by Araxdelan May 9th 2002 For Aris. ============ I. ============ To sleep, perchance to dream. And I dream now, more than ever before. Of times and places long past, of a world that no longer exists. Sick somehow, to drift off to these awful places with reverent thoughts. It was bad, then, but it was *something*. Not this endless quiet. This inactivity. This... this *uselessness*. I was nothing then. A shadow, absence of light. But now I am not even that. Months, maybe years since the conspiracy was revealed to the public. A loud cry for revenge was up voiced, and then the mess that had taken fifty years to create was cleaned up in a few months. Four billion eyes watching, millions of hands helping, and the aliens were gone in a month. If nothing else, we humans are a determined breed. And I, left without purpose, without money or house or family or friends. Though I did not die, I lost my life, then. I breathe and walk this waking death and dream of the days when I would battle aliens. Crazy old man, they'll cry, as I sputter out my fables to anyone who'll listen. I'm not quite there, yet. But I live in an old van and my beard is getting longer and greyer by the day. My dreams more real. Mulder's there, of course. In my mind. Not mocking or striking out, not battling or skulking. Just watching. Waiting. For me to go crazy, maybe. Nevertheless, I find a strange comfort in his being there. His Mulderness in an unobtrusive corner, a steady warming presence. He was never my friend, never my lover. But he was there, and in my own strange way, I loved him. I can admit that, now, in the safety of my non-existence. He was there, and I felt him. No matter what, I felt him and knew that I had to try. For one more day. For one more piece of information, for one more try at bringing him the means to save the world. It came, some months or years ago, slipped under his door. No room for me, not in what came next. Button down FBI, clean-cut military, bleached white scientists, and our problems were solved. Mulder got his absolution, resolution, restitution. And I am here. Grey beard will turn to white and I'll die in this old white van, time and pain doing the job that no knife or bullet ever could. Better to slip away into a dream of better days, days when he had a reason to know me. ============ II. ============ Sins forgotten. Somehow. Note slipped under the door a year ago, now. Beginning of the end and what happened. Disappeared. Anonymous tip my ass, I'd know the hand writing anywhere. Nobility be damned, but it was better that he left. No place for him at the end. Dirty shadow war over, and those with white hats knew no compassion or gratitude towards those who had brought them to that place. Knew no gratitude to me, the crazy man who had shouted at the wind for years, the one who had given up his life to a cause that wasn't real until two minutes ago. Fuck them, and the false sincerity, the false honor that they bestowed upon me. Fuck everything that they believe in. I had my beliefs, once. Through years and pain they melted away, through the end they melted, and now I'm here. Alone and bitter. Alone and worthless. No room for me once I was proven right. No need to look for extraterrestrial intelligence because I had found it. Fat pension to keep me quiet, and I packed my poster and skulked away. Every unreal thing I had knowledge of was brought to light and then swept away. It's not all right to talk about the aliens that almost enslaved us. Hush hush, talk about the conspiracy and our fucked system of government, instead. No one will speak, no one will acknowledge what happened, almost happened. As if all the days and nights and years I spent fighting and clawing and screaming never happened. My sweat and blood and tears swept away, never having been. I stare at myself in the mirror, sometimes. Count the scars as proof there was something before. Desperate and awful race to bring the threat to light. Fingering the whitish wrong flesh, remembering that there is at least one other person who knows. Slipped the note under the door and slipped away. Did he know I'd be so alone? In the before time he was always there, a possibility around the next corner. Never in sight until least expected. Constant presence, knowing and sharing. Companionship, in a funny sort of way. Even angry I could count on him. To be there and understand. For hadn't he faced the horrors, too? Alone now, in front of the bathroom mirror. Eyes tight, tired. Lonely. I stare at the other me that lives in the glass. The only other person here that knows. And I wonder where Krycek has gone. ============ III. ============ Dirty street and the tall man walks to the liquor store. Broad daylight, ten am, needs his booze. Blank stare, looking ahead. No world around him. But... A faint sound in the once white van. Nothing, really, but he turns. Never ignore intuition. Looks in and sees a bum with a beard. Tattered clothing, dirty face. Green eyes. Eyes that look up and then, recognition. Shock and horror and hope. Reconnection. Liquor forgotten he yanks open the door. "Does this thing still drive?" Small nod. "But I don't think there's any gas." Key left in the ignition and he turns it. The engine is startled to life. Great shaking and the gauge says empty, but Mulder defies it. Into drive and he pulls out. Four blocks to his apartment, maybe five. Enough gas for that, surely. "Mulder, are you drunk?" He turns and looks at the shell of a man behind him. "Why would you think that?" "You stink of booze and your driving has gotten impossibly worse." Small smile on his part, and he looks at himself in the mirror. Shell of a man, indeed. But maybe there was a hope, to live some sort of life. No going back to the ancient time before this all started. The only chance now was in the embrace of the past. It happened. It could not be buried or swept away. Wallowing in it would do no good. Constant quiet acknowledgement, and then there could be a possibility for something else. War stories over Chinese food, and he would have somebody to share with. Somebody to grow with. They had always fought in their own way. They would learn to heal in their own way, too. End I was listening to: Placebo- Black Market Music - Hidden Track Wasted face that swallowed time with armageddon calling she's insane, this friend of mine and she's always bawling hear her calling hear her calling, you hear her calling hear her calling, you There's a place within her mind the rain's already fallen she's insane, this friend of mine and she's always bawling hear her calling hear her calling, you hear her calling hear her calling, you She's preparing for the flood the deluge and the sliding mud she's preparing for the flood running on black market blood black market blood Wasted face that swallowed time with armageddon calling she's insane, this friend of mine and she's always bawling hear her calling hear her calling, you hear her calling hear her calling, you She's preparing for the flood the deluge and the sliding mud she's preparing for the flood running on black market blood black market blood black market blood black market blood black market