Archiving: Yes to Gossamer, all other archivists, please just let me know it's going

Author's notes

Archiving: Yes to Gossamer, all other archivists, please just let me know it's going. That's the nicest form of feedback.


Date: May 1998

Spoilers: All up to and including The End.

Rating: G

Category: V

Keywords: Angst

Summary: Post episode vignette, Mulder's POV.

Author's notes: Waiting for June 19 and season 6 (which CC told me face-to-face Saturday was really happening.)

Oh, in light of the recent debate, I have NO objection to publicly posted feedback. Sometimes it's good for the ego, you know?

Disclaimer: All characters you recognize are the sole property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Twentieth Century Fox Television etc. None whatsoever belong to me. No money was made from the creation or distribution of this story.


End Game

It's the loss of control that frightens me most, I think. Standing here, in the midst of the burned-out hell that was, I see now that we don't even have the illusion of control any more.

That's what all of this is about, you know. Control. Power. Who has it, who doesn't. Right now it's painfully obvious that we are solidly on the "who doesn't" side, Scully and me.

I am numb. I can barely feel Scully's hands on my arms. It's all coming apart. First Skinner and his questions about my future, then Diana. My surprise at seeing her again, then trying to decipher her not-so-veiled references to wanting to rejoin forces, or whatever it was she was hinting at yesterday. Then she was shot.

Scully and I were talking, really talking when Skinner called. I was trying to tell her about Diana, I was tired of that hanging over our heads. Or my head. We were talking about the possibility of our being reassigned, of the X-Files closing, of everything and nothing. Mostly, we were talking in circles around the real issue, or issues.

Scully is still gripping my arms and I slowly become aware of the strength of her grip. Slowly, God, so slowly, I bring my hands up, and settle grip her shoulders. This is an awkward movement for me, not the smooth movement of a friend or lover, but the desperate grasp of a drowning, dying man. Oh. My. God. What have they done? Whathavetheydone?? WHATHAVETHEYDONE!

Why? Were we too close? To what? They'd taken the boy, they'd shot Diana, what? Oh, Diana, they've taken you out. Why her? If it'd happened just a few minutes earlier it would have been Scully. No, can't think about that. Not now, not ever.

I look over Scully's still head at the poster that has graced our office wall for over five years. The smoke and fire have given it an eerie cast, almost the outline of an alien head. How ironic. Those damned red and blue lights flashing in the window are not helping me to get a real grasp of what we're seeing. Everything is flickering, out of control. Did we ever really have control? If we did, it's obvious we don't now.

I feel Scully sigh in my arms, her grip loosening slightly. Pulling away I look into her eyes, searching for my anchor in this stormy sea. For the first time, ever, she looks as lost and frightened as I feel.

Dimly, I hear voices approaching in the hallway, the intruding sounds of those who will direct us, tell us what to do next. That's OK, you don't have to remind me, we're not in charge here. We never were. We have no control.