Rating: PG, Some language
Classification: VA
Spoilers: Pilot, Fight the Future
Keywords: M/S UST
Summary: A vulnerable Mulder's thoughts in Fight the Future, after Scully announces her impending resignation.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Dedication: To my uncle, who was just recently in an episode of "The X-Files"! Unfortunately, I don't know the title of the episodeäbut it was set in Mississippi and he played the main guard. Blonde hair/big guy. I will definitely get the scoop from himä
Post: Anywhere, please just let me know where.
Compassionate Reviews: Although I've written other tales I hope to submit, this is the first piece I've dared to post. I hope there is some value in it.
Comments are welcomed: Theg7@aol.com

Out in the hallway, the agents stood--a hundred conflicting emotions stirring turbulently through their respective minds. It had come to this. It had come to the end. Their end. They stood staring at one another--a thousand words to say--no words adequate for speech...

Mulder was barely able to form, much less, comprehend the enormity of the phrase he found uttering from his numb lips; "You're quitting?"

Mockingly, his voice echoed mercilessly through his mind, down the halls, down deep into his heart. ["You're quitting?" --no longer had a voice. "You're quitting?" --no longer comprehended language. ...quitting?"] Gone.

He stood frozen, eyes glued to her sad face, to her dying eyes. The realization was becoming bloodlessly apparent. There was no breath. No air... He couldn't breathe.

It appeared as if the sound would catch in her throat, yet somehow Scully began to speak, the resignation evident in her voice. "Maybe you should ask yourself if your heart is still in it too."

[No! How can you go? How can you think you haven't made a difference? How can you leave us? Leave? You're leaving ...me. Don't go. God, Scully, please don't go...]

No oxygen left...suffocating...eviscerated. Mulder would not take his eyes from her, lest she disappear.

Her eyes...those beautiful sky-blue eyes, the warmth of his soul...vibrant... compassionate...those beautiful eyes...gone. No longer his. Murdered. The sparkle in her eyes was squelched, dehydrated--as if a thousand devils had laid their sinewy hands upon her, suffocating the only beckon of light left in this utterly hopeless world...

No light. His crystal beacons, the ones that safely led him home, gone. Now, without his lighthouse, he would be cast adrift in an empty, murky void. He would be forever lost in misery, without his compass to guide him. He would be cast into purgatory, condemned to forever recall the glimpse of a radiant sun that now was eternally eclipsed, lost in the shadows, enveloped.

Now, the only thing apparent to him was the futility...no hope of respite or rescue. No salvation, no companionship, no future. Without his partner, without Scully, there was no foreseeable future. It was the end of them. The end of him. Scully had found no reason to stay and fight. She had raised the white flag. She had surrendered.

Total defeat and weariness replaced the warmth that was Dana Scully, confidant and soul mate. This wretched enemy blatantly invaded and sat--housing there, invading her being...an enveloping, all encompassing sadness. The demon had quickly conquered her unconquerable spirit, rendering her amazingly submissive to its venom.

Somber, Mulder realized that his beloved eyes no longer looked upon him His eyes...the intelligent eyes of his professional equal, his scientist, his doctor, his partner, his friend, his Sc. No, his eyes were gone. Cemented over with layers and layers of despair. These eyes before him were blurry and empty. Defeated. Deflated. Drained. Indeed, the conquest was complete.

At that moment, the fire that emanated from Mulder's own eyes, the passion, the drive, the desire...instantaneously mirrored hers, a symbiosis...a nexus. The plague was communicable. The virus had spread. The death of her spirit was the death of his. Chang and Eng--one could not survive without the other... Extinguished. Snuffed out. Suffocated. The innocence was lost. Forever gone. Never to return. She looked away.

Though there were no visible gaping wounds, no final gasp for air, no last word whispered in eternal despair, he died. Fox Mulder died, standing right there in the hallway. A lone man slain.

No bullets riddled his body and no dagger was visible piercing his heart. He was not frozen in a crippled, fetal position--left for all to pitifully gawk upon in the floor. Mulder remained stiff, upright--a living rigor mortis. And yet, for all intents and purposes, he was dead. He was a corpse, bloodless. His life force evaporated.

Gone. The sky-blue eyes were gone. No longer looking at his soul. No longer whispering their infinite understanding. Exchanging a lifetime of memories...teasing him, pleasing him. Just gone. Mere inches from him--no longer with him--gone. Self-removed. Death had replaced them.

Stricken, the corpse could not move.

A microscopic ounce of self-preservation innately forced Mulder to draw breath into his deflated lungs. His oxygen depleted brain wasn't registering in a normal fashion. His vision was secular, restricted. However, his auditory senses were super sensitive, perhaps overcompensating the deficit. Awaiting her next words...her retraction...her forgiveness, her absolution.

"Agent Mulder, you're up"

Mulder heard his name and reflexively responded. Pavlov would have been proud. Tracking the source, he caught a faint image of Walter Skinner. The AD stood at the doorway, summoning him back into the OPR meeting. The inquisitors were ready. It was time for the guillotine.

Mulder knew he had to move. That he had to go. Time was such a cruel hoax--an enemy he could not see nor ever defeat. There was no time for words. For explanations. For demands. For pleadings. For reconsideration. For reconciliation.

Cement blocks fixed to his ankles, Mulder was torn. He was, in essence, beaten. Beaten... and he hadn't even been prepared for battle. He was still numb, still in shock from the fatal shot, the mortal wound.

This conversation wasn't completed. He wasn't finished. He hadn't surrendered. There were more words to say, but would they be in vain? Was the war already lost? Was there anything left to fight for? Was there anyone left for him to fight for?

One last look at Scully and Mulder motioned he had to go. But, in that gesture, he hoped to convey that this wasn't over. This couldn't be it. It just couldn't end this way. He wouldn't let it end this way. Not after everything...all they'd been through... She had to know that. It just couldn't end this way.

"I'm sorry"; she managed.

[Sorry... ? Sorry...so sorry. Don't be sorry. This isn't over, Scully. Can't be over. I'll convince you. I'll convince them. I'll fix this. I'll...I'll show them. I'll make it alright. I'll...]

If only he could. If only he could show her. Make her understand--make them understand. If he could give her the strength to stay. Will her the strength to fight. Donate the heart she'd apparently lost.

If it was true, if she didn't want to stay... didn't wish to stay... no longer wanted to remain, how could he force her to? What right did he have to force madness upon her? If she truly felt her time was wasted, that their partnership was futile...their soundness and companionship an utter, useless venture--what gnarled psyche could demand such total sacrifice from an unwilling victim?

Bitter realism dictated the odds were too stacked against them from the start. Had it finally overwhelmed her? The stoic wick burnt by the candle's consuming flames? Maybe she needed to leave, to keep her sanity intact. To be free...free forever of the x-files, free forever of him...to purge herself of the blight...purge herself of him. At last, free. Free to remove the suffocating, bloody albatross from her neck.

[Don't. Don't go...God, don't go. Don't leave me all alone. Please, God, don't go.]

His pleadings...his begging sounded pathetic even to his inner mind, but Mulder couldn't suppress it. Though she was mere inches from him, he already yearned for her. He felt naked, as if their joined souls were raped apart. He needed her. Needed her beside him. Wanted her beside him. Couldn't exist without her beside him. How? How could he ever willingly let her go? His mind was reeling, vertigo.

----------

Out of any justifiable reason to remain frozen speechless in front of his partner, Mulder resigned himself to his fate. A condemned man, he lumbered the final stretches towards the conference room, suddenly aware that the term partner no longer applied to her. She was no longer his partner. She had effectively removed herself from that position.

"Mulder."

Her voice, an angel's hark, Mulder turned to face her. Could never deny her.

[Yeah, Scully...Have you changed your mind? Will you change your mind? Or do you feel at peace now that you'll finally be free? Will you ever think of what we were? Could have been? Think of us? Remember me?]

Loosely, in her hands, she held his jacket. It took a moment for his clouded eyes to see it. Only then did Mulder realize he was entering the meeting without it. He'd removed the jacket, completely forgotten it. It was immaterial. It served no purpose. It only served the establishment, the dress code, met the regulations. Satisfied the expectations of the bureaucracy. The bureaucracy that destroyed them. The bureaucracy that destroyed something chaste, pure, and beautiful--destroyed the spirit that was Dana Scully.

The irony of his ambivalence wasn't lost on him. As ludicrous as it would seem, Mulder didn't want to take the jacket from her. In taking the jacket, it would represent more than having proper dress for the hierarchy. It was the final act between partners--as if the coat were the damned resignation letter itself, symbolic of her willing termination.

A resignation handed over for his impotent scrutiny, handed over so he could keep a copy of it with his precious, scorched x-files. Handed over so he would know the finality--that this was indeed it, indeed the end.

Ludicrous, yes...for that was not Scully's style. Her intentions were always pure and just, and even in defeat and resignation, he still saw her for what she truly was--his beautiful guardian angel.

Faced with her own difficult and momentous decision, Scully still took the time to look out for him, to cover his back, to circumvent personal jeers from the wolves, to spare him a spiteful, personal barb about his lack of appropriate dress. God, what would he do without her? She was handing in her halo. She was forfeiting the saintly role. She was casting the luminous wings aside. Inwardly weeping, he lifelessly took the jacket from her hands. Scully...

"Good Luck."

Her well wishes fell upon deaf ears. His weeping soul drowned out sound. He placed his numb arms into the sleeves, allowing the jacket to clothe the corpse. He proceeded blindly onto the final execution, into purgatory--alone.

--------------

Mulder did not clearly recall the meeting with the Professional Review Board. In fact, he couldn't remember entering the room. He had heard a voice though. A voice in the room that sounded like him. Muttering things. It sounded adept, composed. It spoke only when spoken to. It responded affirmatively and negatively, monotonously. It relayed factual information. It was soulless, without personality. It reverberated off the walls. It was proof. It was evidence. It was the echoing testament of a hollow man.

All of the mannequin panel members appeared out-of-focus, blurred. Surreal...that was what it was--as if they were housed behind a tinted glass wall. Their empty, scrutinizing eyes raking over him, seeking the vulnerable spot to thrust the dagger.

As for Mulder himself, he felt as though he were underwater, in an isolation cage. Floating precariously, he was alone with vicious company. The sharks circled, high and low, diving at the cage. Their matter-encrusted, razor teeth eager to partake of his unprotected flesh. The cage was weakening, buckling under the onslaught. Soon, it would give way.

They were all eager, so eager to finish him off. Should even try to fight them? Unarmed and with the oxygen tanks registering empty, he was near the end. It would be so easy to just concede the inevitable defeat, unlock the cage and let them in. Let it happen as it was destined to all along. Let the bloodthirsty mob swarm him, feast upon his exposed heart, his wounded flesh, devour him alive...

------

Perhaps it was innate stubbornness, but Mulder somehow found the will to survive his own suicidal considerations. Though he may go down, down in flames, it would not be a willing submission. He would not be fodder for the feeding frenzy. While there was still a slim chance, a sliver of hope, he would sustain. He would fight. Though they would grievously wound him, he would kick, spit, and moan curses all the way to his watery grave. He would still fight, until there was no more fight left in him.

Sitting in the meeting, Mulder tried to concentrate. Tried to consider the options left available to him. [What options?] If he could but concentrate upon one thing, perhaps he could salvage something. [Salvage what? His career? A joke...] If his career was even worth salvaging. If there was even a reason left to salvage anything... It couldn't be utterly hopeless. He had to fight, find the strength to fight...but where?

One corner of Mulder's mind acknowledged a different, kind aura in the room. There was a soothing presence, shelter. There was one soul who did not want his head on a silver platter. His respected friend and boss, Walter Skinner, was amongst this mob of dispassionate inquisitors. To his credit, Skinner's steady, compassionate presence was the only thing tangible to Mulder in the entire building at this point.

Mulder tried to concentrate...concentrate on the man. He tried to concentrate upon the strength and support Skinner was radiating, attempting to share...to give to him, to loan to him. His boss was the only merciful human link Mulder had to the world at this point--his very last ally.

Skinner would never know how appreciative his abandoned agent was--armed with the knowledge that at least one individual didn't clutch a knife behind his back, ready to slit his throat. Though Skinner's support was enough to sustain him through the inane questions, Mulder was truly lost without his other half. His better half... Mulder's grasp was desperate, faltering, slipping. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on. The demons were close at hand.

--The sitting corpse's body was stiff. The blow to its head, to its heart, still too fresh, too new. Its blood no longer flowed. The corpse was no longer whole. --

[My god, Scully has left me. I am alone...]

Faceless voices: "...Deaths..."
Ridiculing voices: "Responsibility..."
Disapproving voices: "Blame..."

A higher, condescending voice: "That will be all, Agent Mulder...for now."
--Dismissal.-- So, it arose and the Automaton left the building.

------------------

Casey's Grill and Bar

Fox Mulder sat at the bar, oblivious to all his surroundings. The weight of the world upon his already slumped shoulders had finally taken its toll. Misery required company and the only company he was capable of keeping was that of an intoxicating old friend. The only companion that would never abandon him.

Ten? Ten drinks engulfed and vanished? Little empty glasses were witness to this pathetic testimony. But just how many drinks had been there before? He, Fox Mulder, with the vaunted memory, didn't know. Didn't care. Didn't care to know. Who cared? No one cared. He sure the hell didn't care. There was nothing left to care about. No one left to care. He didn't care...No, she didn't care.

"WHY?!"; the clowns shrieked at him.

"Why should she care?"

Yes, he agreed. After all, how much more could she be expected to take? Should she be expected to take?

Mulder placed his wearily fingers around the tiny glass of liquor before him. He was eager to drown his over-burdened, guilty conscience, if but for a moment.

"Look at the hell you've done to her...put her through..."; the clowns vehemently accused.

Mulder hung his head. There would never be solace. The fates had denied him inner peace. He must be resolved to reside in eternal hell, retribution for his crimes.

With no respite in sight, Mulder hungrily consumed another glass. The count? 15? 20? Desperately consumed it. His inner voice increasingly pathetic, his defenses weakening, his body was succumbing to the powerful drink. Mulder slouched against the bar.

[I never meant to...never wanted to...never meant to hurt her. I would never...I never wanted to lose her. I don't want to lose her...can't lose her...]

She was the life blood. The nectar. The Angel. The savior. His savior. His hand lightly trembled, clinging to the drained glass.

"Look at what you did to her!!"

He saw her before him, a permanent photo retrieved from his mind. Her lifeless eyes. Her pain filled eyes. Her empty eyes. He had done that to her. He and his obsessions. Them and their conspiracies...drained her. Parasitically feed off her soul, her life force, and her inner beauty. He'd done this to her. He'd killed her spirit, vampirically.

Then, before him, a different image emerged from the recesses of his mind. Unrestrained, the image taunted him.. Mulder could see her, a time warp--another time, another place--far removed from the farce of the here and now. A younger Dana Scully, a confident little bounce to her step...her eyes alive, curious. A tiny, enigmatic smile was dancing upon her rose bud lips. Playfully intrigued, she was eager to work with him. She was happy to see him. Willing to listen to him. To spar with him. To fuel him. To guide him. To follow him. To stand beside him. To touch him.

"You know why she left, don't you?"; they shrilled.

"Yeah"; he miserably responded in a voice barely audible that no one heard. No one ever heard. Sullen eyes were upon his glass, their secretions brimming and eager to overflow.

[Damn clowns.]

Yeah, he knew. It wasn't this bombing incident, horrific though it may be. Scully was the strongest person he knew. If she wanted to remain and fight, she would. No, the bombing brought it to a head. But that wasn't the real reason. It was just the final straw.

The real reason he held in front of him, reflected in a tiny glass. Through blurry eyes, he saw it: the grotesque--a drained, eerie decapitated specter. A lifeless reflection of heaven's outcast minion. The immoral one who defiled the Angel, stained her purity, tainted her, made her go away. Bitterly eyeing his distorted reflection, Mulder cursed himself.

Scully was his fleeing Persephone, an appropriate mythological allusion. After all, had he not behaved just as Hades himself had? He had drug Scully, drug her beauteous form into the depths of hell's despair. He had forced her into condemnation, into his underworld...possessively, gluttonously. His fangs piercing her porcelain throat--desperate to partake of her sustaining life-force. Desperate to keep her beside him, to be with her always. To never let her go. To become one with her.

[Oh, God...forgive me.]

Both hands clutching his face, he buried himself there--in shame, in agony, in utter despair--mortified at his wicked, possessive blasphemy. She was right to leave, to purge herself of his drooling filth.

With a sudden surge of adrenaline, Mulder was resolved--forever content to remain an expired corpse. He was his own trinity: judge, jury, and the guilty party. It was suitable punishment for his reprehensible crimes--for his desperate, despicable longing--for him to be condemned to live his own worst nightmare. Though an eternal torment by fire would be most horrid, being alone was truly his worst fear...the one to which he was fittingly sentenced. He would be alone now. Forever alone. Alone.

A million tiny shards of glass puncturing, tearing, ripping through his heart--lodged there forever more. His soul was ebbing, longing toward the nothingness which he felt himself drifting towards. There would never be any sunlight, only darkness. There would never be any peace, only misery. There would never be any redemption, only punishment. Forever outcast to the world, there would never be another Saint, only sin. There would never be another One in five billion...

------------

Not quite inebriated, Mulder was susceptible to outside influences, unwillingly absorbing the sounds around him. He could discern the clanking of glass and ice, of new drinks being created. The crunch of the ice...the bitter cold...the cold...the ice...

His thoughts began to wander and float unforbidden to the forefront of his clouding mind. Images from his past assailing him, sensations and pains buried in his memory forging to the surface. Things could have been different, he knew. They could have been so different.

Throwing back another drink, its heat sliding down his throat, he began to wonder how it all could have happened differently, for the better--the better for her. He scoffed. He already knew the answer to that one. The ice, yes, he should have remained out there, remained frozen out there upon the ice in Alaska.

He should never have been rescued. Infected and frozen there for all eternity--an appropriate ending for his miserable joke of a life. Then he couldn't have wrecked so much havoc. He would have spared Scully so much torment. Yet, then again, if he'd never entered her life in the first place, if they'd never even met, she would be infinitely better off.

Scully would be 'up the ladder' by now. Without a doubt, she'd be successful, probably happily married-- with a respectable husband and beautiful little children, perhaps. She wouldn't have sunk in the tar pit with him, following a man in the darkness--following a naÔve, blind fool. She would never have been tortured, driven to the depths of despair. She would never have been ridiculed as Mrs. Spooky. Never ridiculed--ever. Her eyes would still be bright, shining, and strong. She would still possess that endearing bounce in her step. She would still radiate confidence. She would still be complete. She would be whole. She would be happy. She would be Spooky-free.

Damn them! Damn them all! That bastard Blevins...CSM...for luring an innocent to him, throwing an unblemished lamb into the lion's den. Yes, they had thrust a heavenly saint into his cold despair...and in turn, sentenced her to a living, endless hell.

They probably delighted in the sacrifice. After discovering their little pawn would not serve their vile agenda, how they must have maliciously delighted in the sacrifice. Licking their ravenous, frothing mouths at her saintly innocence and integrity. Amusingly envisioning her sacrificial, spiral descent of being suctioned into the vortex, into the world of madness, into his world of madness.

A sick, sexual perversion--giving solitary Adam his compassionate Eve. Those bastards were fully aware of his increasing vulnerability to her, his obvious affection for her, his suppressed, ever-growing need for her...

They raped her. First, brutally raped her away from him-- abducting her. Then they truly raped her, physically stealing her unborn children, leaving her with fatal cancer-- And the final humiliation...leaving her to go back to the pathetic, misguided whims of a lonely, broken man chasing his little green men.

"Grey men"; the clowns whispered.

"Grey"; he slurred in disillusioned agreement. Raising a toast to their spiteful mockery, he emptied another glass.

Because of him, they had defiled Scully. The anger swelled in him. How those bastards probably got off on it. Probably had all sorts of surveillance tapes over the years. Probably even taped their introductions to one another. Probably taped every damn thing they did together on their first case. Always watching...those bastards were always watching--would never leave them alone.

Their first case...no doubt those nameless men viewed every second of that investigation. Undoubtedly, that would logically explain the fire which ensued in the hotel, destroying their evidence. Assuming they had surveillance on their hotel, which obviously they had...and that would most certainly mean... [No...]

Another photo of Scully...her standing frightened and disrobed in his hotel room, and his horrid realization that those bastards saw her. Mulder had never even considered that before. Oh, god...how they must have ravenously spied every second of that sensitive exchange. They probably even fondled themselves on that one. An innocent, frightened Scully--genuinely afraid, blinding trusting...how she was such a child, a frightened little girl...they saw and were no doubt pleased.

Those bastards saw her. They saw how she'd revealed herself to him, physically. Mulder knew, they had seen what they'd wanted to see. Maybe they thought it was her method--that she was working her womanly wiles upon him--to appeal to him on a different level. Their records most assuredly described a porno-type act of an alluring young woman physically disrobing, exposing herself in a cheap motel...a lewd act in the dead of a raining night...a man and a woman in the throws of 'fraternization'...

That wasn't what Mulder had seen. That wasn't what happened at all.

Sure, admittedly Mulder recalled, he was affected by her bare skin--but not in the heated way those men had probably believed though. She'd exposed herself-- exposed her vulnerability, her humanity, her doubts, her fears...and most importantly, she'd reached out to him blindly... in complete trust. Wanting his help. Needing his help. Needing him.

Scully trusted him implicitly. She didn't even know him, and yet, she trusted him. It had totally thrown the untrusting, ever-suspicious Fox Mulder. It was the last thing he had expected from his unwanted, science-laden, independent little spy. And it had forever changed his life.

He would never be the same. In that instant, the moment she clung to him and embraced him, Mulder was needed. He felt wanted. Scully had needed him...*him*. He was a useful part of a whole. He was no longer segregated, no longer at odds, no longer an outcast. It was a glorious feeling, wonderful. Mulder had felt alive, renewed. He was no longer alone...no longer all by himself. The partnership bond had lovingly forged. They were a team. They would forever be a team. No committee on earth could separate that team. They were destined to be together, solid.

Still marveling, Mulder had never experienced such an unselfish connection before in all of his adult life. Her embrace was a symbolic act performed in complete and utter honesty. It showed him there was so much more--so much more to discover, to reveal, to share with another. It effected him more than she would ever know.

It was in those moments that he chose to reveal things about himself to her. He exposed himself, as well. He'd made himself vulnerable to her--for her. Something he'd vowed never to do. Things he had told no one else before. Things he'd never felt comfortable sharing. Things he'd never had anyone to share with before. It had freed him, in a way. He was the better for it. She'd done that to him. She always had that effect on him.

Now, she was gone. The solid partnership melted away before his eyes. The indestructible was destructible. It was all over--all over because of them...because of him.

Sloshing the warm liquor around in his mouth, Mulder knew he had never felt such bitter hatred towards those cloaked, wicked men as he did now, nor such bitter hatred towards himself. This anger and self-loathing sweltered in his mind. How could an innocent pay for such vile ambition? Why her?! Why his angel? The pain made him physically nauseous. He had never felt such fierce protectiveness towards his partner.

Scully was and had always been an innocent. Mulder had truly wanted nothing more than to hold her, protect her from that first tender moment on. Protect her from them. Protect her from the vileness of everything. Take her into his inner circle of protectiveness-- at his heart. To keep her safe. To keep her. He'd wanted to keep her...

Scully would probably laugh at that, at his pathetic desire--as if she were some precious trinket, a female prize for the man. Like he had ever been able to protect her. Like she would ever let him protect her. Like she would ever want him to protect her. Like she'd ever want to be that close to him...

["God, Scully, please forgive me..."]

The inner despair intensified suddenly and he shut his dreary eye lids. He shut them hard--a protestation of the envitable, shutting off the world, in pitiful defiance of his sealed fate.

Nothingness.
Absolute void.
Hollow...his new life, without her.

The constant weight that always rested upon his shoulders seemingly increased tenfold. The weight crushing, magnifying--buckling his spine. He wanted to cry out. He wanted solace. He wanted absolution. He wanted an end to the torment, but the life saving branch was just beyond his grasp. Forever just beyond his reach, Mulder knew he was condemned to dangle on the precipice--a dark angel enslaved to the underworld below, never to be purged by the light.

Tired, so tired of fighting the pain, Mulder sent up a silent prayer to the heaven's for his spine to give way, to snap. For each vertebrate to crumble...to return as the dust of the earth...to the glorious nothingness from whence he came. The fate he deserved. The fate he'd earned...dust to dust...

Another glass in front of him, when it materialized, he didn't know--just grateful it had. Still slouched over the countertop, he delicately took hold of the precious elixir, making a mental note to thank the wine god. [What was his name? Her name?] He used to know. Used to know all kinds of stuff...all kinds of useless information. He knew. He knew...nothing.

Greedily consuming the contents, he eagerly swallowed. His tongue was growing thick, the numbness at last starting to overtake him. One damn thing to go right today. He placed his empty glass on the counter and succeeded in knocking all of his previous shot glasses all over the countertop.

"One thing to go right today"; the clowns heckled.

(--sound--)

"Whoa...We've got a tray for that kind-of heavy lifting."

What? What? Someone had been talking. Someone other than those damn clowns. M raised his head ever-so-slightly. Someone was speaking to him? Muttering something about daily requirements and trains...or trays...

"Poopy day?"

["What? You talking to me? You see me??"] The voice belonged to the bartender. The erasure not yet complete...He sighed.

Beginning to envision the pink elephants, Mulder hesitated to speak. He wanted to see more elephants...yellow, purple, even damn blue elephants. Realizing if he weren't at least cordial, he may not garner any more liquid, Mulder focused upon the barmaid. He coordinated both hands to point to the countertop, impressed he accomplished this feat. It was a silent demand, a voiceless "Hit me again!" command--a universal gesture, one he was sure she'd probably seen countless times.

["Yeah, damn fine poopy day...really full of it. More liquor! All you've got!"]

More and more liquor...cause there was so, so much to forget. So much sorrow to drown--an entire legion to exorcise.

Mulder, forever cautious, even in his inebriated state, felt intense eyes locked upon his person. Tiny hairs on his arms stood on end, he had the sensation he was being watched. It seemed that someone was watching him, intently. It seemed that someone was always watching him. He inwardly smirked thinking he'd should be used to this unwelcome sensation by now.

Mulder's glassy eyes wandered away from the barmaid down the bar and found an older gentleman staring at him. No doubt this gentleman was probably staring cause he'd just made an ass of himself, knocking over the shot glasses. Mulder would have found the situation slightly humorous any other time, but not today.

Innately, Mulder knew it was always best to err on the side of caution, and considering his reckless state at the moment, he knew he should keep a wary eye on this observant fellow. Besides, the man was staring a little too intently with an odd expression on his face. Disappointment? Expectation? Did he want something? Was he trying to pull something? He seemed familiar in some distant way...

"So, What do you do?"

There was that human voice again, pulling him out of his contemplation--the man at the bar momentarily forgotten. This human voice just wouldn't leave him alone. What happened to those damn clowns anyway?

"Send in the clowns..."; they murmured on cue.

[Damn clowns.]

"What do I do?"; Mulder muttered, ignoring the clown chorus, genuinely surprised he was still lucid. Okay, so he could repeat what he'd heard, but could he reason? Did he want to? No. Then again, this bartender held all the liquid cards, so to speak. Fine. She wanted to converse? He could converse. Undoubtedly, it was a prerequisite for the job. Converse...okay, what was the question?

"Send in the clowns..."; the clowns monotonously purred.

[What do I do?]

There were a million different responses to that one.
Should he dazzle her with a flourish of his infamous Mulder wit?
--He was witless.
Give her a professional, Oxford-educated response?
--He was drunk
. Give her the truth?
[HA!!]
Mulder almost spit-up, choking on his own motto, his epitaph. The truth...why the hell not? She'd asked a legitimate question. She'd get a legitimate answer.

In tune... "Send in the clowns..."

Mulder took another much needed drink and, in shameless honesty, began. "I'm the key figure in an on-going government charade. It's a plot to conceal the truth about the existence of extraterrestials. It's a global conspiracy, actually, with key players in the highest levels of power and it reaches down into the lives of every man, woman, and child on this planet..."

A lone raspy voice; "They're already here."

Unable to ignore them any longer, Mulder had to laugh-- to balk at that. Damn it, damn. They were right on target, those acerbic clowns. Soused though he was, Mulder could still acknowledge their dual, twisted humor. His constant heckling companions were going all out with their witty puns this evening. Yes, THEY were already here, the gray ones. They had been here a long time.

Of course, there was also the personal allusion the clowns had made...one that hit a little too close to home. "Send in the clowns", indeed. The clown was already here. Hell, he was the clown. The joke. The pathetic joke. Mulder the clown. All of his speech, all of his senseless fighting...shaking his hands at the stars, cursing the fates...the downtrodden, doomsday prophet at the mercy of an unmerciful, tormenting mob-- stones ready in their hands...

"...so, of course, no one believes me. I'm an annoyance to my superiors, a joke to my peers. They call me Spooky. Spooky Mulder..."

"Spooky Mulder"; a raspy voice repeated.

"...whose sister was abducted by aliens when he was just a kid and now chases after little green men with a badge and a gun shouting to the heavens --or anyone who will listen-- that the fix is in. The sky is falling. And, when it hits, it's gonna be the shit-storm of ALL TIME..."

Yeah. Everyone would know then. A present-day Sodom and Gomorrah, fire and brimstones, plagues and riots, mass destruction and death, plus a little slashing gray man or two. Hell on earth. No where to run...no where to hide...the day of Revelations.

They would know then...but then it would be too late.

"Well..."; the barmaid started, forcing the lost soul from his horrific reverie. A glassy eyed Mulder looked upon her.

"I'd say that just about does it, Spooky."

"Does what?"; Mulder questioned. He was confused. He was trying to decipher the words she had spoken to him. All he knew was that she had called him Spooky, like everyone else.

"Well, it looks like eighty-six is your lucky number."

Then, with a thud, it hit to him. The barmaid had heard quite enough. She'd heard an earful from ole Spooky. No doubt, assuming she had a total whacko on her hands here, a guy that should be in a straight-jacket, not a bar. He'd blown it, big time. There would be no more drinks tonight.

He started to protest, to request another. He could at least test the waters. His lips parted in anticipation, preparing to speak, but she was ready for him. Her stern little nod silenced him for good. There would be no more liquor for Fox Mulder. He couldn't blame her though. It was not a very enticing prospect, slopping up a Fox Mulder stomach retching. She was right. Mulder nodded, almost smiled at her resistance. He respected her refusal. She must be quite a woman.

He was just so tired, so beaten. He could use some rest, some eternal rest. He could use a life, a brand new life. Hell, he could use about 86 more drinks. It was funny, looking at this fiery little woman. She reminded him of someone, someone else. With a great intensity, he suddenly missed his Scully. Maybe it was the barmaid's short haircut or her reprimanding gaze, but images of his now-former partner assailed him anew.

"YOUR Scully?"; a clown sneered.

"You know..."; Mulder began, digging for cash, unable to deny his solitary fate any longer. "One is the loneliest number."

Desolation.

God, so lonely. All alone. Forever alone. No use in wishing she were here...beside him...flashing her breath-taking smile. She was no longer by his side. Even if by some miracle she was here, she would not be smiling. Not at him, never again. Not ever for him--the Prince of angst, the Master destroyer, the Universal loser.

Mulder tipped the barmaid a bit extra, more than he normally would have. She'd put up with quite a lot this evening. She'd earned her due. Mulder eyed the end of the bar. The stranger was gone. Good riddance. The last thing he needed was someone else messing with his brains. The clowns had worked him over quite enough for one night. It was past time to go. He let out a burp.

Realizing he'd outlasted his welcome, Mulder turned and rose from the barstool he'd been adhered to. Upon rising, the term "plastered" took on a whole new meaning. He stood as still as possible whilst the room turned 180 degrees--quite a twilight zone sensation. He took a moment and exhaled, smiling bitterly as he realized his second-hand breath was enough to intoxicate any passers-by. How pathetic, a smashed Spook...

"...an Oxford-educated smashed Spook"; a stray heckler added.

While he was certain his equilibrium had been relatively reestablished, he knew running a race was not an available option to him. As his laden feet began to move, he became very aware of another physically powerful sensation, his bladder. His full bladder. His very full bladder. His 100-proof full bladder. Something had to be done about this bladder situation.

Mulder proceeded toward the restroom area. That was one of the first things he always scoped-out upon entering a new location--where the johns were-- in case of emergencies. It was best to be prepared should necessity present itself. Necessity was definitely forcing its presentation at this moment, center stage. He had to find the john...and now.

He made it to the men's restroom door in one wobbly piece, only to be greeted by a hastily-made "Out of Order" sign. Damn! He started to enter anyway, to tear the cardboard sign from the door--and abruptly changed his mind. Mulder knew he had a very strong repulsion for sewer-related situations. If it was "out of order", it was probably out-of-order for a very good reason. Besides, one wrong whiff of an unpleasant, foul odor...and he'd be adding a very foul odor to it himself. Not to mention that it wasn't the right thing to do. He was still a federal agent--an intoxicated, soon to be out-of-a-job front-line news Terry Nichols federal agent...but a federal agent nonetheless.

The women's restroom... It was not an option he'd normally take, but this was an emergency. He debated over the appropriateness of the action for a second and then proceeded to enter. Johns were sexless. A john was a john regardless...and he needed it bad.

"Hello?"; he questioned upon entering. A female voice muttered something, the door slamming to.

"Sorry..."

Great. He didn't know if he could hold it much longer. This was just great, fitting. Special Agent Fox Mulder...drunk, partner-less, soon to be unemployed, and waiting in-line to use the women's restroom in a bar at 2am in the morning. This had to be someone's idea of a cosmic joke.

Never being the type to stand idly-by, Mulder decided he could wait no longer. A little creative expressionism was required in this constrictive situation. His filled to capacity bladder demanded no less. He spied the exit and proceeded out into the darkened alley...unaware of the presence that mirrored his every move...and followed him out into the darkness.

--End--