Disclaimers and…stuff.
~You know as well as I do I don't own the characters of Mulder and Scully. Otherwise X-Files would not have been the way it was before it ended. Nor would it have ended. 'Nough said.
~Anyway, I just sat down with the Angel theme song on repeat (though I never watch the show, the song rocks), and wrote. For two hours. Without realizing it. My back hurts, and I'm going to be in major trouble for being up all night long, but in my opinion, this story is pretty damn good. Dark, yes. But good. Don't ask if I meant for it to be shippy--I really couldn't tell you if I tried. I write so you can decide. My writing is flexible. All I know is it's dark and full of angst. That's all I can tell you. Interpret the rest yourself. But, please, for the love of all that is good and pure and all that is dark and traumatizing, review. Reviews are what make the world go 'round. *winks* Now, enjoy.
Anniversary
TopazTiger
The sound of his own footsteps echoing through the empty hallways. Fluorescent lights that made everything seem drab and dreary. The pointless journey down to the elevators. The pointless journey down to the basement. Everyday he did the same thing, took the same trip. But why? What was the point? Just another day of whispers behind his back. For what? What was he getting out of it all besides a bad reputation and a constant reminder that he never fit in anywhere? His best friend always proving his theories to be wrong--or at least trying to. In not so many words calling him an idiot. Hell, sometimes even using that many words. Everyday, same trip, same whispers, same insults. Never results.
Why should there be results? Half the time he was off chasing mutilated cows or staring at pictures of crop circles. Shaking his fist at the sky, yelling about men lurking in the shadows. Trying to find proof--of what? Of a glimpse from his past? Of something he sometimes had to stop and wonder about, wonder if he was remembering right, or if it wasn't just some crazy fantasy concocted by a twelve-year old boy in a traumatized state. It had been suggested by people before, that it wasn't true. And today, today he believed it.
The soft mechanical sounds of the elevator lowering him down. Usually a cheerful mood overcame him as he went down to the basement. Went down to his black file cabinets filled with cases unsolved. But today, today that wasn't something he wanted to do. He slumped quietly against the metallic wall of the elevator, staring at the distorted image of himself in the dull metal doors. Dark suit, red tie, messy hair. Had he bothered to comb his hair today? Or to shave? Didn't really matter--he didn't care. Didn't care if he had or hadn't, didn't care if he ever did again. Same thing, everyday. But why? What was the point?
The bell dinged quietly and he headed out, into the grey shadows. Musty down here, in the basement. "Nobody down here but the FBI's Most Unwanted," he whispered to himself, footfalls sounding unnaturally loud in the gloom. They didn't echo here, but fell flat, in an eerie way. In a spooky way. But wasn't that how things were with him? Spooky Mulder. The FBI's most unwanted; the butt of every damn joke that he heard snatches of behind concealing hands. Stifled laughter. Cold stares. Everyday.
Into his office. Not really Scully's. Would never be. As long as they worked together, he couldn't force her to claim this, this ridicules load of crap. Shelves covered in newspapers with articles claiming that there was an unidentified flying object in the skies of Middle-Of-Nowhere, Nebraska last night. Close-ups of smallpox-vaccination shots. What the hell was he thinking? He lifted a twisted piece of metal off of a cluttered shelf, yellowing, forgotten papers below it shuffling with the movement. To believe that this was part of a crashed alien space craft…
He dropped it on the floor. The thud pounded, reverberated through his head darkly. It was like the bell to start the fight. Anger welled up in him, and he grabbed the models off of his shelves, his cabinets, threw them to the floor. In one clean sweep of his arm, everything on his desk flew to the ground. The shatter of his coffee-mug barely reached his ears. He attacked the office, throwing things from tables and shelves to the floor, not caring anymore. He spun and stared with cold, hating eyes at the poster that hung over his desk.
I want to believe. Everything froze for him. Nothing but that poster existed for a moment. Him and the poster. The catastrophic mess on the floor was gone. The shattered glass beneath his shoes no longer was real. Just the poster. He moved without remembering, with commanding himself to do so, around, right in front of the poster. The poster. I. Want. To. Believe.
Believe. Believe. Believe. The words blurred and the colors ran. He reached up, his hands shaking, and grabbed the edges of the poster. Fingers tightened around the paper, ready to rip it down, tear it into a million pieces. Red. Black. Flashes of color before his eyes. Bright light. A girl. A bedroom. Wanting to believe. A harsh laugh broke through the stillness of the world and started time again. It scared the hell out of him, that bitter laugh. His own bitter laugh. Suddenly aware of the sound of heels behind him. The soft, "Oh my God, Mulder" that he had grown accustomed to at crime scenes. At things she couldn't explain, but wouldn't admit to be paranormal. At this.
His hands dropped to his sides, but his gaze remained on the poster. The words sharpened again. I. Want. To. Believe. They blurred again--not in an anger induced rage, but with his own tears. He lowered himself to the floor, shoulders shaking, wrapping his arms around his knees, lowering his face onto the dark fabric of his pants. Sobs. His own sobs. Filling his ears.
Soft, gentle hands on his back. Arms moving to embrace him. He didn't care. Not in the least. Why care? Why believe? What did believing get you in life? Nothing. Belief got you nothing. Believe in Santa--what's it get you? Presents that you'd get without believing. Believe in the Easter Bunny--eggs come whether or not you do. Believe in little green men. Little green men. Little grey men. He laughed again, that cold, cruel bite of his own bitterness the only thing that would reach his ears. His own mocking. Mocking himself.
No need to do that, Spooky, he taunted himself, no need at all. Every damn agent in this building will do that for you.
Spooky Mulder.
I want to believe.
Lies. Believing lies? Believing his own damned delusions that would eventually lead to his death? His suicide? Whichever came first? Either way, the path he traveled down was a dark one, no light in sight. No one believed him. Belief got you nowhere. Remember kiddies, no point in believing. Don't believe your parents, don't believe your friends, don't believe Mr. Rogers or Big Bird. Most of all, don't believe yourself. That'll just get you here.
On the floor of the basement of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, your files and newspapers and pictures scattered on the floor, splattered with half-drunk cold coffee from 12 hours ago. Get you here, sitting on the floor, curled up and sobbing, with an unnoticed partner and friend trying to comfort you, not noticing you can't hear them. Sobbing on the floor beneath a poster with a UFO on it, reading 'I want to believe', as if it were some sacred thing to be worshiped and prayed at. To be cowered at. To be feared.
Belief'll get you nowhere kiddies.
Flashes in front of his eyes. A girl, a light, a bedroom. Lies of his brain? Trickery and deceit against himself? Where would it all lead in the end? He could very well pull out his gun right now and end it. Probably be better than what would come in the end. Whatever the end would be, it would not be any better than this. A girl, a light, a bedroom. So real, he could swear they were their before his eyes. Except his eyes were shut, face down to his knees, curled up and going insane in his office.
Dark, looming file cabinets all around him. More mockery, and damnit, this time from inanimate objects. Laughing, shouting. Unsolved cases that couldn't be solved. Why? Because no one would believe but him. And where did believing get you?
Thinking in ever increasing circles of insanity, that's where.
Believe all you want. Nothing will come of it. Dark voices invading his head, laughing, insulting. Didn't matter. Nothing mattered. No point to any of it anymore.
So long ago… It had happened so long ago. A girl, a light, a bedroom, right? A girl, a light, a bedroom. Agirlalightabedroomagirlalightabedroom. Dates the same, the years that change. Dates the same, the years that change. Ever increasing circles of insanity were joined by never-ending thoughts of his own mind out to get him. It mocked him, the calendar. Big, bold letters, just screaming out what had happened. Screaming out that he believed that he could find her, that he would find her if he just followed the little green--little grey--men in the flying saucers. Big, bold letters just grinning and pointing out that if he hadn't found her in the past year, or the year before that, or the year before that, leading back to the time when he was twelve and watched her be taken from her bed, why should he be able to find her now? Now when the years had turned everything to dust? Turned his beliefs into nothing more than crackpot ideas randomly shooting out of nowhere?
Every year, the same thoughts came to him. Every year, he pushed them away, argued with them. Every day he argued with them, but the date on the calendar seemed set to make it all the more worse. He argued all the way up to 2 o'clock this morning. And when he had woken, the voices were right.
What the hell was he doing, chasing the little grey men in the flying saucers?
The voices were right. So many years, and suddenly they had triumphed. Broken every dream, every hope, every wish.
Little grey men. That bitter laugh came again, between the sobs he couldn't stop nor explain. Sobs that came as freely as his disbelief now. No more Spooky Mulder. Just Insane Mulder. Too many years down in the dark of the basement. The place that used to be the copy room, and would be once again now that he had given up on the world. Whether he wound up in the nuthouse or just staring blankly at the walls of his apartment, it didn't matter. Mulder's office, copy room, what was the difference anymore, except the copy room would be a little less insane?
Soft hands stroking his hair, a voice coming through the fog, but not quite understandable. Clearly confused, so confused. Would never understand it all. So many years building everything up, and for it all to come to a screeching halt because the voices finally reigned. His mind was whipped, she would be glad. No more theories to debunk, no more idiotic notions to laugh at. Let it be yelled from the mountain-tops--Fox Mulder has stopped shaking his fist at the sky, has stopped looking in the shadows for men that don't exist. Fox Mulder has become insane. Sane. Fine line. Very fine line. No longer able to tell which side he walked, he abandoned all hope and raised his face to look at the poster.
The poster was blocked by concerned green eyes, staring intently at him. Confused, but still welled up with tears. Confused, alone, scared. He had scared her. No need to worry, Scully. Won't scare you anymore. Nice, normal Mulder. Not as catchy as 'Spooky', but you'll have to do, hmm? Her facial expression changed, and her brows knitted. It took a second, but he realized he had said it out loud. If she was confused before…
She ran a hand through his hair, whispering more words he didn't care to hear. He didn't believe what she had said before, but had believed in her. Should he stop believing in her now? Was she just a figment of his imagination. Another road-block set up by his brain in order to mock him and every theory he may have?
Insanity. Fine line, but I'm definitely on the insanity side. More of that bitter laughter. He hated that laughter, but couldn't stop it. Her small, warm hands took his, guided him to his feet. She embraced him, and he stared down into the auburn of her hair, sobbing stopped, tears frozen in his eyes, stiff and cold and unreachable. She lead him away, over the mess he had made, over the anger-induced fit. Back down the echoless hallway, back to the elevator.
The quiet hum of the machinery working. Old elevator needing to be fixed. She watched him quietly, gripping his left hand with concern written on her face. He didn't look at her. He looked down. Jacket aside, staring at the butt of his gun.
The voices were right, sure enough. Right as rain. No such thing as little grey men. Proof in smallpox-vaccination scars of a shadow government? Crop circles, cow mutilations? Right as rain, the voices were right. But if the voices were right, wasn't his life blown? Reputation he couldn't live down, jokes still lingering, stares following him everywhere he went. It would all be there tomorrow, beliefs or no. No one could take him seriously. Not even himself. His life was shot.
So why not shoot his life?
His hand moved slowly down, feeling the cold metal below his fingers, gripping the gun.
Soft fingers, manicured nails, hand taking his. And a single word broke through the heavy fog that overlay his brain.
"No."
He blinked and looked up, very well aware that the frozen tears were going again, very well aware that sobs were building up in his throat. Not caring about that. Staring at this woman beside him, moving in front of him, holding both his hands and looking at him as if the world were in his hands. As if her world were in his hands, in his life.
He pulled away, not hard, just quietly, covering his face with his hands, sobs breaking free. Voices, laughter, anger. He was loosing it and he knew he was. But her arms wrapped around him again, and he knew that one thing still existed--she was still there, still wanting him to live and believe and shake his fist at little grey men and look in the shadows for men who weren't there. And if he didn't believe, didn't live, didn't do his Spooky Mulder routine, didn't be himself, she would cease to exist, to be herself, to live the way that she lived now. That the way that she was now depended on him. That her life was in his hands, in his life. Numb realization spread over him.
Fox Mulder was not a dependent man. Childhood and manhood--his entire life he was alone. No one to care for him. No one he cared about. Now, he felt her arms around him, her voice speaking softly, trying to make him stop the uncontrollable sobs. He realized that, though he may speak the words 'trust no one' more and more often, that she was the one he could trust. A friend. True to the end. Symbiotic--he died, she died though her body may live on, her soul would die. And vice versa.
The bell dinged again, as it had before, and he pulled away again, not self-conscious, just…trapped. Very trapped. She lead him down the hallway, murmuring something about time off to someone waiting for the elevator. Skinner's secretary. Lead him down the hallway, to another elevator, going to the parking garage.
He sat in the passengers seat, turned toward her, head against the window, just staring and contemplating. Of all the things that he believed, she was what he believed most, though in any logical sense, it didn't make any. Sense. No sense whatsoever. But it was true. She looked over, touched his hand, and started the engine.
He turned back normally in his seat, leaning his head against the coolness of the glass. He closed his eyes, feeling unbearably tired all of a sudden. But interrupting his peace, his silence, his solitude, there was the voices. They nagged and mocked, laughed and joked. As always. Making the same points they had made when he had gotten up this morning. The same points they had made when he had destroyed his office, when he had sobbed on the floor.
But this time, he chose to ignore them.
Spooky Mulder ignored the voices, and believed in the little grey men and shadows once again.