Title : How to Speak Australian
Author : Mickey
Rating : PG
Spoilers : Minor ones for the most part, but if you haven't seen up to
the end of Season 8, then you probably want to avoid this one :)
Keywords : MSR/UST
Disclaimer : Nope. You're all wrong. I own them. And surfer boy is
lucky I'm nice enough to let him play with them.
Archive : Gossamer and Ephemeral; OK. Everyone else; bag it, tag
it, tell me where it is. (You know the drill:)
Summary : Mulder's thoughts, which, not so coincidentaly, are
stunningly similiar to my own at the moment.
Author's Notes : At present count, I haven't slept in, oh, five days
or so. The problem with this is that, while in the first stages of sleep
deprivation I am light hearted and happy, I too can get really
frelling tired. And when that I happens, I get angsty. Hence, a fic
like this. Not really a sequel, kind of a prequel, but a fic nevertheless.
This takes place somewhere after Mulder is back, but while he's still
in the FBI, and Scully hasn't taken her leave (yeah, I know, I know.
Poetic license, people!). Hope you like it. Oh, and the title is a
reference to the beer commercial I was watching while trying to think
of a name for this thing.
Feedback : Please! gnrgirl@hotmail.com
This one here, for reasons that shall safely remain an in-joke, is
dedicated to my dear friend Libby.
XXXXXX
It wouldn't be so bad if I could sleep more than a few hours at a time.
My life, I mean. Those extra hours, though they may seem a source
of envy to those of you who need a full eight, make for far, far too
much time for me to mull over things better left to the annals of time.
My sister.
My parents.
My failed aspirations.
My failing career.
My failing as a . . . friend?
How can I ever make it up to her? For what I've done; the way I . . .
the way I . . . left her. No two ways about it, I abandoned her in her
greatest time of need. I knew, or at least suspected, that it was me
they wanted, not her. And yet I still went. I knew, or at least
suspected, that she was pregnant. And yet I still went. What does
that say about me?
There are thousands of "ifs" that run through my mind every night.
Things I don't want to think, but nevertheless pervade my
consciousness. And, almost without failure, I reach for a bottle. I
have done it before, and I will do it again.
Point in fact, I am doing it now. Hurling open the door of my nearly
bare refridgerator, I push past the half gallon of iced tea, my hand
searching for the familiar cool of a glass bottle. All I am rewarded
with is a can of the crap Langely somehow stomachs. No small
wonder he can chug it like water. Canned beer has never sat well
with me. I toss it back in with a mental note to pick up a case of
something, anything, when I go out. Maybe some Beck's . . .
The beer idea shot, I go straight for the hard liquor, a move not
usually made until I'm already half drunk. The remains of a bottle
of tequilla and half a liter of rum are all that grace my once stocked
cupboard. Rum that she bought . . .
I can't bear to even touch the thing. To simply graze the surface of
something she once touched, something she handpicked for me . . .
I would indirectly be touching her. This train of thought will seem
foolish in the light, I know this. I will rue the moment I decided I
couldn't touch the bottle, couldn't escape the reality of the world.
But it is night, deep night, and the night has ways of masking the
reasonable no matter how smart and clever one thinks they may be.
I glance up at the clock. Only 2:30, there's a store on the corner I
know will still be open. I grab my jacket, smooth leather coming into
contact with my rough, still too bony digits.
I'm out the door without a second thought. All I can focus on is the
promise of burning fluid. All that runs through my brain whilst I call
the elevator is getting to sleep, getting away from thinking, away
from what remains of my life. My only goal is to get through another
night so I can stumble into work tomorrow and still be able to look
her in the eye.
The elevator is particularly slow tonight. My impatience gets the
best of me, and I thump once more on the red highlighted button.
I'm almost ready to use the stairs when the all too familiar "ding"
turns me back. The silver doors slid open, and I prepare to step
aboard.
And then I am confronted with the source of my mood, rendering
my momentarily speechless. If there ever was proof of God's
existence, this little quirk of his humor would be it.
"Scully, I . . . "
"Mulder!" She sounds shocked at finding me here, even though I
have more reason to be so then she.
"I was just coming to see you . . ." she stammers, a hesitant hand
to her distended stomach. It tears at my heart, at least what's left
of it. What little I've managed to keep intact these past months,
however, has been the tiny part I allowed myself to reserve for her.
"I can get a cab back . . ." she turns to go, further wrenching at my
heart strings.
"No!" I stop her, placing a gently restraining hand on her arm. "I
was just going for a walk. Couldn't sleep. But now that you're
here . . ." I leave the thought unfinished, as if there ever was a
'finish' intended.
She allows me to lead her back to my apartment, making small talk as
we go.
Inside, the small discomfort has melted away, leaving us with our
old familiarity. The emotion does much to calm me, though I'm not
certain if I should be surprised.
I hand her a glass of the tea; it was hers anyway, and help her to
the couch. It feels so good to touch her, to have my hand on her
back once more. The months without it hurt me more than the
testing ever could. I also feel something else . . . something I can
not identify immediately.
Pride? Is that this burning within my chest when I look at the
swell of her stomach? Is that what makes me feel so . . . so . . .
well, masculine?
It doesn't matter, not now. All that matters is her presence here.
We sit, sipping out tea in silence. And though we are close in literal
distance, our figurative one remains further than that while I was . . .
away.
Companionable silence leads to nothing. Long minutes later, we are
still going strong with the tea. When the noislessness becomes
deafening, and it has, inevitably, I have no choice but to speak. She
could always bear the silence, oddly enough. It was me, the social
outcast, that couldn't deal with the stark reality of quiet. It was
always me that ended up breaking our long silences. I can not help
but break this silence, though I so wish it to be otherwise.
And because I can not hold my tongue, because I can not tell her
what I'm feeling now, because she musn't be burdened with my
declaration of love, I say instead;
"How 'bout a movie?"
XXXXXXX
Author : Mickey
Rating : PG
Spoilers : Minor ones for the most part, but if you haven't seen up to
the end of Season 8, then you probably want to avoid this one :)
Keywords : MSR/UST
Disclaimer : Nope. You're all wrong. I own them. And surfer boy is
lucky I'm nice enough to let him play with them.
Archive : Gossamer and Ephemeral; OK. Everyone else; bag it, tag
it, tell me where it is. (You know the drill:)
Summary : Mulder's thoughts, which, not so coincidentaly, are
stunningly similiar to my own at the moment.
Author's Notes : At present count, I haven't slept in, oh, five days
or so. The problem with this is that, while in the first stages of sleep
deprivation I am light hearted and happy, I too can get really
frelling tired. And when that I happens, I get angsty. Hence, a fic
like this. Not really a sequel, kind of a prequel, but a fic nevertheless.
This takes place somewhere after Mulder is back, but while he's still
in the FBI, and Scully hasn't taken her leave (yeah, I know, I know.
Poetic license, people!). Hope you like it. Oh, and the title is a
reference to the beer commercial I was watching while trying to think
of a name for this thing.
Feedback : Please! gnrgirl@hotmail.com
This one here, for reasons that shall safely remain an in-joke, is
dedicated to my dear friend Libby.
XXXXXX
It wouldn't be so bad if I could sleep more than a few hours at a time.
My life, I mean. Those extra hours, though they may seem a source
of envy to those of you who need a full eight, make for far, far too
much time for me to mull over things better left to the annals of time.
My sister.
My parents.
My failed aspirations.
My failing career.
My failing as a . . . friend?
How can I ever make it up to her? For what I've done; the way I . . .
the way I . . . left her. No two ways about it, I abandoned her in her
greatest time of need. I knew, or at least suspected, that it was me
they wanted, not her. And yet I still went. I knew, or at least
suspected, that she was pregnant. And yet I still went. What does
that say about me?
There are thousands of "ifs" that run through my mind every night.
Things I don't want to think, but nevertheless pervade my
consciousness. And, almost without failure, I reach for a bottle. I
have done it before, and I will do it again.
Point in fact, I am doing it now. Hurling open the door of my nearly
bare refridgerator, I push past the half gallon of iced tea, my hand
searching for the familiar cool of a glass bottle. All I am rewarded
with is a can of the crap Langely somehow stomachs. No small
wonder he can chug it like water. Canned beer has never sat well
with me. I toss it back in with a mental note to pick up a case of
something, anything, when I go out. Maybe some Beck's . . .
The beer idea shot, I go straight for the hard liquor, a move not
usually made until I'm already half drunk. The remains of a bottle
of tequilla and half a liter of rum are all that grace my once stocked
cupboard. Rum that she bought . . .
I can't bear to even touch the thing. To simply graze the surface of
something she once touched, something she handpicked for me . . .
I would indirectly be touching her. This train of thought will seem
foolish in the light, I know this. I will rue the moment I decided I
couldn't touch the bottle, couldn't escape the reality of the world.
But it is night, deep night, and the night has ways of masking the
reasonable no matter how smart and clever one thinks they may be.
I glance up at the clock. Only 2:30, there's a store on the corner I
know will still be open. I grab my jacket, smooth leather coming into
contact with my rough, still too bony digits.
I'm out the door without a second thought. All I can focus on is the
promise of burning fluid. All that runs through my brain whilst I call
the elevator is getting to sleep, getting away from thinking, away
from what remains of my life. My only goal is to get through another
night so I can stumble into work tomorrow and still be able to look
her in the eye.
The elevator is particularly slow tonight. My impatience gets the
best of me, and I thump once more on the red highlighted button.
I'm almost ready to use the stairs when the all too familiar "ding"
turns me back. The silver doors slid open, and I prepare to step
aboard.
And then I am confronted with the source of my mood, rendering
my momentarily speechless. If there ever was proof of God's
existence, this little quirk of his humor would be it.
"Scully, I . . . "
"Mulder!" She sounds shocked at finding me here, even though I
have more reason to be so then she.
"I was just coming to see you . . ." she stammers, a hesitant hand
to her distended stomach. It tears at my heart, at least what's left
of it. What little I've managed to keep intact these past months,
however, has been the tiny part I allowed myself to reserve for her.
"I can get a cab back . . ." she turns to go, further wrenching at my
heart strings.
"No!" I stop her, placing a gently restraining hand on her arm. "I
was just going for a walk. Couldn't sleep. But now that you're
here . . ." I leave the thought unfinished, as if there ever was a
'finish' intended.
She allows me to lead her back to my apartment, making small talk as
we go.
Inside, the small discomfort has melted away, leaving us with our
old familiarity. The emotion does much to calm me, though I'm not
certain if I should be surprised.
I hand her a glass of the tea; it was hers anyway, and help her to
the couch. It feels so good to touch her, to have my hand on her
back once more. The months without it hurt me more than the
testing ever could. I also feel something else . . . something I can
not identify immediately.
Pride? Is that this burning within my chest when I look at the
swell of her stomach? Is that what makes me feel so . . . so . . .
well, masculine?
It doesn't matter, not now. All that matters is her presence here.
We sit, sipping out tea in silence. And though we are close in literal
distance, our figurative one remains further than that while I was . . .
away.
Companionable silence leads to nothing. Long minutes later, we are
still going strong with the tea. When the noislessness becomes
deafening, and it has, inevitably, I have no choice but to speak. She
could always bear the silence, oddly enough. It was me, the social
outcast, that couldn't deal with the stark reality of quiet. It was
always me that ended up breaking our long silences. I can not help
but break this silence, though I so wish it to be otherwise.
And because I can not hold my tongue, because I can not tell her
what I'm feeling now, because she musn't be burdened with my
declaration of love, I say instead;
"How 'bout a movie?"
XXXXXXX