Once, In Dog Years By Piper Sargasso
Disclaimer: Characters within were created by
Chris Carter. No infringement intended.
Author's Notes: Eternal thanks to Sallie, for the
lightning-fast beta. And to Carol, for the
discussion that inspired this story.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Once, In Dog Years
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
For the first time, I'm not sure what to do.
I've always been a man with a clear goal in sight.
Excel in college. Focus on Academy training.
Find Samantha – find the truth.
Starlight… how differently things have turned
out, far different from what I'd expected.
It's not that I never considered the possibility
that she might be dead. I'll never forget the
conflicting feelings I had during the Roche case.
I'm not sure which prospect was more terrifying
– to find that the dead child was Samantha, or to
find that it wasn't.
There's something I've never told you, Scully;
something I've held in my heart, my burden to
bear alone. A guilt that has festered and only
found release recently. After I returned from the
Arctic – after the first Samantha clone – I had a
hard time dealing with what had happened. One
night, after we parted ways for the evening, I
couldn't bear the thought of going to that empty
apartment alone. So I went to a bar where a man
can drink himself into oblivion without being
bothered.
I sat there, thinking I'd never find Sam. That she
was very likely dead and I was just a fool to
believe the lies I was being spoon-fed; the lie
that she was still alive, waiting for me to expose
the men responsible and bring her back home.
When I left, I was in no shape to drive. I walked
for what felt like an eternity. Then I saw a bright neon sign lighting up the
night:
* Fortunes Read! *
* Futures Revealed! *
I stumbled through the door, completely unaware
of the late hour. It didn't seem to matter – the
woman inside was more than happy to take my
credit card. I sat down at the table, the hokey
decorations surrounding me barely registering.
Every cliché, from the Bohemian prints to the
obligatory crystal ball was represented.
I felt like a traitor of the worst kind when I asked
her to summon up the spirit of my dead sister.
And God help me, I was relieved when I walked
out of there, after she'd successfully contacted
her.
Over the course of the next day, I realized the
woman had only gleaned information from me to
validate her guesses and soothing words of
closure, an easy thing to do in my drunken state.
I still had no answers. Nothing at all but the gut-
twisting guilt that held on relentlessly for the
years to come.
But now I have my peace. The freedom is
wonderful, but unfamiliar to me.
See this key chain? I've carried it around for
years, unknown to you. It's a match to the
Apollo 11 key chain I gave you for your
birthday. It's been a comfort to me when things
seemed hopeless or impossible to bear.
I never told you the story behind it, did I? Of
course I didn't. That night outside Max Fenig's
trailer left me shame-faced, with nothing more
than a smart-assed quip to defend myself.
The truth is, despite your beautiful interpretation
of the meaning behind the gift, it was nothing
more than a whim. I'd been to a space shuttle
exhibit at the museum, and wandered into the
gift shop. It was behind a glass case, with the rest
of the more valuable inventory. I liked it, thought
about your birthday coming up, and decided to
get it for you.
I thought it would be perfect – small and
impersonal. Unobtrusive. Just right for our
relationship, as it stood at that point. Didn't want
to rock the boat just as things were looking up
for us. Didn't want to make a grand gesture for
fear you'd misinterpret it as a pity gift in the face
of your cancer. And Scully, it kills me to this day
to think I almost lost you.
Then that night, under the clear starry sky, I
looked at you and saw something completely
new. And the words you spoke – I remember
them, verbatim.
"You must dare to dream, but that there's no
substitution for perseverance and hard work, and
teamwork, because no one gets there alone. And
that, while we commemorate the greatness of
these events and the individuals who achieve
them, we cannot forget the sacrifice of those who
make these achievements and leaps possible."
I went back to the museum the next day and
bought the same key chain for myself.
I think you can understand why I never told you.
The psychologist in me recognizes the
connotations and subconscious meaning behind
this. The man in me is terrified to acknowledge
it.
For the first time though, I feel free to tell you
the truth I've been harboring for too long. The
truth I've been bound by duty and fear to hide.
But how? How can I even begin to explain what
you mean to me? Words seem inadequate.
Years have fueled this fear, but it only took one
night – one wondrous night -- to find the truth
within me.
I've run out of excuses, Scully, run out of
reasons to hold back. When will I have the
courage to tell you?
~ The End ~
