From netnews.upenn.edu!fritz Fri Dec  9 15:49:34 1994
Path: netnews.upenn.edu!fritz
From: fritz@ben.dev.upenn.edu (Katherine Fritz)
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Interlude -- Vignette
Date: 9 Dec 1994 20:34:50 GMT
Organization: University of Pennsylvania
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This is my first attempt at X-Files fiction.  It's set after "Ascension"
and between "3" and "One Breath." 

Many thanks to Polly, Mel, Pam, Kellie and Mango Max for their words of
encouragement.  This story is dedicated to the DDEB-2: Coincidence...or
X-File? 

Based on characters and situations owned by Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen
Productions and Fox Broadcasting Company.  No copyright infringement is
intended. 

Send roses and brickbats to fritz@ben.dev.upenn.edu


Interlude
By Katherine Fritz

     Mulder woke in a cold sweat, not for the first time, his
hand automatically going to the phone before he remembered again
that Scully was gone.
     He rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling. 
Scully.  Gone.  He still couldn't believe it, that he had failed
to rescue her, failed to save her.  
     He looked at the clock, hands glowing dimly on its luminous
dial.  For all his fascination with electronic, digital gadgetry,
he found comfort in the old-fashioned Big Ben alarm clock.  Not
now, though.  
     Three a.m.  He cursed softly.  This was getting ridiculous. 
He'd long had trouble sleeping, but usually could get three to
four hours in at a time.  But he had turned out the light after
the late movie this time, at two a.m.  
     He sighed.  At this rate, he'd start falling asleep at his
desk.  Hell of an impression to make on Skinner, now that he had
the X-Files back at last.  Shit.  He clenched his fist and
punched the mattress.  After all he'd gone through to get the X-
Files re-opened, with Scully's disappearance, the effort seemed
almost wasted.  
     He could still hear her voice ringing in his ear, calling to
him, appealing to him:  "Mulder!  I need your help!  Mulder!"  He
ground his teeth against the sudden wrench of despair.  So much
like Samantha.  "Fox!  Help me, Fox!"  
     Sitting up, he scrubbed at his eyes with his fists, then
swung his feet over the side of the bed to the floor.  No point
trying to get back to sleep now; his mind was already starting to
race, working over the problem again.  No more sleep tonight. 
Might as well get up and get on with it.  
     He started through the motions of a shower and shave, but it
was a desultory effort. He couldn't stop thinking about Scully. 
It had been several weeks of concentrated effort but there were
no leads, none.  He was facing a brick wall.  
     The enigmatic Mr. X was nowhere to be found.  Skinner, if he
knew anything, wasn't talking. He didn't think Skinner would hold
out on him, not about one of his agents.  For that matter, he
didn't think Skinner would hold out on him about Krycek, either. 
     God damn Krycek anyway.  If he ever found him, he'd...he'd
what?  Beat him up?  Kill him?
     Shit.  Damn Krycek anyway.  For that matter, how could he
not have realized what Krycek was doing?  "Trust no one," indeed. 
Jesus, Mulder, when you screw up, you screw up in a big way.
     Standing under the shower, he let the spray beat down on his
back, head hanging.  He turned into the water, scrunching his
eyes against the spray, the better to wash away angry tears. 
     Scully.  Christ, what if he couldn't pick up a trail, what
if he never saw her again?  He turned off the spray and leaned
his forehead against the wet tile, palms flat against the wall. 
His head hurt from lack of sleep and too much worry.
     After awhile, starting to feel a chill against his skin, he
stepped out of the shower and began to towel off.  Tucking the
towel around his waist, he ran hot water into the sink and began
the shaving ritual.  Splash hot water on face. Shake shaving
cream can. Spritz shaving cream into hand.  Spread on face. 
Rinse hand.  Dry on towel.  Pick up razor.  Begin upward stroke
on right cheek.  
     On the third stroke, he cut himself.  He dabbed at the nick,
and thought of Kristen with a smear of his blood on her
fingertip, just before he'd kissed her, made love to her.  He
still felt baffled over what had happened to him, why he'd fallen
for her so quickly and so hard.  Was he that emotionally
vulnerable, that needy?  What would Scully have said?
     He contemplated the edges of his misery and wished, not for
the first time, that he had Scully to talk to, to lecture him. 
Kristen's death had left him feeling numb, empty and aghast. 
Contemplating Scully's fate, by comparison, felt like an open
wound.  
     Was Scully dead?  Abducted?  By aliens?  By the government? 
God, Mulder, you're pathetic.  He stared at himself in the
mirror, noted the bloodshot eyes, the sunken, hollow circles
under his eyes.
     He finished shaving, dressed quickly and sat down to review
the case file for the umpteenth time.  He turned the pages
blankly, reading yet seeing nothing.  After awhile, he closed the
file, rubbing his eyes again.  Scully, Scully.  He turned the
television on, and was mindlessly channel-surfing when the phone
rang.  Margaret Scully was calling from the hospital.

***************************************************************

     Days later, he stared down at Dana Scully in her hospital
bed. She was looking very much herself, albeit very tired.  A far
cry from those first terrifying moments when he'd seen her on the
ventilator, covered with tubes and tape.  He realized again just
how tiny and fragile she looked, and how tough she really was,
how relieved he felt to see her again as Scully, and not an empty
shell of a woman connected to machines,
     He hoped he didn't look as giddy as he felt when he handed
her the videotape of "Superstars of the Super Bowl."  It was a
stupid gift, and he knew it was stupid, and that she knew it was
stupid.  But he could never tell her how he really felt.  Never,
never.
     He still didn't know quite why he hadn't pulled the trigger
on the Cancer Man, blown his brains all over that lonely
apartment.  Except, thinking about what Scully's sister had said:
he *had* been in a very dark place indeed.  As he'd told Skinner,
he didn't like what he'd become.  He'd come within a hairsbreadth
of becoming something worse.
     Maybe by going to Scully instead of waiting in the dark to
assassinate her abductors he could take a brighter path, one that
was cleaner and more resolute, back on the trail of truth.  He
hoped so.
     He dug the small gold crucifix out of his pocket and poured
it into Scully's hand.  
     "I was holding this for you," he said.  
     She gazed at him, a world of understanding in her eyes.  He
blinked, and though his mouth twitched up only slightly, his eyes
were full of gladness.
     He turned then, and left the room, not saying another word. 
He walked quickly away, not looking back.  What was that line
from the movie, he thought, tomorrow is another day?  Yeah. OK. 
What the hell.

END

--
         Katie Fritz -- Internet: fritz@ben.dev.upenn.edu
CompuServe: 71257,3153--S2 Ferrets Section Co-Leader, Animal Forum--GO PETSTWO
"From what I hear Earth is a podunk little place but they make great pastrami"
      -- Graetwist, "Roadways #1," available from Cult Press     DDICB/TGIX

