Summary: Not everything is all smiles and chuckles at the end of Redux II

Archive: Gossamer only please. All other archives please ask permission
of author.

Spoilers: Just the Gethsemane arc

Category: VA

Rating: PG

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He's always had recurring nightmares about falling -- of tumbling bonelessly
from the sky with the clatter of a wooden swing protesting noisily in the
background. It's always been enough to wake him with a jolt, to hastily
force any air out through gritted teeth, to cause his sweat-covered neck and
shoulders to tense painfully against each other. Even though he has never
landed -- has not stayed unconscious long enough to fall onto sodden,
parasite-infested ground -- his aching, trembling body has always served
as an adequate reminder to what he has missed.

He tightens his grip on worn vinyl handles, and stares at the prone woman
sleeping in front of him. Entranced by the steady rise and fall of the
chest, the harmonious string of steady exhalations and inhalations, the
man's fingers loosen slightly, and his body unconsciously leans forward.
The wooden mattress sighs, then creaks underneath the shifting weight of
the figure lying on top. Startled, the man leans back, and his fingers
once again tighten around tired handles.

There's a knock on the door, and the beady eyed stare of the man with the
dulling red hair causes a crushed, sweaty picture to fall from the space
between the sweaty hand and the bruised chair handle. The lines have been
blurred by salt water, and the faces -- his hand -- have been marred with
dead red. The figure in the chair looks from the floor, to the woman in
the bed, to the silhouette towards the back. The dark figure by the door
grows darker, and with unintelligible words, he and his insults slink back
once again.

The figure by the bed licks his lips in nervous relief, and his arms
stretch to reach for the picture. Staring at the marred coloured paper, he
rubs the paper against his chest too hastily, too roughly -- failing once
again to remove the red paint across the boy's face.

Such a shit eating grin.

And Sam-I-am with her smug smile, with the left arm that had just recently
been unleashed from its sling.

>From a swing.

>From that swing that would climb to dizzying proportions, that would
make him want to puke as his world crashed, crumbled, and disappeared --
only to come back seconds later with full, nauseating force.

The rickety swing from which his legs would have to keep pumping, would
have to tense and ignore the lactic acid building. Sam had always
enjoyed swinging, but he had hated it -- hated the senseless pushing and
pumping. He hated the wide grooves of sand which were always underneath
his feet.

He hated having to push harder and harder to escape the bottomless pit
below.

But he could not jump. With white fingers gripping a worn rope, and a
blistered wooden board the only barrier between the broken glass and snot
infested sand, he could not let go of rope. Could not let himself fall.

And he could not stop, could not let the laws of gravity eventually stall
him. For once he stopped pumping, he ceased to move. The sand would be
closer, and there would be no movement backward -- or forward.

Hating the dizziness, the stillness, the sand which would cake in between
his toes, which would leave semi-permanent stains of the soles of his feet
would make Sam laugh -- would make her swing repeatedly to astronomical
proprotions and then jump off, just to spite her brother.

Still hearing her laughter, he looks at the picture and swallows.

Still able to remember her tears, he looks at the sleeping woman and closes
his eyes.

He tries to smile -- a big ass smug smile like the one in the picture, but
his face crinkles, cracks, begins to splinter. Tears start to threaten,
their crystal shards wanting nothing more than to slice a path through
his flesh.

He can't be happy.

Not when he's angry at the smoking man for flaunting the truth, for
offering him grandeur visions of splendour -- only to disappear and
offer a red stained flag in his wake. The sitting figure once again
passes a hand by his ear. The smoking man is yet another faceless
innocent-condemned-guilty silhouette who will beckon for him from the
depths below.

Not when he's angry at Sam-I-am for showing up with a life, with a family.
Not when she has been able to move on, go forward, while he has been
relegated to swing back further for every swing forward -- unable to stop
the dizzying torment of the chaos below.

Not when's angry at the brother who has made him feel petty and little.
For being yet another voice, another addition to hoards of sing song
wails -- living and unliving -- who are telling him to jump, that his
swinging is futile, and joining the pit below is inevitable.

Not when he's angry at himself for feeling so miserable when the woman
beside me has been given a clean bill of health.

A remission.

And he wonders for how much longer he can hold on.

He wonders for how much longer the rickety boards will hold his weight, for
how much longer his slipping hands will grasp onto threadbare ropes.

He wonders for how much longer he will have to move backward, for every
advance forward.

He wonders if his body will be able to keep pushing, even though the
quest is once again at crossroads. He cannot comprehend why, even through
all the pumping and working and holding on, the parasite-laden ground below
has remained steadfastly below.

He wonders what will happen should he fall. Would he join the venom that
lurks below -- the same world that was enticingly presented to him hours
ago. Would he plummet like the little girl he watched fall so long ago --
would he disappear into the sand, the white picket fence and the tire
swing in the back.

Would he scream like Sam did -- a shriek that died as soon as the clap of
bone breaking was heard. A silence that was only broken by the swing seat
moving wildly, bucking, hitching...

Her breaths hitch, and his rope callused fingers fumble with the picture,
with the blood, in an attempt to hide it in darkness.

A flash of blue, a hint of pink as it licks pale lips, and the woman is
staring at the figure with his hands clenched around worn handles.

"Sorry to startle you." Her voice is slightly wheezy... slightly
breezy, and the bed creaks again under her subtle change in position.

He shakes his head, words seemingly stuck in his throat. "I was jus'
thinking."

Unable to comprehend why the woman in blue would find his statement
amusing, he is speechless when she flashes him a set of pearls.

Shards of glass are once again threatening as he can't return the smile --
can only part his lips and bare his teeth in resemblance of an emotion
he's long since forgotten.

His partner starts to talk. And her voice is steady, and her rhythm
shifts from faith, to her family, to her remission.

To coming back to work.

To finding, once and for all, the truth that is out there.

The breeze abruptly stops and her blue eyes are suddenly squinting,
hiding the glow that had been there previous seconds before. "Mulder,
what's wrong?"

For one fleeting moment he can't talk. He can't think about going to
work. He can't think about lies, and conspiracies, and Sam-I-am and shards
of glass.

He jerkily looks around the room and notes the absence of machines and tubes.
A quick glance at her fingers reveals white moons, and the woman's hair has
started to shine again.

He nods to no one in particular.

He wants to be happy.

"You look unhappy."

His shoulders shrug, despite the weight that has settled there. He absently
rubs a hand against his chest again, wiping away invisible blood. His hand
moves up towards his ear, trying to silence the voices that are still
screaming.

A picture is burning in his jacket, blue eyes are boring into his bloodshot
orbs. A swing creaks endlessly in the background, a protective brother
and the dead are knocking and banging on the door -- knuckles slamming
against a paper-thin wooden panel.

"Mulder, what's wrong?"

She's no longer smiling, and he wants to be happy.

He inhales sharply.

They both deserve to be happy.

The bed creaks as he sits on the flat, wooden mattress. He grits his teeth
in yet another weak attempt at a smile, and his feet dangle over drab
linoleum.

He takes the woman's hand in his, and feels her tendons, sinew, and muscles
start to cinch. His fingers, his palm, and his knuckles are soon firmly
enclosed by two strong, feminine hands.

The corners of his mouth lift upwards, and a drop of saline harmlessly
spills down his cheek.

"I'm fine."

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