Timeless Seconds and Unseeing Eyes
by Laura Castellano
laurita_castellano@yahoo.com


Rated PG

Category: MSR, Angst

Spoilers: Sein Und Zeit and Closure, and references to the
events in Per Manum.  You know what I'm talking about.

Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be.

Archive: Sure, go right ahead.



The clock ticked onward, dispassionately counting off the
seconds, minutes, and hours, not caring that each passing
unit of time brought more heartache to the man who gazed at
its slow-moving hands.  It was only a clock, after all, and
though it had sat on his mother's dresser for over thirty
years, keeping her company through all the pain that was
Teena Mulder's life, it had no tales to tell, nor did it
have sympathy to offer.  It was only a clock.

The doll had more to give, had it so chosen.  It had
belonged to her own mother, and despite the tales it might
have told had it had a mouth, or indeed, any face at all
(for could not eyes speak volumes, by themselves?) it kept
its own counsel; the Mulder family had seen too many
secrets, and the doll did not want to be the one to tell him
things his mother had hidden.  Had she possessed a heart, it
would have broken for him.

Mulder knew the doll had been meant for Sam, the clock for
himself.  He'd always admired its ticking before, felt
comforted by the old-fashioned sound in today's silent,
digital world, a ticking that reminded him of the security
of afternoon naps, snuggled into his mother's big bed, his
head on her shoulder while they both slept, her hand resting
lightly on his back.  Its plain face and filigreed hands
suited him--old world elegance upon stark, no-nonsense
white.  It reminded him of himself, although at the tender
age of five he did not realize that, and at the age of
thirty-nine it was but a vague impression.

He had asked her, once, if he could have the clock in his
bedroom, and she had said it would be his when she was gone.
Unable to comprehend a life with his mother gone, and not
understanding the true meaning of her words, he had filed
the information away in the back of his brain, along with so
many other incomprehensible things spoken by the adults in
his life, and there it had remained dormant until he found
himself face-to-face again with the clock, while cleaning
out his mother's house.

Now it sat on his desk, the faceless doll propped against
it, and Mulder could not escape the memories.

He hated memories.  They inevitably ached, and his bruised
heart, although he felt it could take no more, continued
whispers of them.

The funeral had been small, simple, with only himself,
Scully and a few of his mother's friends in attendance.
She'd led a quiet life, keeping mostly to herself.  It had
suited her.  Perhaps she'd learned the solitude when faced
with her husband's secrets.

It seemed appropriate, all at once, that the doll had no
face.  Looking at it, he could pretend it was Sam.  It had
the same long, brown braids his sister had worn.  He
imagined her deep brown eyes and slightly upturned nose, and
swallowed sudden tears.

There had been enough crying, all night long in Scully's
arms, and she had held him, stroked his hair, and done all
she was able to ease his suffering.

There was a stone, next to his mother's grave, commemorating
Samantha's life, but there was no body to bury.  No one
seemed to know what had become of her, and Mulder had lost
his will to search.  It was enough to know she was dead.  It
was enough to know he had failed her, and all the lies he
had been told by so many people over the years, all the
times he'd been promised she was still alive, didn't do
anything to assuage his sense of guilt at not finding her.

He'd wanted so badly to bring her home.

And now the clock ticked onward, counting off days and weeks
and years into an endless chasm of loneliness, and the
faceless doll seemed symbolic of his life.  He was the last,
and the Mulder family would go out with a whimper.  Scully's
recent news had confirmed that he was, and would always be,
the last.

Tonight, his chances of ever righting the wrongs of the
world seemed dreamlike, fleeting if they had ever existed at
all.  Mulder was tired, and suddenly, changing from one
second to the next, the effort to continue seemed too much.

He stared at his gun.  It sat on the desk beside his
computer where he had placed it earlier, but the energy
required to rise, walk to it, pick it up, pull the trigger,
would not be summoned.  Even breathing seemed unattainable,
and yet, just like the ticking of the clock and the endless
stare of the doll with no eyes, miraculously it continued
onward.

There was a knock at the door; normally it would have
startled him, made him wary, but tonight he only listened to
it with disinterest.  If walking the three steps to where
his weapon lay was too much to contemplate, walking to the
door was impossible.  He simply waited.

He knew it would be Scully, and that she would use her key,
and eventually she did, swinging the door open softly and
calling his name in a hushed tone, lest he be sleeping.

"Here," he murmured with effort, not even knowing if his
voice would reach, but somehow she heard him.

If she had switched on a light, he would have told her to
turn it off again, but she seemed to sense his mood and left
the room in darkness.  Making her way to the sofa by the dim
moonbeams that seeped through the window blinds, she settled
herself beside him on the cushion.

He waited for her to ask if he was okay, but again, she
surprised him.  Instead of speaking, she simply reached for
his hand, and he allowed the touch, both craving it and at
the same time despising his need.

After long minutes of silence, she said, very softly, "You
told me not to give up on a miracle."

He raised an eyebrow, and could tell she sensed his
expression even in the darkness.

"I was wrong," he replied, his voice flat.  "There are no
miracles."  He could have told her there was only the
endless monotony of life until we die, but her optimistic
soul would have found that too hard to bear, so Mulder kept
his observation private.

"You are wrong.  Miracles still happen."

He sighed, heavily, wearily.  She did not understand, after
all, then.

"No miracle will bring my sister back to me.  Look how many
years I clung to that hope, and now it's just...gone.  Like
my mother, gone."

"But there are other miracles."

He almost grinned at her relentless insistence.  Instead he
turned to face her, his eyes illuminated in the moonlight.

"Where?" he asked, demanded really, for she'd made a
promise of sorts, he felt.  "Show me."

In answer, she raised his palm to her face.  He could not
help the instinctive caress in which his fingers indulged,
stroking lightly along her soft skin.

"It doesn't have to be the end, Mulder," she whispered.  "We
can try again."

He gently withdrew, placing his hands in his lap, and the
profile he gave her was bleak.  "No more."  He couldn't.  It
was simply too impersonal, and after sharing true intimacy
with her, it seemed almost obscene.

It was her turn to sigh, but hers was not heavy and
world-weary, it was light and delicate.  "I guess you're
right," she admitted.  "It was a long shot in the first
place."

He was silent for a long time before offering, "I'm sorry.
I know how much it meant to you."

She leaned against him, as if feeling a sudden surge of
grief and seeking comfort, which he gave as best he could by
slipping a strong arm around her.

"Maybe miracles aren't meant for the likes of us, Scully.
Maybe we live too close to the edge of safety to be
entrusted with them."

He could have sworn she sniffed, although he was certain if
he'd called her on it she would make vehement denial.  After
a few minutes, in which he knew she was bringing her voice
under control, she answered decisively, "Then we'll have to
make our own."

He did smile, then, at her naiveté.  She still thought she
could win the game of life.

"Make our own miracle?"

She nodded.  "The fact that we're here, and together, and
that we love each other...that's sort of a small miracle,
isn't it?"

"The fact that two complete opposites have not only formed a
successful partnership for six years, but that they have
managed to forge a personal relationship in spite of
adversity and all the odds...yes, I'd say that's some sort
of miracle, Scully.  But time goes on, and look how long it
took us to get to this point.  How long do you think we
have?"

She buried her face in his chest, and he felt the tell-tale
dampness moistening his shirt.  "Tonight," she murmured.
"We have tonight.  And possibly tomorrow."

His hand crept up to stroke her hair, and the only sounds
were their quiet breathing and the ticking of the clock.
Each precious second that passed could have been spent
making their miracle, but like so many others, they had
squandered them, hours and days and years.

"Not another second to waste," he whispered into her ear,
and as if understanding, they rose as one.  They made their
way to the bedroom, their footsteps keeping time with the
ticking of the clock.  The doll looked on as best she could,
possessing no eyes, and kept her own counsel.  Mulder family
secrets were her stock in trade.

End