TITLE: "Blithe" AUTHOR: Michelle Shackleton EMAIL ADDRESS: vega@earthdome.com DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Please SPOILER WARNING: None RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: Vignette, Angst SUMMARY: What if it doesn't end with a bang, but a scream? What would make them choose it to end? A dark snippet dedicated to all those who write stories of life: those without a happy ending. #### *Blithe* 14th January 1999 Michelle Shackleton #### Tonight they'll dream of people. Of children. Screaming and dying all around them. The blood will stain their hands. It pool will pool at their feet, as they argue pointlessly with faceless men. And their backs will be turned. Blithely ignoring the cries for help. ****** They arrive at the house they suspect the kidnapper to be. But instead of entering, they somehow are drawn into an argument over motive. The scientifically fantastic vs. cold hard fact about human nature. And while they argue, the boy is killed. They hear his final blood desperate scream, as the last of his life drains from him. It is a sound that imprints itself on the brains of the two agents outside who have come to his rescue. They fly into action, bursting though the door. Panicked. Terrified. They find the boy dead on the wooden floor. Scully is stunned, just stares, and starts to pray in a muted tone. She goes to the boy. Mulder sees a flash of red, and follows the kidnapper out through the back door. He gives chase, shoots him in the leg, and drags him back. Leaving him at the door, he rushes desperately back to Scully. She has the boy on her lap, the last of his blood spilling onto her dark red suit, and she bows her head. She looks at him, and the rage and the sorrowed misery flows in her eyes as she lifts the boy's wrists to show him: Slit. Some time ago. He had been dying already. Before he can stop, Mulder sighs deeply. The relief is enormous, and just adds to his guilt. She looks at him sharply, really to kill with the furious look in her eye. But it dies. She realizes that she too, feels the same way. But there is no real reason to be relieved. When the kidnapper heard them, he made the fatal gash to the boy's neck. It's their fault. They are left alone in the room together. Neither can look at the other. Mulder turns away, already on auto-pilot dissociation; sorting, filing, and burying in his mind. But they are both trying not to think about the same thing: They caught the man, but a boy is dead. A boy is dead. There is much to say, but neither want to say it. Then backup arrives and suddenly they are back in reality. She is upset, naturally so, but stoic. The medic examines the boy as he is carried out and confirms he had been already slit at the wrist. He had suffering from severe blood loss when the man slit his throat. He probably would have died anyway. But Mulder knows something is different now. And Scully just leaves. And he follows. He drove barely paying attention to the road. Plotting his revenge. How to get the son of a bitch to rot in jail forever. Then he just drowns in guilt. And then he stops thinking, and refuses to think of it ever again. She goes home. She goes to her apartment. But before she goes into the building, she turns. And looks at him. He follows. The door is open. He goes in, afraid. But she is sitting on the couch. On one end of the couch. He sits on the other, noting the dark stain on her suit still glistens, still wet. They sit for a day. And a night. He knows what he has to do. That if he does not do it, he will never reach her again. But he doesn't want to do it. Scully doesn't want him to, either. Maybe taking different paths would put them both back to were they wanted to go. Maybe they would meet at the end, maybe they would not. //Yes. That is what I want// He gets up. Stretches. Turns to leave, but pauses. He offers his hand. She looks up slowly, pressing her palm to his. Their eyes meet. He leaves. ****** It was the last intimate gesture they ever shared. It was the last time they were ever of one mind. But he did not leave. Neither did she. They were not cowards. But they were so far away, one of them may as well have left. He was never able to reach her again. She never again could sense what he was thinking. But he could have said he understood. She would have believed him. She also could have said it. He would have believed her. They could have helped each other heal. If they'd wanted to. But that night they dreamt of people. Of the blood that stained their hands. Of the pointlessly arguing. Of the back they turned. Blithely ignoring the cries for help. #### All feedback will be revered at vega@earthdome.com