From: msnsc21@yahoo.com   
      
   OK to send to newsgroup; I'll send to Gossamer and Ephemeral.   
      
   Land of the Living Part I   
   by ML   
   ~Headers, etc. in Prologue.  This is all story.~   
      
   ~x~   
      
   Chapter Six   
      
   Never the time and the place and the loved one all together...   
     -Elizabeth Barrett Browning   
      
   There's nowhere else to go but her room, so Scully goes there   
   and shuts the door, slamming it.  Not that anyone will hear it,   
   it's just that she has to do something.  She sits on her bed,   
   taking deep, slow breaths.  Whether it's to keep from screaming   
   or crying, she's not sure.  She feels equally capable of either.   
      
   He's ditched her.  For all his noble words about working things   
   out, he cut and run.  She doesn't think she could have felt any   
   worse once she'd confessed, but she does.  This mixture of pity   
   and anger she feels toward Mulder is familiar.  She can't decide   
   if she wants to run after him and comfort him, or to kick his   
   ass.   
      
   This is not the way she envisioned things.  Once she'd committed   
   herself to the idea of an intimate relationship with Mulder, she   
   figured it would just be a matter of time and details.  She's   
   only recently been considering the possibility herself, but she   
   is pretty sure that Mulder has just been waiting for her to say   
   the word.  He's shown for some time by his words and actions that   
   he'd like to deepen the relationship.  She knew there'd be a   
   number of things still to negotiate, but ultimately they would   
   somehow find a balance.  She would have staked her future on it.   
   In fact, she had, by returning to California.   
      
   She can't explain what happened, how it is that Teena Mulder   
   appeared to her so vividly.  It seems especially unfair that   
   Mulder's mother could still cause him such pain from beyond the   
   grave, and she's angry that she has been used as the instrument.   
   If Teena Mulder hadn't already been dead, at this moment she'd   
   probably do the deed herself.   
      
   In the meantime, there's her immediate concern for Mulder.   
   Where has he gone?  She goes to the kitchen and looks out the   
   window. to the kitchen window.  The car is still there so he   
   can't have gotten far.  She decides to leave him alone to blow   
   off steam.  If he means what he's been saying, he'll be back and   
   they'll talk.  Or she *will* kick his ass.   
      
   x-x-x   
      
   The darkness is welcome to Mulder.  Only the faintest starlight   
   guides him along the footpath.  He takes a deep breath, drawing   
   the cold winter air into his lungs.  There is a sharp wind blowing;   
   no fog tonight.  He looks up at the stars, tiny pinpoints, keeping   
   their secrets.  What are they hiding from him?  Is Samantha really   
   up there in the starlight?  His father?  His mother?   
      
   He has vague recollections of meeting his father in starlight,   
   somewhere in between the land of the living and the dead.  His   
   father urged him to go back to the living, not to give in.  What   
   the hell does his mother want?  He's never known what she wanted   
   from him.  She was never particularly interested in talking to   
   him when she was alive.  Even dead, she's not appearing to *him*.   
      
   All he wants to do is move on.  Continually talking and talking   
   isn't going to change anything.  Why did Mom appear to Scully   
   and not him?  He thinks of all the times he'd begged her to talk   
   to him while she lived, and she always put him off.  "I don't   
   remember," or "It was a long time ago," or, "It doesn't matter,   
   Fox."  Like hell it doesn't.   
      
   "Oh, Mom," he groans aloud.  "Why couldn't you just tell me when   
   you were alive?  Why did you have to be so damned secretive?"   
   His eyes sting with tears as he throws his head back, staring   
   at the stars.  There is so much she could have told him.  If   
   only she hadn't felt the need to hide behind the lies.  Even   
   during her last visits to him in the hospital, he couldn't read   
   her clearly.   
      
   He wanders to the cliff's edge.  He sits on a bench near the   
   path and stares out to the dark mass of ocean.  He can hear it   
   breathing, but can only see an occasional flash of phosphorescence   
   from the breaking waves.  He feels soothed by the sound in spite   
   of himself.   
      
   Scully was right in Victorville.  He's obviously not prepared to   
   be with her.  It's beginning to look like he never will be.   
   He shouldn't have forced her to come out here. His hopes and   
   dreams of the past seven years are fading away, as surely as   
   the apparition of Samantha.  If he hadn't asked Scully out here,   
   he could still have his hopes.  He should have known better.   
      
   Little by little he becomes aware of the cold.  He hopes he's   
   stayed out long enough that Scully's gone to bed.  He doesn't   
   think he has the strength to face her just yet.  He jogs slowly   
   back toward the house.   
      
   After several fruitless moments at the door, he realizes that   
   the keys he's trying to fit into the back door lock are the   
   car keys.  He feels around in his pockets for another set and   
   remembers that Scully had unlocked the door when they came back   
   from the crab feed and he'd only put the set of car keys in his   
   jacket pocket.  He leans his forehead against the door and   
   quietly but vehemently says the worst five words he knows, and   
   then repeats them.   
      
   What are his options?  Bang on the door and shout Scully's name   
   until she unlocks it, possibly causing any neighbors within a   
   mile to call the sheriff?  Go and tap on her bedroom window,   
   risking another gunshot wound?  When she shot me  before, he   
   thinks, she said it was for my own good.  How angry is she now?   
   Could she call it self-defense?   
      
   He gropes in his pockets and comes up with his cell phone,   
   pressing the speed-dial for Scully's number.  He's actually   
   relieved when he gets her voice mail, and does not leave a   
   message.   
      
   He really, really doesn't want to face Scully right now.  She   
   may have had the vision, or hallucination, or whatever the hell   
   it was, but he is the one who called a halt to their little tete   
   a tete.  One of two things could happen.  She will answer the   
   door with her face devoid of any emotion, let him in without a   
   word, and continue the silent treatment until he cracks.  Or,   
   she will rail at him, pummel him with her fists, sob and scream   
   and cry and allow him to comfort her.  He knows that the former   
   is much more likely than the latter.  Forgiveness might come at   
   some point, but it doesn't seem likely just now.  He's tried to   
   control the situation since he asked her to meet him, and he's   
   failed miserably.   
      
   Perhaps it's better this way.  There's always the work.  He's   
   not sure that's what he wants any more, but it's what he's   
   familiar with.  Submerge the personal in the work.  Let the   
   work take over, and he can forget about the Scully-sized hole   
   in his heart.  He's done it for years.   
      
   But what about Scully?  She said some things that indicated to   
   him that she's willing to explore a more personal relationship.   
   He believed her--at least, until she flinched away from him and   
   mentioned his mother.  It's almost too pat.  Easier than facing   
   the truth, maybe?   
      
   He's still standing on the back step in the cold wind, shivering.   
   Weighing his options once again, he goes for a third choice.  He   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)