Title:
Flying Lessons
Author:
Ann K
Rating:
R
Spoilers:
Post-episode for "Elegy"
Summary: Mulder and Scully
react to Scully’s visions of death, and their fears over her cancer.
Feedback
always welcomed at annhkus@yahoo.com.
Read more of my stories at http://www.geocities.com/annhkus.
I
am not sure how long I’ve sat here by the window, watching Mulder sitting in
his parked car, underneath the dim streetlight. Long enough for my anger and
frustration to abate, leaving me with an empty feeling inside my chest. The
evening rain has turned into an early morning mist, hanging heavy over the
relatively empty street.
Mulder’s
face is blurry from a distance, but I can imagine the features well. Jaw set,
lips pursed into a tight line. The eyes are shadowed, and tired, and he is
likely gripping onto the steering wheel with both hands, tapping his fingers to
some abstract rhythm audible only in Mulder’s head.
I
contemplate calling him, the cell phone resting in my lap. But I decide against
it. Whatever Mulder has to say, whatever compelled him to drive over to my house
and sit for hours out front, he needs to say to me in person. Because his last
words hurt. “Why can’t you be honest with me?” he said. “You can’t
hide the truth from me.”
Oh,
Mulder. If you only knew. If you only understood how I feared failing you, you
would never have spoken those words to me in the hospital.
The
scene flickered in front of my eyes, like a B-movie on late-night cable. Mulder,
standing so close to me, his eyes troubled, the hurt on his face tangible, as I
told him what I had seen. The visions of the dead girl, the fourth victim. I
wanted to explain, to tell Mulder that I couldn’t accept the fact I was facing
a vision of my own mortality, much less voice the words to him.
It
wasn’t that I couldn’t believe. It’s that I didn’t want to. Because
believing what I saw would mean acknowledging my own death omen, and I am not
ready to do that. But Mulder didn’t understand.
Movement
in the street brings my attention back to Mulder, and I see him step out of the
car, tucking his cell phone into his pocket. As he walks toward my building, I
am not sure what to feel. Relief, that he has finally decided to confront this,
to confront me, directly. Trepidation, because I can’t bear the thought of
hurting him more than I already have. Resignation, because I am scared I can’t
fight anymore.
He
walks with a purpose, as always. His trench coat billows in the morning breeze,
and his dark figure cuts through the light fog. I am in awe of him. I am
terrified of him. I am in love with him, and it is this last emotion that I
clung to, which lingers on my tongue like the taste of bitter morning coffee.
I
jump when he knocks on my door. I open it without saying a word, without even
meeting his eyes, and then turn, sitting on the couch, covering my pajama-clad
legs with a thin blanket.
I
have no idea what to say to him.
Apparently,
he doesn’t know what to say, either. He stands uncertainly, closing the door
softly behind him. He takes off his coat, revealing his wrinkled Oxford, the
sleeves still rolled to the elbow, and his holster on his hip. He drops the
coat, but leaves his weapon. I am not sure, but I think he feels like it offers
him some sort of protection.
From
me. Since when did Mulder and I have to protect ourselves from each other?
“When
I heard your gunshot, I couldn’t get to you fast enough.” He is talking
about the altercation in the bathroom, when my single gunshot prevented me from
becoming the next victim. “I wasn’t there, and could only imagine what was
happening.” I simply nod my head. I know this, from the panicked expression on
Mulder’s face when he burst through the bathroom door.
I
think back to my session with the Bureau psychologist, and then I speak the most
terrifying words of all. “I never realized, Mulder, how much I need you, how
much I rely on you. But, since my cancer,…” The word cuts like razors in my
mouth, and I shiver involuntarily. Ironic, how many times I was confronted with
cancer in my medical training. Now that it is invading my body, I can’t even
say the name.
Mulder
doesn’t move, only watches me with his shadowed eyes. “Since my cancer,” I
try again, my voice harsh from exhaustion, “you’ve been my strength. I rely
on your passion.” I can’t quite believe I am saying these things to him,
these innermost feelings. I feel achingly vulnerable.
His
expression changes, softens, just slightly, and he starts to speak, but I motion
him with my hand to remain silent. I need to tell him all of this now, before
the words disappear back into the bravado that makes up my personality.
“Mulder, I saw Harold Spueller. After I left you in the hospital, after you
told me he was found dead.”
My
voice quakes, and I rush the rest of the sentence out. “I saw him, Mulder. I
saw his image in the backseat of the car. And you said it yourself. What is such
a vision except a glimpse at our own mortality?”
I
am weeping now. God, where did these tears come from? I ignore them. Mulder’s
face looks similarly anguished. “I didn’t betray you. You say we are afraid
of the same thing, Mulder. But we’re not. You are afraid of losing me. And I
am afraid of failing you.”
He
wants to come to me, to hold me. I can tell by the way he seems to be
restraining his body, not ready to let go of his hurt. Suddenly, I remember my
mother, sitting beside my bed. I was a young girl, and Missy and I had a
terrible argument. She said things to me that cut deeply in a seven-year-old’s
soul, and I cried for hours.
“You
can only really hurt those you love the most,” my mother had said to me then.
“Can
I stay the night?” Mulder’s voice startles me more than his question. I sit
very still, unwrapping the layers. He forgives me for not telling him what I
saw. He is asking for forgiveness, for his anger and his hurtful words. He wants
me to know that he is not willing to give up this fight, as long as I am able to
continue. He is telling me, in his own Mulder fashion, that he loves me, and I
can never fail him.
I
am drained. I have no more tears, no more emotions. I have nothing, other than
the morning mist that is blanketing the windows of my apartment, and my partner,
standing wrinkled and exhausted, wanting to stay with me. And, it is enough.
I
nod, once, and Mulder’s eyes smile. He slips off his holster, and then sits
next to me on the couch, gingerly, gathering me into his arms as if he is afraid
he might break me. But I don’t chastise him. I don’t say a word.
Instead,
I settle against him, closing my eyes, and renew my vow, to never fail Mulder,
and to never fail myself.
Read more of my stories at http://www.geocities.com/annhkus
October, 2002