it all a dream, then? he wondered. Was I just sleepwalking, and somehow ended up in my living room? And why are the lights on?
Mulder glanced about the familiar room, feeling strangely alienated and distanced from it. Everything was slightly out of focus, as if he were looking at it all through a dirty window. But it was home, his apartment. He smiled, listening to the familiar sound of his fish tank gurgling quietly in the corner. The fish, he thought. You have to feed the fish…I wonder if they're hungry? It feels like I've been gone for ages. But you've been asleep, his brain reminded him slyly. It was a dream, remember? Oh, right. Dreams. He was sick of dreams. They had been intruding on his sleep for more nights than he cared to remember. Dreams about his sister and her disappearance, which were quickly replaced by dreams of Scully in pain during her abduction. Dreams about his mother, about Diana, about the man he thought was his father and the cigarette smoking fiend he thought was merely an enemy. They had all haunted his nights, invading his thoughts, leaving him drained and dry the next morning, like an old, spent husk of one of his sunflower seeds. He had had his fill of dreams, he decided. Tonight he would go back to sleep and damn it, if he dreamt at all it was going to be something happy.
Resolutely he stalked across the room to his bedroom, pausing at the doorway while his hand snaked along the wall in search of the light switch. His questing fingers found it, flipped it, then paused in consternation, their tips suddenly cold against the plastic. The lights had not gone off. Confused again and suddenly filled with apprehension, Mulder turned his gaze on the light switch. Slowly and deliberately he reached out to flip the switch, only to feel his fingers graze the plastic harmlessly as they passed right through it.
He backed up until he felt the wall behind him and stood staring aghast at the light switch, his head pounding, the blood singing in his ears. It wasn't real, this wasn't real, he was dreaming again…this was some kind of foul trick of the mind. Closing his eyes, he tried to force himself awake and back inside the cold, dark room. That he knew was real because of the now persistent ache in his side. Despite the pain and fear he now associated with that place, he preferred it because it was solid, substantial. No more mind games, he said, as much to himself as to whatever unseen force was guiding and influencing his subconscious. Take me back, he pleaded. Take me back to something I can feel, to something that will at least remind me I'm still alive…
His brain balked at that, and he found his thoughts backpedaling faster than he had from the light switch. So that's it then, he realized. This is real. I'm the one who's insubstantial…Oddly, this thought quieted the rushing feeling inside his head. He felt the throbbing in his skull slowly subside. When it was gone, he very carefully opened his eyes. This was his apartment, and he was actually here. But why were the lights on?
Feeding the fish. Once again the thought popped up out of nowhere, and he suddenly thought of Scully, coming to feed his fish. At two in the morning, he added dumbly as he glanced at the clock on his desk. I wonder…
He felt his feet moving under him as if of their own volition as he walked into his bedroom. The bedside lamp was on, illuminating the sleeping form on his bed. A jumble of fiery red hair lay spread on the pillow, concealing her face except for the tip of her nose and one closed eye. He paused in the doorway, watching her sleep. For a brief moment he half expected her to leap out of bed and accuse him like his dream-Scully. But she's real, he reminded himself. It's her, at two in the morning with her hair mussed, her suit rumpled, and her eyes closed. And she's got my shirt, he realized with the ghost of a grin. The grin faded quickly, though. Oh, Scully, I'm sorry, he said silently. I'm sorry because I'm the reason why you have to come here, looking for you as well as for me. I've driven you to this because of the way I am, despite the fact that all I've wanted to do is protect you. So now you, who have always simultaneously been my rock and one of many hard places, are driven to my apartment seeking solace from a dress shirt. It's not worth it, Scully.
Suddenly tired, he slumped against the doorjamb, leaning against it with his head down, feeling defeated.
*
She awoke abruptly to the sensation of the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck rising. There was someone watching her. Swiftly she jerked her head up while she instinctively fumbled at her hip for her gun. Then her hand faltered and lay lifelessly beside her as she stared ahead, her heart in her throat. It was Mulder, standing in the doorway, his head hanging either in exhaustion, dejection, or both. It took a few seconds before her voice would finally heed the frantic signals from her brain, but finally she was able to utter his name.
"Mulder!" she cried, springing out of the bed. He lifted his eyes to look at her, surprise, sadness, and anger all melting into relief. He flashed her a brief smile that lit the room like sunrise, and then he disappeared. She skidded to a halt on the rug, her stocking feet sliding slightly underneath her as she stared uncomprehendingly at the empty space in the doorway. He had been there, she was sure of it. She crept closer and tentatively reached out with her hand to touch the doorjamb where he had been leaning. "Mulder?" she whispered. Of course there was no answer, just the silence that only an empty apartment can have. A slow tear slid down her cheek and she angrily wiped it away as she turned and went back to the bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Scully silently berated herself for being so gullible. It was an hallucination, the product of too little sleep and an overwrought mind. The distressing thing was how much she wanted to believe it, how much she had wanted him to be there. Slowly, with one last glance at the vacant doorway, she stretched herself back out on the bed. Closing her eyes, her hand drifted down to rest on her abdomen. I will find you, she assured herself as her tired body once again lost itself in sleep.
*
He could feel the floor, cool against his cheek and bare chest as he lay there, just breathing, his eyes closed. He was back in the dark room, alone…the pain he had felt at being ripped away from her for a second time was more than he had bargained for. But then, he had not anticipated her awakening and seeing him there. In fact, he was amazed that she had even seen him at all, but she had called his name. She had seen him, had leapt out of the bed and had called for him. That was small comfort, he supposed.
Sighing, he curled back into a ball, wrapping long arms around his knees. If he could visit her in his dreams, then maybe he could stand the loneliness of this place. He tried to force his mind to go back to the apartment and his sleeping partner, but was rewarded instead with an image from the past.
"Caddy Shack, Mulder?" she asked, holding up the video case.
"It's an American classic, Scully," he insisted with an impish grin as he flicked on the television. She shrugged, then leaned back into the cracked leather of the couch, a mysterious little smile on her face. He handed her a beer as he clicked the play button on the remote, then picked up his own bottle, the cold sweat glistening on the brown glass. Scully neatly popped the cap from the bottle by snapping it against the edge of the table, then she tossed the cap towards the trashcan. A pleased grin lit up her face as it sailed in the can with the audible clank of metal against metal. Mulder removed the cap from his own bottle as he watched her, marveling at the efficiency of her movements. By now he knew that it was a mark of her character, a sign of how capable she was in everything she did.
Mulder flicked his bottle cap towards the trashcan and scowled when it completely missed its mark and bounced harmlessly off the wall. Scully choked back her laughter as she took a sip of her beer while Mulder pretended not to notice. He leaned forward and adjusted the volume on the television, then settled back into the worn couch. Scully watched him lift a huge bowl of popcorn into his lap, then set her beer down on the coffee table between their outstretched feet. Staring pointedly at the popcorn as he nonchalantly transferred a handful of the fluffy white kernels from the bowl to his mouth, she lightly cleared her throat. Finally he glanced over at her, his face the perfect picture of innocence. They locked eyes for a long moment, and his grin widened. She was the first to tear her eyes away, turning them instead to the television screen in front of her, but that mysterious little smile was still hovering about her face.
"Pass the popcorn, Mulder," she said, still focused on the screen. He handed her the bowl without a word, his eyes sparkling.
"Pass the popcorn," he murmured softly into the darkness just before a great tide of sleep washed over him and carried him away. This time, he did not dream.