The Ache (1/?)
by storybycorey

Email:  appendageassemblage@hotmail.com

Rating: PG-13  
Pairing: Mulder/Scully

Summary:  
1999: He pines for her so staggeringly at times, he can hardly
bear it. The dull ache deep in his chest has become a part of
him, part of his makeup, part of his existence.   

2015: At times he can hardly bear it. The apathy. The
numbness. The leaden throb of despondency has become a part
of him, part of his makeup, part of his existence.


1999

He loves her. 

He longs for her.

He pines for her so staggeringly at times, he can hardly bear it.
The dull ache deep in his chest has become a part of him, part
of his makeup, part of his existence. When he wakes in the
morning, it settles there before he's even dragged himself from
the bed. The anvil of its weight presses against him, pinning
him in place amidst his tangle of twisted sheets, urging him to
slip back into that dream world, where she's glorious and she's
breathtaking and she's finally HIS. 

Sometimes he allows that dream Scully to pull him back to her,
with soft, flushed skin and heavy-lidded eyes and promises he
hopes she intends to keep. But when he wakes a few minutes
later, his hand clenched around his cock and her image
dissolving before him, the ache slams back against him with
even more force, stealing his breath and leaving him gasping in
its wake. 

He wonders each time whether those extra gauzy moments
were worth the added pain. The answer is always yes.

By the time he makes it to work, he's become used to the ache.
It's there throughout the day, crunching beneath his feet as he
walks by her side, suspended in the elevator as they ascend to
the lobby. It's the background music behind all of their
conversations, slow and yearning and sweet.

Just another day at the office. Just another day of gathering her
every move, every sigh, every look, and tucking them into the
hope chest of his brain, to be pulled back out and cherished
each night before falling asleep. 

It is simply who he is now. Who he's become since she
insinuated herself into his life. 

And he treasures every second of it.

. . .

2015 

He doesn't know how to love her anymore.

He barely remembers longing for her.

He's all but forgotten those used-to-be-familiar sensations.
He's misplaced just about every emotion he's ever had beyond
a dull, heavy ache of self-pity.

At times he can hardly bear it. The apathy. The numbness. 

The leaden throb of despondency has become a part of him,
part of his makeup, part of his existence. When he dreams, it's
not of Scully and a hope for the future, it's of answers just out
of reach, decisions that have gone awry. When he wakes, his
hand no longer grips his cock, but instead grasps at the empty
air, at the nothing that his life has become. And when he's able
to pull himself away from the refuge of sleep, it's not to go to
her. It's not to seek her comfort. It's to bury himself further
beneath the pile that has risen so steadily between them. 

She tries to draw him back to her, to coax him into
conversation, to remind him of what they used to be. But he
pushes her away, those reminders only forming a vice around
his heart, squeezing more tightly with every word from her
mouth. And so she learns to let him be, to stand back and watch
helplessly as he slowly disappears.

By the time he's settled into his burrow each day, hunched over
his keyboard, searching for answers, he's become used to the
ache. It's there throughout the day, weighing on his shoulders
as he obsessively cross-references, squeezing his eyes as he
squints at the screen. It's a never-ending discord, buzzing and
droning in the air around him, so monotonous he sometimes
thinks he could scream. 

Just another day trapped within the confines of his head. Just
another day gathering evidence, examining information, and
obsessing over the fucking futility of it all. Another day of
tucking it away in the hoard of his brain, only to be unearthed
late at night, as he lies next to her, trying not to weep at the
sound of her sweet breaths beside him.

It is simply who he is now. Who he's become since he allowed
the ache to take over his life.

And he despises every second of it.

. . .

1999

He dreams of her again this morning, and as his consciousness
begins to re-emerge, he fights valiantly against it. He pushes
away reality in favor of just a few more minutes wrapped
tightly in sleep's embrace, a few more minutes with her. 

Only something is different this time. /She/ is different. She is
older, and with her added years, she has grown lonely, sad. She
stands in the distance, a silent plea hovering in the air around
her, and his chest pulls tight with anxiety. He tries to reach her,
stretching his arms and moving closer, but she remains just
barely out of reach. It is torture, seeing her pain yet being
powerless to prevent it.

When he wakes, the ache is stronger than ever. The ache to be
with her, the desire to enfold her in his arms and consume her,
to press her so firmly against his soul their threads intertwine,
incapable of ever, ever unraveling.

He realizes it was just a dream, an image drawn on his brain by
his subconscious, yet the anxiety he's left with is real. He can't
stand the thought that one day Scully could look at him with
such sorrow. 

He sometimes wishes he could look into the future. If only he
knew what awaited them. If only he were certain that the path
they're pursuing isn't completely in vain. 

He would give anything to prevent her from sadness. 

He longs for a crystal ball, pulsing and swirling with the
answers. But if he were somehow given that chance, would he
even be capable of asking the right questions?

. . .

2015

He barely makes it out of bed today, choosing sleep over the
monotony of another dreary day. It's so much easier to sleep
than to admit to himself the pointlessness of it all, his only
motivation the senseless pursuit of a truth which will likely
never be found. 

But he knows she'll call him in a while to check in, as much as
he's told her he doesn't need her assistance, so he begrudgingly
rolls his body to look at the clock. It's 1:00 in the afternoon.
She's been gone for hours, and he's at least grateful she hasn't
been here to witness his indolence. As petulantly as he often
behaves, the sadness in her eyes when she looks at him is
sometimes unbearable. The tears that glisten beneath her lashes
claw at him, leaving him weary and bleeding with the
knowledge of what he's doing to her, what he's doing to
/them/. 

Sometimes he thinks he'd rather be alone than tormented by
her pity, her disappointment. He'd rather be alone than be
reminded of how impossibly he's failed her.

He finally gathers the energy to rise and make his way to the
kitchen. He hopes a cup of coffee will be enough to nudge him,
at least as far as his desk and computer, so that he can deaden
his brain once more in the wasteland of a virtual world. 

. . .

Disoriented, Mulder awakes to find himself outside, the sun at
his back and the scent of wildflowers fresh in his nose. He
hasn't a clue how he's arrived here. The last he remembers, he
was lying in bed, yearning for a way to put a smile on his
dream Scully's forlorn face. 

His head feels stuffed with cotton, and he runs his fingers along
his body to check for injuries. Finding none, he turns slowly
around and attempts to make sense of his surroundings.

He finds himself standing before an unremarkable white house.
It sits among acres of green grass and a forest of towering trees.
The structure is chipped and beaten-down, but the front porch
begs for iced tea and afternoon naps. Immediately and
unintentionally, he feels an affinity for this little house. He
briefly envisions a smiling Scully standing at the railing,
sunshine warming her face and a breeze mussing her hair. He
somehow knows that she'd love it here.

He makes his way across the dirt, and tentatively up the steps.
As he reaches the porch, he pauses and steadies his breaths.
What the hell is he doing? But curiosity gets the better of him,
and he crosses slowly to the rickety screen door. Gingerly, he
pulls it open and steps inside.

The interior is warm and lived-in, and he is surprised to feel
completely at home. Though he'd have never imagined living
in a place like this, suddenly he can envision it with utter
clarity. Scully reading a book on the overstuffed couch, himself
taking a nap, his head in her lap and Mozart lulling him to
sleep.

His silent reverie is interrupted though, as he hears movement
in the hall just outside his view. He turns toward the sound and
stills, bracing himself for the unknown.

. . .

Shuffling down the hallway, coffee mug in hand, he is startled
to hear footsteps on the porch. Scully isn't due back for several
hours, and he can't remember the last time they had visitors,
thank God. He cocks his head to listen, and his tired body
suddenly goes on full alert as the front door squeaks open, and
he hears someone enter the living room.

It's been ages since he's used his gun, and honestly, he's not
even sure where it is, so he grabs the closest thing he can find,
an umbrella from the bin in the hallway. Setting his coffee mug
quietly down on the floor, he cautiously navigates his way
toward the front room, avoiding the wood planks he knows will
creak the loudest.

But when he makes it to the doorway, he suddenly couldn't
care less about the creaking floor. He stops dead in his tracks
and drops his mouth open in astonishment.

"Hooooly shit," he breathes, dropping the umbrella with a
thunk on the floor, transfixed by what stands before him.

. . .

"Hooooly shit," he mutters in unison, as he looks sixteen years
into the future, at a disheveled, bone-weary, unkempt version
of himself. What the hell is going on here?

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" the man demands of
him.

Mulder is at a loss, for he has no good answers. He has no idea
how he's gotten here, and at the moment, he is even a bit
unconvinced of his own identity.

"Who ARE you?" the older man reaches back down to pick up
the discarded umbrella.

"Okay, okay...," Mulder tries to sound calm, splaying his hands
in front of his body to show he has no weapon, "I'm you, I
think..., you from 1999, but I'm you. I'm Fox William Mulder,
born October 13, 1961. I...I'm not sure why I'm here, how I got
here...," he struggles, trying to sound convincing, knowing that
this older version of himself has no reason to trust him. With
the things they've seen, trust is something to be earned, not
something to be handed out like candy.

"How can I be sure? How do I know you're not an imposter?"
his older self asks cautiously.

"I...I...," he searches his brain from some proof, some
information to which only HE is privy, "My partner is Dana
Scully. I...I'm in love with her."

There is still apprehension in the other man's eyes as he
counters, "That's not proof, anyone could have guessed that. I
need proof."

He glances around the room, as if he can find evidence
somewhere here, in this place that he's never been yet already
feels like home. His eyes alight on a cordless phone, and he
suddenly knows how to prove his identity.

"I save them," he says, looking directly into his future self's
eyes, "I save her phone messages. Scully's. I save every one of
her answering machine messages, and I play them back when
I'm feeling desperate, when I need to hear her voice..."

The older man lays down the umbrella and scrubs his hands
down his stubbled face, at least a week's worth of growth that
hasn't seen a razor. He sits down on the couch and chuckles.

. . .

"Answering machines," he chuffs, "I haven't thought about
answering machines for a long time. And her messages, yeah...
yeah, I remember that," the smile somehow feels foreign on his
face as he looks down into his lap, and he realizes how long it's
been since his lips have turned up enough to hide in the creases
of his cheeks.

He looks at the younger man in awe for a moment, shaking his
head at the marvel of what seems to be occurring right in front
of him. 

"1999, huh?" he asks, trying hard to remember what it had
been like then, what it had been like before their world had
been turned so upside-down, before William, before the years
of running, before he'd lost hope in the future.

"Yeah," the younger man grins as he sits in an armchair
adjacent to the couch, "1999."

"So I suppose you're here to find out whether Y2K is a real
threat then, right?" he asks, recalling the hysteria that had
surrounded the turn of the millennium.

His younger self chuckles, then says, "Well, honestly I'm really
not sure. The last I remember, I was asleep, or was I awake? I...
I can't remember. What year is it anyway?"

"It's 2015," he says, still having a difficult time processing the
fact that he is sitting across from his actual past self.

"2015," the young man's voice is full of wonder, "Sixteen
years... You've seen so much, experienced so much. Tell me,
tell me everything!"

He envies the hope, the fresh enthusiasm he sees in the man's
face. He pauses as he considers how to most gently inform him
of his future. But before he can begin, the younger man speaks
again, "First though..., first..., I have to know. How is Scully?
Where is she? Are you still...friends...? Are you
still...together?"

Scully. He closes his eyes, unsure of where to start, unsure of
how to tell him. That Scully is still here, but that he's failed
her. That she stays late at work, because at least there she can
carry on an actual conversation. That she cries at night when
she thinks he is sleeping. That she's stopped even trying to ask
him what's wrong, because he fails miserably each time he tries
to give her an answer. 

That he can't remember the last time he made love to her or
even kissed her on the lips. That he's worried he's already lost
her, even when she's right beside him.

"Ummm," he stumbles, grasping for words, "Scully and I...
ummm, yes..., yes, we're still friends..., we're
still...ummm....dammit, I'm actually not even sure what we are
anymore..." He looks to the ceiling, sighing, then looks directly
into his younger self's eyes. "Scully and I have been
together...we've been... intimate... since the year 2000."

"2000? You mean...next year? 2000? Scully and I...finally?"
the younger man's face holds an astonished expression, a
bemused smile as he ponders the implications, and Mulder
dreads smothering his fantasy.

"But..., well..., things haven't been going so smoothly lately,"
he says quietly, inspecting his untrimmed fingernails,
"I'm...ummm... I'm kind of going through a rough patch these
days..."

His younger self cocks his head, and the smile fades quickly
from his face as he asks, "So...what does that mean? What are
you telling me about Scully?"

"I...I think that Scully can't take much more..., I think that she
probably should...," he stops, surprised at the lump in his throat
and the tears that are burning the corners of his eyes. It's been
so long since he's cried, so long since he's felt almost anything.
He continues, "She probably should leave me. She probably
should get the hell away from me...before I cause her any more
pain."

. . .

He is shocked at what he hears. Utterly shocked. That at some
point in his future he chooses to push Scully away. That they
finally navigate their way into a relationship, and instead of
treasuring the gift that is bestowed upon him, he tosses it away
as if it means nothing. How is this scenario even real? 

"I don't understand," he says angrily, "This is Scully you're
talking about. Scully! How the hell are you not doing
everything within your power to hold on to her?" 

Suddenly, finding the truth, uncovering the answers to
questions that have plagued him for decades, suddenly, none of
that matters. Not now, when he realizes that Scully is unhappy,
that his future self is the one making her unhappy.

"Listen," the older man says softly, "There are things that have
happened, things you don't understand..."

"I don't give a shit! I don't care what's happened! Scully is the
best thing in my life, she's fucking everything to me..., to us!
How can you forget that? How can you deny everything she
means to you? How can you forget how much you love her?" 

He rises from his chair and begins to pace the room,
disconcerted and frantic. His future self watches in silence until
he finally calms down, stopping before a bookshelf in the
corner. A simple silver frame sits on the top shelf, with a strip
of photos tucked inside. He picks it up, and a whoosh of air
escapes his lips. "This is her," he whispers, "This is Scully,"
and he strokes his fingertips across the glass as his eyes caress
the images, "Her hair, it's longer... My God though, she's still
just as beautiful." 

His older self crosses the room to examine the photos as well.
"That was from a photobooth a couple years ago... She didn't
want to do it, but I dragged her in anyway," he smiles at the
memory. A truck stop gift shop at which they'd stopped during
a weekend trip, a few months before he'd begun to collapse.

"I can tell you still love her," the younger man pleads, "And
that she still loves you...look...look at these photos! Your eyes,
your smiles, you're gazing at each other, dammit!"

"I do not GAZE at Scully," the older man says with a smirk,
and they exchange looks before returning to their seats.

"Seriously," Mulder says, "Don't you remember? How much
you loved her? How desperately you longed for her? And
you've got her now, but you're throwing that away! I cannot
accept a future where she's...where she's mine..., and I
willingly choose to let her go!"

His older self leans down to rest his elbows on his knees, then
props his head in his hands, fingers rubbing his tired eyes.
"Honestly, it just feels like it's been too long. It's been too long
since I felt those things. There is so much crap piled on top of
those emotions, I can barely remember them. I can barely
remember what it felt like to really love her." He squeezes his
eyes shut to stave off the tears, and Mulder can see he is
struggling.

"Then let me remind you," he says gently, "Let me remind you
of what it feels like to love Dana Scully."

. . .

Mulder looks across the couch to this younger version of
himself, tears still pressing at the backs of his eyes.
Unexpectedly, he detects a tilt in his balance. Just the four
syllables of her name falling from his former self's lips have
begun a tremor beneath him. He feels a vibration in his heart, a
wavering in his core. Although he doesn't realize it, his
tectonic plates are shifting, sliding, readying themselves for a
transformation that's been far too long in the making.

The man's voice is wistful, quiet, soft with emotion as he
begins to speak, "She's my first thought in the morning..., my
last thought at night.... She's absolutely everything in
between...." 

He closes his eyes, trying to remember, trying to grab hold of
the hovering emotions, the fleeting memories, as they waft
transparently through his consciousness. 

Of the early days, when thoughts of her were sometimes the
only thing that kept him sane. Her voice, husky with sleep,
when he'd wake her in the middle of the night, just to remind
himself she was actually REAL. The warm milk and honey of
her presence, reaching through the phone, soothing him,
trickling thickly down his throat until his eyes drooped closed.
Waking up in the mornings, the phone pressed against his
cheek and her even breaths still whispering in his ear. 

"Keep going," he whispers, "please...," his heart beginning to
thrum with life, as he feels bits and pieces of emotion start
settling in his bones. Pain and regret, but also love, desire. And
it's wonderful, it's wonderful because he is actually FEELING. 

"She grounds me, she's my anchor.... When my world is adrift,
I turn to her and she reels me in." Mulder cracks open his eyes
and looks to the younger man as he speaks, and for a moment,
he can almost remember what it felt like so many years ago, to
love her, to long for her so fiercely he could hardly bear it. 

Evenings in hotel rooms, scattered throughout the country, files
spread over polyester bedspreads like confetti. Sitting across
from her, stealing glances as she tapped away on a laptop,
delighting in every expression that crossed her face. A
quizzical arch of her brow, a confused wrinkle of her forehead,
a contemplative purse of her lips--peach slight alteration more
charming and alluring than the last.

Afternoons on their sprawling front porch, snuggled together
against the cool fall breeze. Her hand on his thigh as she'd rise,
her fingers trailing down his leg as she'd beckon him back into
the house. Her seductive smile as she'd look back over her
shoulder, letting him know exactly what was in store if he
chose to follow her.

Her smile, oh, it had made him weak in the knees. Every damn
time. It still does, if he's being honest. But it's been so long
since he's seen her smile, so long... It's been so long since he's
heard her laugh. He drops his forehead into the cradle of his
hands and shakes his head in regret.

His past self looks at him, continuing, "Her eyes..., her lips...,
her skin..., that cute little dip behind her knee...." 

The first time they made love, when he'd slid his tongue along
her calf and dipped it between the tendons behind her knee. Her
moan, when it escaped her lips, how it was the most erotic
sound he'd ever heard. And ever since, how all he has to do is
run his fingers inside that little hollow, and she is immediately
putty in his hands, pulling him to her and begging for more.

"I still love that spot behind her knee," Mulder murmurs, his
eyes closed.

"Then how can you...?" the younger man breathes, "How can
you give that up? How can you forget...? What I would give to
kiss her, just once..."

Mulder sighs. Their first kiss--the zombies, his injured arm,
Dick Clark on the television. And Scully. Standing beside him,
scratches on her neck, but still the most beautiful creature he'd
ever laid his eyes upon. There had been no decision made on
his part that night, no pre-meditation. He had simply known, as
her head had turned toward him, that it was their moment. 

"New Year's Eve...," he says wistfully, closing his eyes,
reliving the sensation of her lips upon his own, the moment
stretching just as it had that night so long ago, when he'd
known for sure that he wanted her forever, that there was
nothing on earth he could ever imagine pulling them apart. 

"What? What about New Year's Eve?" his younger self
implores.

But Mulder only shakes his head, whispering, "My God, I
loved her so much..., so much..." His tears have finally won the
battle, and they begin sliding down his cheek, wetting his skin
and disappearing into the stubble on his jaw, "I still do. I still
love her desperately, but I just don't know ... I don't know how
I can ever make up for what I've put her through..."

"You've got to try," his younger self beseeches him, "It's
Scully. You've got to fucking try."

. . .

A shrill ring suddenly interrupts their conversation. The older
man reaches for the cordless phone, and upon looking at the
screen, states painfully, "It's her."

"Now's your chance...," Mulder says, "Please take it...for me,
for you, for Scully..." He has no idea of his purpose here today,
of the reason behind his bizarre situation, but if he can do this,
if he can somehow make things right with Scully, then he has
no option but to try.

His future self looks at the phone in his hand, then squeezes his
eyes shut in agony, allowing it to ring another two times.

"Please...," Mulder pleads. He is terrified that the Scully from
his dream will forever be a reality, that even given this chance,
he will be unable to prevent her pain and her sadness.

The man opens his eyes and finally pushes the button. "Hello?"
he answers in a voice that's so graveled, so broken, the word is
barely audible. 

Mulder aches at the thought that she's right there, as close as
the phone line, and he yearns to hear her voice, to see if it's just
as rich and heady now as it is in the past. But he knows he
shouldn't intrude. He needs to allow his future to unfold on its
own. He stands and walks to the window, looking out onto the
property and envisioning a life here, hiking through the woods,
listening to the crickets, and if he's lucky, kissing Scully on the
porch before they head into the bedroom for the night.

He catches glimpses of the conversation occurring behind him,
"I'm okay, Scully, really......... I...I was just thinking about
some things......... about us............ ummm............ I was
wondering whether you could come home now?............. No,
everything's fine, it's fine..., I just... I just need to see you... I
want to see you............"

Mulder breathes a sigh of relief, somehow sensing that the
wheels have begun turning, the cogs are slowly clicking into
place. Things may actually be okay. 

Then, without warning, his body feels suddenly heavy, his
limbs begin quivering. He grabs hold of the windowsill, trying
to hold himself up. He turns to look back at his future self, but
the man has laid down the phone and begun to weep. He tries
to speak, to say goodbye, but he can already feel himself
dissolving, his body disintegrating. He feels himself
disappearing

His last thought before leaving is that New Year's Eve is only
one month away.

. . .

As he hangs up the phone, he is overcome. With sadness, with
joy, with every emotion fathomable, with all the feelings that
have felt so utterly unattainable for so very long. He releases
the sobs that have been confined within his chest, and he basks
in the sensation. It is magnificent, just to feel, to burst through
the paralyzing numbness that has plagued him for so long.

He looks up to thank his younger self and realizes the man is
gone. For a moment, he wonders whether it's all been a dream,
a trick concocted by his chaotic brain to finally push him over
the edge. And then he finds that he doesn't care, because trick
or not, he feels as if he's been reborn. He's been given a second
chance, a chance to make things right with the woman he's
loved for twenty-two desperate years.

The woman who is, at this very moment, coming home to see
him. 

He realizes that he's in dire need of a shower and a shave, if he
wants to have any chance of convincing her of his renewed
spirit, so he rises and heads toward the bathroom.

On his way, he stops for a moment at the photobooth strip on
the bookcase. He looks at the two of them captured for those
few brief moments, grinning in the first images, then simply
gazing at each other in the rest. And he realizes his younger self
had been right. The people in those photos are undeniably in
love. 

Tears resurface in the corners of his eyes. 

He places the frame back on the shelf and makes his way to the
bathroom. As he walks, he feels the ache, poised once again in
his chest. 

But it's different now. Instead of weighing him down, it's
lifting him up. Instead of holding him back, it's prodding him
forward. For the first time in years, it's an ache of longing, a
yearning for the love he thought he'd forgotten. 

It's the most magnificent pain he's ever felt.

. . . .

To be continued... (not sure when, but I'm gonna throw some
NC-17 action in there, don't you worry!)