Chapter 9: Bleepholes
Scully's apartment
May 6th
8:18pm
It was a gorgeous sunset. Pinks and lavenders laced with all the colors of the rainbow were strewn across the sky, like rose petals left carelessly upon the ground by a gust of wind. The last of the sunlight prodded at the curtains with gentle warmth, seeking entry, wanting to color the dark room within.
Scully sat frozen at the kitchen table, shoes and jacket still on, keys held tightly in her hand. Her eyes were glued obsessively to the same spot on the surface of the wood, a maroon spot, the evidence of a little experiment with potassium permanganate Mulder had decided to carry out. It was a permanent mark of their friendship. Mulder's hands had been stained brown, and they had brushed the hair from her cheek, leaving tan streaks in their wake.
Her keys dug into her palm, but Scully took no notice. One side of her body was asleep, its circulation cut off by the awkward position in which she had settled herself three hours ago.
Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, her brain intoned foggily. Motor neurons affected, muscles waste away…
Except for the tears she had shed in the car, Scully had not cried. Indeed, she hadn't shown any emotion at all.
Oncogenes, Eric Landers, Human Genome Project…
Instead her mind had begun to list information like an automated computer, on and on and on.
And behind it all, Mulder's last words resounded in her head, bouncing from one wall to another:
"Don't ever come back."
"Don't ever come back."
"Don't ever come back."
She will show him. She will show him that her loyalty is infallible, she will show him the truth, force him to see it.
The Bronsted-Lowry model explains that bases are proton acceptors, while the Lewis model…
No matter what happens, she will make him see. Even if it means their friendship. Even if it means her life.
Federal Triangle Metro Station
Washington, D.C.
May 6th
9:23pm
Ronald Davidson leaned against the bicycle rack, jiggling his legs. Every thirty seconds he took an impatient look at his watch, cursed every time he saw the hands in the same places.
"Bastard, bastard, bastard," he muttered edgily to himself. "Why is he always late? Bastard. God. F— bastard."
"Speak up, Ron, I can't quite hear you."
Davidson jumped, his ankle connecting painfully with the wheel of the bike next to him.
"Oh, God, you're here. Why are you always late? It's nine twenty-three. Jesus."
"There was business to take care of."
Davidson scowled at the cigarette in the other man's hand. "Speaking of business…"
The Cigarette-Smoking Man took a long draw.
"I thought the brain cells couldn't be removed," Davidson said. "You lied to me, Spender."
"No," the Smoking Man answered calmly, "I did not. They can't be."
"What the hell do you think I am, Spender? An ignoramus?"
"Congratulations. You know a big word."
Davidson fell silent. How was he to confront the man when he wasn't supposed to know about the operation?
"You must have an outside source," the Smoking Man said derisively.
"Are you suggesting that I am going back on our deal?" Davidson bristled. "I can assure you, I am a man of my word."
"So am I," the Smoking Man replied.
The two men glared at each other.
"Everything is fine," the Smoking Man said finally. "There is no need to worry." He began to walk away.
"Just remember, the system will be out of your reach as long as I don't have the stuff!" Davidson called out after him.
He had the distinct impression that the Smoking Man's back was swaying with laughter.
106 Marilyn Drive
May 7th
8:44am
Mulder stepped out into the sunshine, stretching luxuriously. The wound from the slip at the clinic didn't feel so bad anymore; after all, it was only a little cut. He padded down the driveway, heading for the paper caught at the curbside. A beat-up old Chevrolet clunked up the street, emitting black exhaust. Mulder shook his head. A rich neighborhood should be free of poor bastards.
The truck paused for a split second in front of him before laboring on. It was another five seconds before he felt the pain in his head. Something wet crept down his temple, into his ear. He couldn't see. Where was the paper? He rocked back on the balls of his feet, the momentum of which, combined with the dizziness he felt, carried him backwards and onto the concrete. Why was he on the ground? Where was the paper?
The wound pulsed in the side of his head, in time with his heartbeat.
A/N: I'm trying out the concept of short chapters. Tell me if you like it. Or if you don't. :-)