DISCLAIMER: After the ritual sacrifice that Chris Carter calls a season finale, Mulder and Scully *should* belong to me. Or at the very least, hidden by the Federal Witness Protection Program until UberVince's takeover is successful. (It's going to happen, I swear!) If they were mine, I'd treat them much better. They'd have a house with a white picket fence...but I digress. This isn't actually a shipper story... (ominous music starts) SPOILER: You better believe it! Gethsemane, what else? RATING: PG-13 CLASSIFICATION: V/A SUMMARY: An FBI agent sits at home alone one night, contemplating suicide. But like so much else connected with the X-Files, things are not what they seem... COMMENTS: Same bat time, same bat channel: *new* email address: jenbird@earthlink.net For EDS, who knows whereof I speak. TOWERBLOCK 1/1 By: Jennifer Maurer "All my life, I've been the one Who's big and strong for everyone Then you come along A towerblock for me to lean on And I ask you, where do we go from here? All my life, I've been the one Who's always there for everyone And now I know you've let me down Will it always be That I'm the only towerblock for me?" --Julia Fordham *The truth will save you, Scully. I think it'll save both of us.* The biggest lie of all. Tears trickle down my cheeks unchecked. I lick them away from the corners of my mouth, not even bothering to use my hands. The light from the TV is the only source of illumination in the room. I shiver and draw my knees up to my chest, cowering in a corner of the sofa as if I could hide from this. It is not supposed to end this way. Four years of work---not to mention a lifetime of memories---found to be a complete waste. Worthless. Fabricated by the government to perpetuate their lies. To hide an even more frightening truth. *Mulder, not everything is a labyrinth of dark conspiracies and not everybody is plotting to deceive, inveigle and obfuscate.* A harsh laugh escapes my lips. Sure, fine, whatever. The long-cherished conspiracy that *aliens* could abduct people, experiment on them, was one thing. Fantastic to some, gospel to others. That a *government* could perform such atrocities against its own citizens...that was something else all together. Easier to prove, harder to believe. What else had our government created to cover their tracks? Ah, but we know the answer to that already: cancer. A life thrown away, all to fuel a Quixotic quest. A sacrifice in vain. As Michael Kritschgau told his story, I felt the distance grow between us as never before. The looks we exchanged said little. A glance across the room may as well have been a glance across a chasm. This is not Comity, a misunderstanding easily explained away. This is a separation of our own making. We have chosen the sides. Opposite sides. *This man is lying.* The words hung desperately in the air, followed by silence. Waiting for confirmation. Pleading for it. We have disagreed before, of course, many times. Had our share of arguments, some of them heated, some marked only by cold silence. We have trailed off down our separate paths, only to converge again later. Not anymore. Never again. There was no turning back in any case, but tonight I will seal that avenue off forever. There is loneliness, such as I have not felt in years. Not since that night in a dark hotel room, the first secret shared. The first seed of trust planted. I bite back the name that rises to my lips, wanting to scream it out loud as I have done so often before, bringing rescue. Salvation. Things that I now must find by my own hand. *I was given this disease to make you believe.* Words like a sledgehammer, shattering two hearts. Snapping a gossamer thread, already stretched thin by betrayal and disbelief. The accidental wound cuts the deepest. I take a deep breath, barely hold back a sob. The words ring hollowly in my ears. Am I sure they were actually spoken aloud, not just imagined? My only answer was footsteps, walking away. A growing numbness, the need to deny. Alone now, the pain buries me like wind creating a sand dune. It washes over me, rubbing me away. Not just pain for the events of tonight. Pain for everything, all the things I want to forget, try to remember. Guilt for a sister, gone in my place. Anger at the abduction, the cancer. Rage over two wasted lives, used until broken and thrown away like dolls. There are no more second chances. There will be no more miraculous reunions. *To the best of my knowledge, Agent Mulder is dead.* *They think they found Scully...they want me to come down and ID the body.* I hide my face on my knees and sob then, remembering all the close calls. All the times we should have lost each other and did not. Knowing now that our luck has run out. Grieving for the pain we caused each other, and for the pain yet to come. For in spite of all the betrayals, I know that our bond is still there. I pray it will not be too difficult for the one I leave behind. I turn my head and look at my gun sitting on the coffee table. Shining darkly in the bluish light. Mocking me. Waiting for me. Unbidden, a memory surfaces in my roiling mind. Robert Modell, Russian roulette, frantic screams and one single tear. Accusing, but no more painful than the accusations made tonight. I clutch my head in my hands, willing the images to stop. No more, I don't want to remember. Let me just cut the ties and move on. I pick up the gun, the weight in my hand reassuring me that this is real. I have fired this gun a thousand times. I have killed people with it. I have pointed it at my partner. *Scully, get that gun off me!* *Mulder, you may not be who you are.* I let out a strangled cry and drop the gun. It hits the rug with a dull thud. I curl up smaller, trying to shield myself from the memories. *You're one of the men who abducted me! You killed my sister! You put that thing in my neck!* *You have my files and my gun. Don't ask for my trust!* So much time gone by. Time we would never get back now. Time missing. Time eaten away by cancer. Time wasted on petty arguments. *What do you want me to say? That I believe it even if I don't? I mean, is that what you want?* *Is that what you think I want to hear?* I turn my head. The phone sits on the table next to my couch, daring me to pick it up. *It's me.* *Where are you?* I pick up the handset, my thumb on the first speed dial button. Who else would I call first? What other voice do I long for in the middle of the night? *Are you asleep?* *What time is it?* I could hear that voice again, let it save me. Hear familiar tones reassure me. Go crawling back to the partner I'd turned my back on, and be welcomed with open arms. *It feels good to put my arms around you. Both of them.* I had never thought to see you again, that time. This time I know I never will. I scream and throw the phone against the wall, watching it splinter like the phone Duane Barry crushed under his heel. I moan at the memory. He started this whole thing, I think resentfully. But I know that isn't true. I know where the origins lie. A place so close to my heart... With shaking hands I scoop from the table what has rested next to my gun all this time. A tiny gold cross. Once a symbol of strength, a promise of reunion. Now, just a mockery of all those dreams. There is no return from the dead this time. The chain is broken, wrenched from the neck...why? I don't really know. A faith abandoned. Again, why? Because of the lies? Because of the cancer? Don't pawns still believe? Sobbing again, I tenderly lay the cross back on the table. It has passed back and forth between us, only to end with me here now. They will find it next to my body. If the chain were not broken I would put it on, wear it as I did once, a sign of belief in an unbreakable bond. No more stalling. My time is running short. I pick up the gun from the floor, put it on the table. A note. I should leave a note. Why? Isn't it a little late for apologies? For my mother, I think. Mom, I'm sorry you have to lose another child... I force my hand to steadiness as I pause over the paper. I decide there is only one person I want to address this letter to...the one whom I trust like no other. Yes, present tense. The trust is still there, something so hard fought for doesn't just vanish. But how to put four years into a suicide note? What could I possibly say to make it any better, being left behind? I'm sorry, I know you weren't expecting to lose me this way. I'm a coward. I don't want to die. I miss you. I'm sorry. I put down the pen. Get it over with. With the bond we share, notes are unnecessary. Everything has already been said, over the years. The goodbye was in a warehouse earlier this evening, even if neither of us knew it at the time. The only thing left is to actually end it. No more suffering, not for myself, and not for me to witness. I raise the gun slowly. The muzzle is cold against my temple. A thought of my father comes to me suddenly. He came to me when I was near death's door, told me it was not my time to leave. I lower the gun, stunned by the memory. Why am I remembering this now? I expect no such visitor this time. Death is ready for me, I only have to have the courage to meet it. Or the cowardice, depending on how you look at it. I have been close to death before, if not by my own hand. I was not afraid then. Now my palms sweat, the gun slides in my shaky grip. I remember the first time I fired a gun, shocked at the kickback. Delighted by the power. I remember target practice during the Modell case. Near perfect aim, watching that paper man glide in. It scared me, showed me what anger could do. I push the gun away, suddenly claustrophobic. I am gasping for breath, sweat beading on my forehead. I have a thought of putting the gun in the freezer until it chills, then letting the ice blue bullet cut through my brain, cooling the fire. This is it, no turning back. People don't generally survive self-inflicted gun shot wounds to the head. But I don't want to survive? Do I? *Ascending...ascending to the stars* I push myself up from the couch, bolt for the door. Too many ghosts in this apartment. Broken windows, nights spent alone. Sleepless nights, most often these days. Alone, in the dark, your worst fears are magnified. The next morning, you feel foolish for being so frightened. But I know this is one nightmare that will not dissipate with the sun. On the contrary, facing the wreck of my life in the harsh light of day is an unbearable prospect. It is late, the halls are hushed with sleep. I take the stairs. They will come looking for me in my apartment but I won't be there. I can see the whole city from here. The gravel on the roof crunches under my feet. I walk in slow, measured steps. I place my palms flat on the low wall, the texture of concrete the first thing I've felt in hours. I lean forward. I do not look down. I look forward, watching the first rays of sunrise turn the skyline from black to deep purple. I want to go before the day begins. I cannot face what I have become. *There's one thing I'm sure of, Mulder, as sure as I am of this life: we have nothing to fear when it's over.* I hope that's true. I close my eyes, feel the wind on my face. My mind grows still, fear slowly leaves me. I feel myself start to relax, to sway. I remember gulls at the seashore, watching them make endless loops as a child. I am brought abruptly back to the present by the sound of footsteps behind me. They are hesitant, as if someone is afraid of startling me. I turn around, the world tilting dizzily when I open my eyes. Our glances crash against each other like swords. "Mulder, wh-what...?" "Scully, I..." We are both stunned into silence, frozen in this tableau. *************** "My faith is a great weight hung on a small wire" --Anne Sexton And what tableau would that be, you ask? Oh, come on, you didn't *really* think I was going to tell you whether it's Scully or Mulder ready to jump, did you? What fun would that be? I know, I know, I'm a mean, awful person. Kind of makes you notice how much they have in common, though, doesn't it? Comments, pleas for sequels, and Tea Leoni's head on a stick can be sent to: jenbird@earthlink.net (*new* email address)