Date: Sun, 14 Jun 1998
A Lifetime Renewed
by Rebecca Rusnak
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em.
SUMMARY: One year after his escape, can Mulder take the biggest step of all?
DO NOT ARCHIVE without express permission from the author.
****
The flower vendor at the Metro station has one of those
spray-bottle fans,
the kind that mist you with cool water while blowing. He is not
wilting as
badly as his flowers are, but it is a close call.
August heat like this makes me willing to swear that whoever
drained the
swamp Washington was built on, didn't do it right.
I buy a red rose from the vendor and walk back to my car, turn
on the
air-conditioning full blast and close my eyes. The sweat dries on
my
forehead, my upper lip, my thighs. When I am cool enough, I pull
back out
into traffic.
A year. He probably doesn't know it himself, and I may be
doing him a grave
injustice to bring it to his attention, but I cannot help myself.
He has
come so far in a year's time, since that day he murdered his
captors and
dragged himself out of hell. I simply cannot let this day go
unremembered.
Yesterday I kissed him. Nothing passionate. More like a
teenager's clumsy
first attempt at a kiss. He was sitting on the floor, leaning
against the
couch; I was sitting behind him with my legs drawn up. We'd been
silent for
some time. He turned slightly, looking up at me, and impulsively
I leaned
down and kissed the corner of his mouth.
Instinctively he pulled back, but I was gratified to see no
fear in his
eyes. He blinked myopically at me, at a loss for words. And I,
the epitomy
of suave, I grabbed the remote control and turned on the TV.
That was all. But I kissed him and he was not afraid, and for
that my soul
rejoices. A year ago I would never have thought this possible.
A year ago I walked into his hospital room, pushing my way
through a crowd
of television reporters, ignoring their shouted questions. After
the noise
of the lobby, the silence of his room was deafening. I could not
stifle a
cry when I first saw him. His arms were restrained at his sides,
his hands
bandaged and splinted. His beautiful face was scarred and
bruised, his
mouth slack, his eyes half-open, dull and glassy with drugs and
pain. I
burst into tears and had to turn my back on him in order to
regain my composure.
When I was able, I went to him, knelt by his side. I was
afraid to touch
him; there did not seem to be a place on him that was not marked
by a
memento of suffering of one kind or another. I called his name
softly, over
and over, until finally my voice penetrated the haze of sedatives
and
painkillers. He struggled to open his eyes and focus them on me.
I put on
my best, brightest smile and blinked back more tears.
He saw me then, I think. I saw recognition flare in his eyes
before dimming
and going out entirely as he finally succumbed to
unconsciousness. I laid
my head on the bed and sobbed then.
Now, as I park the car in front of his building, I think how I
believed that
day that the worst was yet to come, that the bad part was far
from over.
But I also believed then that things could only get better, now
that he was
back.
I didn't know it then, but both those beliefs were right.
****
The bitch may have been fucked up, but she got one thing
right, at least.
Wearing clothes in August is just ridiculous. If it wasn't for
Scully
coming over, I'd be naked right now. I sleep in the nude now,
always
falling asleep on my back, often with my hands at my sides,
tethered by
invisible restraints. I roll over at some point in the night,
though, so it
doesn't bother me to sleep like that. I take it as some crude
sort of
symbolism; that She may still have some hold over me, but that I
will
eventually break it.
Either that or I just don't like sleeping on my back.
Not that it matters, since I don't sleep much anymore, anyway.
When I was a
guest of the bitch from hell, sleeping was all I did. It was my
refuge, my
one escape from her attentions, from my despair, my hate, my
fear. The fact
that my sleep was riddled with nightmares seemed a fair trade-off
for a few
hours freedom from pain.
Now, of course, I don't need that escape, and I stay awake
late into the
night, watching bad TV, writing the magazine articles that are my
livelihood
now.
I hear Scully's footsteps coming down the hall, and I mute the
volume on the
TV, but don't turn it off. Sooner or later we run out of words,
and resort
to watching the boob tube. I don't mind. To me, those are the
best times,
sitting beside Scully, content to be in the presence of another
human being,
knowing that I am safe from harm, that I have nothing to fear.
She knocks, lets herself in. She has cut her hair again, and
it hangs just
below her chin now, curling in toward the nape of her neck. In
her hand she
holds a red rose.
"What's this?" I ask. But my heart is beginning to
thump nastily in my
chest. I think I know. I'm not entirely stupid.
She smiles hesitantly. "For you," she says.
I keep my hands stubbornly at my sides. "Why?" I
hate the note of
suspicion that colors my voice.
Her smile dies. "Be--because."
"Commemorating something?" I ask snottily. Her eyes
widen, and I just have
to jab deeper, don't you know? "A special anniversary,
perhaps?" I can't
shut up, my mouth runs on. "You should have brought three
flowers. I
killed her two thugs, too, you know."
Scully's jaw drops. I have not been so ugly to her in a long
time. I turn
away, heave a sigh. "Look, I'm sorry. It's just--today's not
a good day
for me."
"The flower is for you, Mulder." Her voice has regained its strength.
I don't look at her. "Thank you."
She hesitates. "Do you...do you want to...?"
"Talk about it?" I finish. I roll my eyes. "May
as well. It's what we'll
end up doing anyway, or did you have something else planned for
today? A
picnic, maybe?"
I glance up at her shocked gasp. Her eyes narrow. She tosses
the rose to
the floor, where it lands with a soft plop. "Goddamn you,
Fox Mulder," she
says softly.
I raise an eyebrow. "Goddamn me? Little late for that,
wouldn't you say?
I've been hellbound for over a year now, Scully."
"Shut up!" she cries, her face twisting. She's
always hated it when I
casually refer to my captivity. She prefers it when I'm somber
and
introspective.
"Do you think you're the only one who's been suffering
all this time,
Mulder? Do you?" Her cheeks flush with anger and she takes a
step forward.
Her fists ball at her sides.
"No," I snap, "but where were you when I was
screaming my head off in her
dungeon? Where were you when I was getting raped every night?
Where were
you when I spent weeks in a coma after getting my head caved in
by a
baseball bat?"
Her shoulders slump. "That's not fair, Mulder."
I snort. "Yeah. Life isn't fair."
****
I simply can't believe this. My earlier happiness seems light-years away.
As much as I want to, I cannot be angry with him. It will only
worsen
things, anyway, if I were to yell back at him, make accusations
of my own.
But more than that, I could not live with myself if I were to
advance on
him, shouting and gesticulating, if I were to bring back that
fear in his
eyes, make him cringe before me.
And I could do it, too. He is not as recovered as he would have me believe.
But I am not a monster, I am not *her*, no matter how much he
tries to hate
me again. So I stand still, maintaining my calm breathing, my
neutral
expression.
After a while, Mulder turns away. "Shit."
Still I say nothing. I wait for him to regain his
self-control, an exercise
that is terribly difficult for him. He paces, throws me dark
looks, mutters
to himself. Finally he walks forward, grabs the rose off the
floor and
stalks back to his desk. He dumps his pens and pencils from the
jar on the
desktop and unceremoniously thrusts the rose into the mug. He
turns and
leans on the desk, crosses his arms in front of his chest.
"Happy now?"
His eyes are still dark; we are not out of the woods yet.
"Are you?" I counter. It's not a threat.
"You know the answer to that," Mulder retorts.
I am still. We gaze at each other from across the room. I make
a small
gesture with one hand. "May I come in?"
He nods curtly. I walk forward and sit on the couch. A patch
of sunlight
falls through the window onto my legs. It's almost uncomfortably
warm but
I don't move.
Mulder remains standing, arms crossed defensively.
I wage an internal debate. Left to himself, he could calm down
and join me,
or he could work himself up into a greater rage and order me out.
If I
intervene, I will almost certainly provoke him, but I may also
bring about
some closure, too.
I make a decision, hold my breath. "You never did tell me
about how you got
out."
****
She's got some nerve. For a moment I don't think I heard her
right, but
then I realize that no, she said it, all right.
I look at her incredulously. "You want to hear how I escaped?"
"If you want to tell me. I thought, today being..."
Her voice breaks. She
clears her throat. "You said you were having a bad day.
Maybe it would
help if you talked about it."
"All right. I killed them. End of story." My palms
are suddenly slick with
sweat, and my pulse has speeded up.
"How?" she asks.
My stomach is churning. "Go read the police report, *Agent* Scully," I snap.
She only gazes at me calmly, although I can see her rapid
heartbeat
fluttering at the base of her neck. She's as scared as I am, I
realize
suddenly.
"An exacto knife," I say abruptly.
Scully blinks. "What?"
"An exacto knife," I repeat in exasperation. If she
won't listen, won't pay
attention, there is no way I can get through this. "Are you
listening?"
She nods.
"She left it. She was too eager to fuck me, and she
forgot about it. I
found it after she left." I uncross my arms, hold up my
hands, point to the
network of scars around my wrists. They are layered there,
bracelets of
white scar tissue; barely visible are the marks from the straight
cuts I
made to facilitate my escape.
"I cut myself, used the blood to make it easier to slip
out of the manacles.
Broke my hands doing it." I am beginning to shake, and I
quickly cross my
arms again, hiding the offending limbs. I don't know how much
longer I will
be able to go on.
"I unscrewed the bolts on the plate that kept me chained
to the floor." I
freeze up, suddenly unable to speak another word. There is no way
I can
ever describe my utter terror and desolation in those moments,
when I truly
believed She would find me in the midst of my attempt, find me
and torture
me to death. I can never tell Scully how I contemplated suicide
in those
moments, how I silently begged her forgiveness for being so weak.
"Mulder." She's risen from the couch, and now she
stands before me. I
don't remember her getting there. "It's okay. You don't have
to tell me."
I manage a croak, swallow hard against the lump that has
lodged in my
throat. "I thought....I thought I was going to die, Scully.
I was so sure
she would walk in, catch me trying to escape, and it wouldn't
just be a
baseball bat she'd have this time." My chest hitches as I
draw in a
strangled breath. "I thought I'd never see you again."
Scully smiles. "But you did it, Mulder. You made it, and
here you are."
Wordlessly, I allow her to take my arm, guide me over to the
couch.
"Here I am," I echo faintly.
****
He sits beside me, but his eyes are unfocused, seeing
something not here,
not in this room. When he was telling me of his escape, the
detachment in
his eyes frightened me, and I'm glad he stopped. I'm not ready to
hear this
yet; he's not ready to tell it.
He shudders convulsively, once, and I brace myself for an
outburst, but he
remains quiet. His eyes begin to clear, however, and I breathe
more easily.
The silence envelops us. This is us at our most familiar, just
sitting,
shoulders barely touching, eyes forward, saying nothing, saying
everything.
Mulder breaks the silence. "I saved that rose you brought
me at Christmas.
Did you know that?"
I am surprised. Given his mental state then, I would have
expected him to
shred it, flush it down the toilet, toss it out the window.
"Why?" I ask.
He shrugs half-heartedly. "I don't know." He looks
at me. "I couldn't
believe you'd come. I couldn't believe I'd *let* you come. Or
that I'd let
you stay. And especially that I'd let you hold me." He looks
away again,
off into space. "Once you'd left, it all seemed like a
warped dream or
something. So I told myself if the flower was still there in the
morning,
then it was all real."
"And it was there," I say.
"Yeah." Mulder looks down, gazing fiercely at a spot
on the floor between
his feet. "I nearly lost it when I woke up the next morning
and it was
still there. It hurt too much to look at it, so I threw it
away."
I look at him quizzically, and although he doesn't look up, I
see him
grimace. "I know. But later, I wanted to look at it again.
It seemed
important that I look at it. And I realized that it would die
soon, and
then I wouldn't have it anymore. So I put it in the refrigerator,
to
preserve it."
"Mulder." I lean forward. My heart begins to pound,
but I do not let
myself think of what I am about to do.
He looks up at me, unsuspecting.
I kiss him, then, square on the lips. A split-second's touch,
an
infinitesimal moment when all things are possible, then I'm
sitting up again.
****
She kisses me, and I cannot help the dread that uncurls in my
stomach. I
stare at her with wide eyes, uncomprehending. "Why?" I
ask shakily.
"Because," she says simply. "Because I wanted to."
My heart does an ugly sideways jolt in my chest, a physically
painful move.
"Scully...."
"And because you are a beautiful man, Fox Mulder. And on
this one day above
all others, you need to hear it."
Oh god, oh no... "I don't want your pity," I growl.
Scully shakes her head. A smile curves her lips. "Not pity," she says.
My eyes are on her lips, soft and pink, not full and red, not
dripping with
my own blood. Reluctantly, I drag my gaze to her eyes. "I'm
not
beautiful," I say.
"Yes, you are," she responds. One hand drifts
upward, and my eyes track it,
but I do not move away from her. Her fingertips caress my cheek,
trace the
scars there. "You are beautiful."
My breath catches in my throat. I don't know whether I should
be afraid of
her or not. "Scully, I'm not...I mean, I can't...."
Shame causes me to
twist away.
"I don't want to sleep with you, Mulder," she says. That faint smile is back.
I relax slightly. "Then, what?"
Her smile widens. "Here you are, Mulder."
Her eyes are a bright blue, the blue of hot August skies. I
suddenly long
to step outside, stand under the bowl of that sky. "Here I
am," I say.
She takes my hands, pulls me to my feet. "You made it," she says.
Suddenly I understand. I can stand under that sky. I've always
been able
to. I feel my face break into a smile. "I made it," I
say.
****
END
Notes: Whew! It's been one heck of a ride, but it's over now.
Everybody
out of the bus, as my mom used to say. I originally wrote In A
Lifetime to
satisfy my own need for closure after Jen Collins' Life series.
Those of
you who have written me know that I intended that story to be
stand-alone.
But to my surprise, I found three more stories waiting in the
wings, and I
spent a long weekend writing them, crying over my own words,
hoping that
you, the readers, would enjoy them as much as I did. Many thanks
to
everyone who has read these stories and written to say as much.
As always, I am interested in hearing from you. Write me at:
rrusnak@avana.net
****************
"I have walked the paths of desire
Gathering flowers and carrying fire."
--October Project, "Paths of Desire"