Before and After The End XFBandit Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be. Rating: R (Language) Classification: V,A,MSR Keywords: Mulder/Scully Summary: Scully's thoughts about "The End." Archive: Gossamer, please. SPOILERS: Everything, up to and including "The End." PLEASE FORWARD TO ATXFC. Feedback: Please. drambo@sonic.net -1- Time. It's such a totally human construct. I remember, once, trying to explain to my older brother how time actually worked. How there was, in fact, a time "before" time. How, when the universe was an infinitely dense ball of primordial goo there really was NO time. And then, in that fraction of a picosecond after The Big Bang, there was "zero" time, and then time began. He never understood it. And for me, the physics major, it seemed abstract. Equations on a sheet of graph paper; bold, multi-colored strokes on a greaseboard at Berkeley. Not real. Not in the sense that it could be touched, felt, examined. You can't put time under a microscope. But you can look at it with a telescope. Because, you see, time is distance. Everyone knows it, even if they don't know they know it. Ask someone how far they live from work. "Far," being a measure of distance and all. Most people will glance up and to the right with their eyes as their brains tries to do the computation, and they invariably announce, "Oh, about twenty minutes." Or whatever. Ask someone how long they're going to be before they're ready and they never say, "About six miles." Five years. Literally, hundreds of thousands of miles. Frequent flier miles, frequent driver miles, miles added on top of those for staying in certain motels or hotels. Miles added for eating in certain restaurants. Miles. Time. Distance. The totality of experience expressed in feet. How far have I come with him since those first steps I took into his office? In time, or distance? Incalculable. -2- I'd met Phoebe. Chalked it up to adolescent fascination with something you know is bad for you, someone you just know your parents would never approve of. Experimentation. Walking on the wild side. Playing with fire, pardon the pun. And to my mind, that was it. Oh, sure, there were girlfriends in high school, perhaps the painful crush of teenage desire unrequited. But, to my mind, there was Phoebe. And then there was me. Imagine my surprise to discover that there was another chapter in the book of Mulder, a chapter that I was totally unaware of, a chapter that I wasn't sure had even...ended. Striding down the hall, holding the proof of Mulder's belief in my hand, knowing that he was literally going to do the dance of joy when he realized that I had certain, quantifiable proof of what he had been searching for since day one. So proud that it was I who was bringing it to him. Knowing that the look he was going to give me when I showed it to him would... Set my blood on fire. Yes, as cheap-romance-novel as it sounds, that's what I wanted more than anything. That slow, lazy smile, the light bursting in his eyes, the way those selfsame eyes would track and find mine as we shared that singular, perfect moment between two... Friends, I guess. I passed them and kept going. Every muscle in my body arguing with itself. Turn, run, one camp urged. Stop, turn in, interrupt them! Get his hands...off...of...her. She has no right. None whatsoever. Whatever rights she might have had she gave up the moment she took that LEGATT job in...where was it? Daharan? Damascus? I remember thinking what a professional I was. I saw the man I... Time. Time heals all wounds. Not this one, I remember thinking. Not this time. It's wrong and hurtful and a thousand kinds of ugly to think of a person as a thing. That was the legacy of my parents, one I was grateful for. Each person contributes in their own way, even when it doesn't appear that way on the surface. At that point, I wanted Gibson there. I wanted that little human lie detector with a penchant for staring at the Cartoon Network by my side so I could point him like a ray gun at Mulder and start asking some hard questions. Interrogations would never be the same. Ask a suspect a question, glance over at the little tyke and look for the nod or the shake and go from there. "You're thinking about one of the girls," he'd said. My first response, my first reaction had been that Mulder was thinking about me. A self-serving thought. After talking to the Guys, I reconsidered my original assessment. How dry that sounds. How totally professional. I'm sure if Gibson had been in the room, he would have clapped mental hands over mental ears and run away screaming at the wail my soul gave when I realized that Mulder had been thinking about...her. Diane. Diane Fowley. As I drove away, I remember thinking that at least she wasn't six feet of blonde, bubbly legs and breasts. Even if she did...believe. I thought that was my crime. That I hadn't believed him. -3- When I told him, I thought that I had a chance. He came to the office, alone. I was waiting for him, sitting behind his desk, the results in that plain brown folder. He smiled when he saw me. Good, I thought. He doesn't know that I saw him. Holding hands with her. His ex. His...what did Frohike call her? "Chickee?" I took him through it slowly, explaining the science behind it, even as I was amazing myself all over again at what we'd...together... managed to discover. How I hated the feeling that I was competing for his attention. For his love. Hated the fact of how I was so glad to be the one to deliver this news. Hated how glad it made me that he ignored her so completely and so deeply when we went to Skinner's office with the rest of the team. How he held out my chair for me, how he smiled at me like... Once, I would have said like a teacher proud of his prize pupil. That might have been true, once. A long time ago. Thousands of miles ago. And she...attacked me. Not physically, of course. Verbally. Wanting to know how you could qualify spirituality. That's when I knew. They hadn't made love. Because any woman who had been with Mulder would know the answer to that stupid fucking question. I wanted to tell her to read some Ken Wilbur. Then she'd understand how you could mix science and religion. Because if it came down to her reading Wilbur and understanding on an intellectual level, or sleeping with the man that I loved with every subatomic particle of my being, I'd lend her my library card in a heartbeat before I even considered suggesting practical experience as a method of theoretical demonstration. -4- Sure, they might have...slept together. Fucked. But she didn't have...it. The connection that he and I share. She might have worked with him. She might have believed most of what he did. She didn't have the glue. Shared experience is the glue that holds relationships together. She could believe in little green men all she wanted; she could believe all the odd and wonderful and magical and mysterious things that he did... She had no idea what he and I have been through over the last five years. None at all. They didn't have the shorthand that he and I did. I watched them try and communicate, and now, looking back, I realize what I saw. A woman, desperate to be part of something again. A man, trying as gently as he could, trying to tell her that as flattered as he was...sorry, no sale. When I saw them holding hands, it wasn't intimate. It had just been a shock. But, he'd been...pushing her away. Distancing himself. Making room for me. -5- The call came. Skinner, telling us that the powers above him were working mightily to shut us down, to end the X-Files, to muzzle us again. Diane, shot. I hadn't asked for that. Not even a little. I wanted her gone, out of his life, but not...that. Not dead. Not more guilt for him. But he hadn't asked for her to be assigned. Skinner had thrust Mulder into this case. Smiling wryly, I wonder why Skinner hates Spender so much. Mulder, on the couch, eyes closed, realizing he'd rolled the dice and lost. Snake eyes. I'd moved to the couch, sat down next to him, wanting to somehow comfort him. Not that way. And, at the same time, yes...that way. Because if they closed us down, if they split us up... Time, for me, would stop. My universe would stop expanding and I'd slowly collapse upon myself, a black hole. I touched his face. He smiled, not opening his eyes. What were you afraid of Mulder? I wanted to ask. What thoughts did Gibson read from your mind? He shifted on the couch, making room for me. I lay down next to him, facing away. Feeling his arm come around my middle, drawing me against him. I turned in his embrace, tucking my head under his chin, my hand on his chest, fingers itching to divest him of clothing. Last chance, my mind said. Last chance before the dance ends. We slept. -6- The phone was loud in the early morning stillness. I reached for it, not caring who was on the other end. "`lo?" I mumbled, voice thick with sleep. "Scully?" Skinner. "Sir?" "You'd better get down here. The both of you." "What's going on, sir?" "There's been an accident, Scully. Just get down here." And then he was gone. Mulder smiled at me, a sleepy, goofy smile that I wanted to save forever. This, my mind announced, is the smile he gives to you the morning you wake up in his arms. Memorize it. It may be all you get. "Accident at the office," I say softly, still holding the phone, wanting nothing more in the world than to lean down and kiss his lips. He's moving before the echo of the words have died. We jump in his car. I call the Guys enroute. "What's going on?" They'll know. Silence. "Frohike?" "As near as we can put together from the scanner and some preliminary reports...they're running an arson investigation." "Arson?" I ask, glancing over at my partner. "Fire in the basement. Obviously set." I hang up. "It's bad," I say to him. He nods, accelerating. -7- Standing in the middle of what was our lives. Holding him. Feeling like an emotional Judas. I will never be able to tell him the mixture of emotion that I feel at this instant. The fact that they felt the need to do this, that they were so threatened by what we found, tells me that we were right. That he was right. The fact that our life likes in charred ruins under our feet... Maybe now... Now, now we might be able to... Not today, not tonight, not this week or this month. But soon, soon, maybe we'll be able to... Rebuild. Better than before. My head is against his chest, and I'm glad that I'm here with him, that I can hear the sound of his heart breaking. And I know something. Something he doesn't know. Something I was saving for him. He thinks it's over. For two reasons, one he might suspect, and one he could never guess, he's wrong. First... It could never be over. Not for us. This is who we are, he and I. The fact that the files are burned is only a testament to our effectiveness as a team. As partners. As lovers who have done everything but cross that final barrier between two people. Second... I smile against his chest, knowing that we'll have to find a private place to have that discussion. The key is in my wallet. Small, silver, perfect and pristine. The key to a safety deposit box. Inside the box, three dozen high-capacity zip disks. Another set exists somewhere else, another safety-deposit box, obtained under an assumed name. A third and fourth set, hidden by the Guys in an undisclosed location. Protection. Insurance. The entirety of the X-Files, digitized by the Guys at my request, protection against something like this. It was going to be his birthday present. I can't wait to tell him. ------- THE END