I don't need this.
God, I don't need this at all.
It's the very last thing I need. I need Mulder, I need his help, his support, his love. I don't need him standing across the room from me, his eyes blaring with hell's fire, his mouth pulled back into an ugly animal-like snarl, he voice barely whispering but still yelling acidly at me, his words cutting through me so sharp and painful, his control ready to crumble and break down.
I don't need this and I don't want this. I close my eyes for a second, lying to myself that when I open them, Mulder will be gone.
I open my eyes.
He's still here.
I run my hands through my hair, feeling strands falling out of my scalp at my rough touch and turn away from him, walking towards my room, knowing if I stay at here anymore, I'll collapse.
Mulder grabs my shoulder and spins me around, his face right up close to mine, his breaths ragged, his glare cutting through me.
"Don't walk out on me again, damn you," he hisses, his voice so quiet and hurtful.
I look up at him. I'm scared. I'm scared of him. I'm scared of what he's become. I'm scared of what I've made him become. I'm scared of how I affected him, how I turned him into this cold hearted monster, a zombie without a soul or feelings.
I look down to where his hand is wrapped around my arm. His grip is tight and numbing. I look up at him with the most innocent, hurt and wide eyes I can muster, the very sweetness I'm faking sickening me.
"Mulder?" I say, voice quiet, barely audible. "You're hurting me."
He doesn't let me go instantly like I expected. Like I hoped. Instead, his grip tightens. Something strange and alien washes over his eyes until they're a mix of brown, green and gold, a hateful, scowling hue. He bits his tongue and I can see his other hand twitch.
Finally, he lets me go and storms out of the room, I watch him leave, unsure of whether I should be grateful or feel sorrow for him. Mulder's been like this for a while, showing up at my house exhausted, falling asleep on my couch. He would fall asleep on the floor if I let him. His reason?
"They might be listening at my place."
And I'm supposed to believe that the nameless "they" couldn't have followed Mulder to my house but could have littered his little apartment with close to invisible bugs. I did believe once.
I did believe that Mulder and I were watched, scrutinized. I did believe that "they" were evil and to be feared. I did believe that we were all that stood between them and their goals, the cloning of aliens and a nation of hosts. I did believe that "they" were selfish, ready to sacrifice their country, their world just so "they" could survive. I did believe. Once.
But "they" just don't care about us anymore. We don't pose a threat, now with the X-files gone. And I was relieved. But Mulder, I don't think he could deal with the fact that he was suddenly unwanted, suddenly unwatched, suddenly unimportant. Before, he would have done anything to escape their ever scrutinizing watch, but now the thought that they are watching his every move is the only thing that's keeping him sane.
And he's barely sane anymore.
He's been on the edge for weeks, one of the reasons I left him to pursue my own life. Actually, come to think of it, I don't think he's been the same since his office burned. That day as I held him, trying to comfort him, I swear I felt a change occur in him, I swear I felt his heart tremble and snap, like a tightened violin string, emitting just a brief, beautiful melodic note before a horrible pitch overtook it, the kind of sound that brings to mind nails on a chalkboard.
And makes it sound like one of Mozart's symphonies.
I wait exactly ten minutes before I shakily open the door and walk out onto the porch. I run my hand across the painted white wood, admiring its strength. I used to be that strong, I think. I used to be strong, and reliable and perhaps a bit distant and I thought that I would always be that way. But ever since I saw my now departed daughter, I felt the change slowly begin. I felt Emily carefully start a fire within me, growing slowly, melting my icy exterior until my true self was bare. She died before she could finish, before all the obstacles between us were destroyed. The fire stopped growing, but was never put out. I saw it everywhere, in the flames that consumed our office, in Mulder's eyes countless times, and then in Elizabeth's eyes as she gazed desperately up at me. The fire started burning again at the sight of those eyes, those eyes of that little innocent girl that relied on me.
And now, all the ice is gone.
The similarities between Emily and Elizabeth are apparent, and perhaps that is why I feel so drawn to her. But it is also the fact that out of all the other houses on all the other streets, she chose my street, my doorstep, me, to come for help. She reached out to me and showed me that I was needed by someone when I thought I was alone in the world.
The police told me that they couldn't find any of her records, her birth certificate, her address, her parents, nothing. She was an orphan, in the truest sense of the word. And I was alone, with love that, at that time, had no conduit.
So I adopted her.
And now, I step off the porch and down my walk, back straight, hands, still shaking, at my sides and slide into my car. As I pull out of the driveway, I can see the skid marks Mulder left. I feel sorry for him, but right now I have more important things to think about. I'm going to pick up my new daughter.
God, I don't need this at all.
It's the very last thing I need. I need Mulder, I need his help, his support, his love. I don't need him standing across the room from me, his eyes blaring with hell's fire, his mouth pulled back into an ugly animal-like snarl, he voice barely whispering but still yelling acidly at me, his words cutting through me so sharp and painful, his control ready to crumble and break down.
I don't need this and I don't want this. I close my eyes for a second, lying to myself that when I open them, Mulder will be gone.
I open my eyes.
He's still here.
I run my hands through my hair, feeling strands falling out of my scalp at my rough touch and turn away from him, walking towards my room, knowing if I stay at here anymore, I'll collapse.
Mulder grabs my shoulder and spins me around, his face right up close to mine, his breaths ragged, his glare cutting through me.
"Don't walk out on me again, damn you," he hisses, his voice so quiet and hurtful.
I look up at him. I'm scared. I'm scared of him. I'm scared of what he's become. I'm scared of what I've made him become. I'm scared of how I affected him, how I turned him into this cold hearted monster, a zombie without a soul or feelings.
I look down to where his hand is wrapped around my arm. His grip is tight and numbing. I look up at him with the most innocent, hurt and wide eyes I can muster, the very sweetness I'm faking sickening me.
"Mulder?" I say, voice quiet, barely audible. "You're hurting me."
He doesn't let me go instantly like I expected. Like I hoped. Instead, his grip tightens. Something strange and alien washes over his eyes until they're a mix of brown, green and gold, a hateful, scowling hue. He bits his tongue and I can see his other hand twitch.
Finally, he lets me go and storms out of the room, I watch him leave, unsure of whether I should be grateful or feel sorrow for him. Mulder's been like this for a while, showing up at my house exhausted, falling asleep on my couch. He would fall asleep on the floor if I let him. His reason?
"They might be listening at my place."
And I'm supposed to believe that the nameless "they" couldn't have followed Mulder to my house but could have littered his little apartment with close to invisible bugs. I did believe once.
I did believe that Mulder and I were watched, scrutinized. I did believe that "they" were evil and to be feared. I did believe that we were all that stood between them and their goals, the cloning of aliens and a nation of hosts. I did believe that "they" were selfish, ready to sacrifice their country, their world just so "they" could survive. I did believe. Once.
But "they" just don't care about us anymore. We don't pose a threat, now with the X-files gone. And I was relieved. But Mulder, I don't think he could deal with the fact that he was suddenly unwanted, suddenly unwatched, suddenly unimportant. Before, he would have done anything to escape their ever scrutinizing watch, but now the thought that they are watching his every move is the only thing that's keeping him sane.
And he's barely sane anymore.
He's been on the edge for weeks, one of the reasons I left him to pursue my own life. Actually, come to think of it, I don't think he's been the same since his office burned. That day as I held him, trying to comfort him, I swear I felt a change occur in him, I swear I felt his heart tremble and snap, like a tightened violin string, emitting just a brief, beautiful melodic note before a horrible pitch overtook it, the kind of sound that brings to mind nails on a chalkboard.
And makes it sound like one of Mozart's symphonies.
I wait exactly ten minutes before I shakily open the door and walk out onto the porch. I run my hand across the painted white wood, admiring its strength. I used to be that strong, I think. I used to be strong, and reliable and perhaps a bit distant and I thought that I would always be that way. But ever since I saw my now departed daughter, I felt the change slowly begin. I felt Emily carefully start a fire within me, growing slowly, melting my icy exterior until my true self was bare. She died before she could finish, before all the obstacles between us were destroyed. The fire stopped growing, but was never put out. I saw it everywhere, in the flames that consumed our office, in Mulder's eyes countless times, and then in Elizabeth's eyes as she gazed desperately up at me. The fire started burning again at the sight of those eyes, those eyes of that little innocent girl that relied on me.
And now, all the ice is gone.
The similarities between Emily and Elizabeth are apparent, and perhaps that is why I feel so drawn to her. But it is also the fact that out of all the other houses on all the other streets, she chose my street, my doorstep, me, to come for help. She reached out to me and showed me that I was needed by someone when I thought I was alone in the world.
The police told me that they couldn't find any of her records, her birth certificate, her address, her parents, nothing. She was an orphan, in the truest sense of the word. And I was alone, with love that, at that time, had no conduit.
So I adopted her.
And now, I step off the porch and down my walk, back straight, hands, still shaking, at my sides and slide into my car. As I pull out of the driveway, I can see the skid marks Mulder left. I feel sorry for him, but right now I have more important things to think about. I'm going to pick up my new daughter.