Date: 3 Apr 2004 15:57:26 -0000 I Should Have Seen It Coming (1 of 1) R by Vickie Moseley Reply To: vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com Title: I Should Have Seen It Coming Author: Vickie Moseley Summary: Without sight, without sound, he should have seen it coming. Rating: R for naughty words and veiled allusions to sexual acts. Category: V, MA, MT Disclaimer: All characters herein depicted are the property of 1013 Productions and FOX television. No copyright infringement intended. Written for Mulder's Refuge March Challenge -- Psychological Torture. Feedback is cherished: vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com I Should Have Seen It Coming by Vickie Moseley I didn't see it coming. I think those words should be carved in a stone placed at the entrance to Arlington Cemetery. I didn't see it coming. In my case, maybe they'll carve it in my tombstone, but I doubt that Scully will think of it. She'll probably put something more conventional like 'partners forever' or 'dear friend'. Or she'll reach into her faith and put 'Ye Shall Know the Truth'. Well, I sure as shit figured out the truth of this one. When faced with possible capture, men who have a propensity to blow the shit out of things turn to the one thing they know -- they blow the shit out of what ever and whomever is coming to take them away. So it went, apparently, with one Thomas Albert Holzer, presumably late of Lawrence, Kansas. One time leader of the local KKK, until he started scaring even that bunch of losers. A regular customer at Nelson's Feed and Grain, where he purchased enough fertilizer to level Kansas City. Mr. Henry Nelson, Jr. seemed to think it was decidedly more than Thomas usually needed to prop up his failing 40 acres of Kansas red hard wheat. That's why Mr. Nelson called the FBI regional office in Kansas City. We'd just done a five county tour of western Missouri, looking at fertilizer bills of sales and plots of . . . whatever, so Assistant Director Alvin Kersh thought we'd be just the people to help the locals arrest Mr. Holzer and bring him in for questioning. It seemed a little coincidental that a small AME church blew up just a week before Mr. Holzer visited the Feed and Grain. Seems he needed more supplies to tackle his next project. Even with all I knew of Mr. Holzer, and admittedly, I knew a lot, I still didn't see it coming. Thomas Holzer was at one time an Army Ranger. His specialty was demolition. He was very good at his job. He was hit in the head with a piece of shrapnel during the Gulf War and received an honorable discharge and full medical disability. He had blackouts and received treatment for them at the VA in Kansas City. He didn't like crowds, except for the friendly guys of the KKK and after a while, even they got on his nerves. He firmly believed that the Black man was the ruin of this once great country and William Jefferson Clinton was the devil incarnate. So why didn't I see it coming? Why didn't I put two and two together and get BOOM? I could blame the heat. It was hotter than blue blazes out there on the flat Kansas prairie. I could blame the fuck ass Assistant Director who shoved us into the case after we'd already been traveling, without a break, for two weeks straight. I could blame the locals, who were without a doubt the dumbest bunch of excuses for law enforcement I'd yet to uncovered in all my years at the Bureau. But the real blame, the honest to God blame rests with my partner. Or rather, the thoughts my partner's hot little body was conjuring up in my mind. We've made love one time since we were airlifted off that icefield in Antarctica. One time in three months. First, last, only, not because we haven't wanted to again, we just never managed to recreate the moment. She's scared, I'm scared, hell, we're both scared shitless that if we do become intimate on a regular basis, something will happen to one or both of us. But that one time is indelibly etched in my mind and every time I see her slightly sweaty, chest heaving from any exertion under the hot sun, hell, in three inch high 'you know what' shoes -- I start thinking with parts of my anatomy that are no where near my brain. And that's how I got here. Wherever here is. When I was first aware that I could have a thought after the big boom, I figured I was on my way to Arlington, full 'killed in the line of duty' funeral. Or maybe I was already in the ground, because it was dark, really, really dark and quiet -- no sounds at all. But my second conscious thought was such shrieking agonizing pain that ripped through my chest, my gut, my legs, my arms, my head that I was more certain that I'd fallen into the deepest pit of Hell. Until I smelled not sulfur and brimstone, but my sweet partner's Victoria Secret's perfume, with an underlying hint that her antiperspirant had given up the ghost. Scully would not be with me in Hell. God, what I know of him, doesn't work that way. So if Scully was with me, and I was in that kind of pain, there was only one place I could be. Yet another hospital. As if to verify my conclusion, not more than a few seconds after the pain hit, I felt something cold run through one of the veins on my left hand. It ran all the way up my arm and in just a few minutes after it started, the pain slithered away to hide in a dark corner. I could feel its hot breath, I knew it was waiting. But for the time being, it was at bay, and I fell into a deep sleep. I've woken up a couple of times since then. The only way I know I'm awake is that I can think. I can't hear, there isn't even a roaring in my ears. I can't see, but I can feel bandages now, covering my face and holding my eyes shut. I can't even feel, my hands and arms are covered in similar bandages and from what I can tell, strapped to the bed rails so I can't move around too much. "Tommy, can you hear me?" Where's Roger Daltry when you really need him? All this time, I've had plenty of time to consider what is going on. I'm in a hospital -- Duh -- and from all signs I'm on the really good shit, the shit they don't like using because there is a risk you might like it more than reality. Therefore, I must be really messed up. The eyes are bandaged, and they burn when the meds come a little late, but I have no way of knowing the extent of the injury there. I could just be 'healing', or I could have sustained permanent damage. Permanent damage equals Bye Bye Bureau. Haven't seen a blind FBI agent in the field yet, nope, not once in my whole career. There goes my driver's license, too, though maybe that's a blessing. No more sitting in frustration at a light that won't turn green. That's a plus. No more over night stakeouts. OK, that would seem like a plus, except when Scully is with me and she falls asleep on my shoulder. What's a few drool stains on my wool overcoat when I can feel Scully's hair tickling my cheek all night. No more seeing her eyes light up when she's trying not to laugh at one of my stupid jokes. No more watching that little wrinkle in her forehead when she's working on a case. No more waking up to see Scully's hair in the light coming from my window. Oh god, what have I done? But it's not even the blindness that scares me. I'd hate it, I would miss so much, but that's not all there is to worry about. I can't hear. I can't hear a thing. I can't even hear the blood pulsing in my veins or my heart beating in my chest. I understand why I first thought I was dead. When I've been injured before, my first conscious memory is my own heart beat. Then I can discern others sounds, like the heart monitor or the squeak of rubber soled shoes on hospital-tiled floors. None of that this time. It's like my ears have been filled with cement. No sound comes through from without or within. It makes me sick in the pit of my stomach. It makes me want to rip these restraints off my arms and legs, to punch a wall, or a doctor, anything in my way. I'll never hear her voice again. I have a perfect memory for sight. I remember every book I ever read but it's more than that. I can remember every smile Scully's ever given me, and I could relive those smiles every day of my life. But her voice, never to hear her voice again, that, I know I would lose. Even now I can't remember how she sounded when I took her over the edge. I know she cried out my name, but I can't remember how it sounded. Even if we became lovers now, even if we had sex six times a day, I will never hear her call my name in a moment of extreme bliss and passion. How dare that fuck do this to me! How dare that little shit ass farm boy with a barn full of explosives tear her voice away from me forever! If he isn't dead, that son of a bitch, I'll strangle him with my own hands. I'll have to find him by smell, but that shouldn't be that hard -- he stank like a hog lot. I'll be denied the pleasure of watching his eyes bulge, his face turn red and then purple as he kicks and tugs and tries to free himself. I won't get to hear his grunts as the small bit of oxygen still in his lungs is depleted and his body is poisoned by the carbon dioxide it can't exhale. I'll miss out on his death throes. But that's all right. I can imagine them all in my mind. My eyes might be damaged, but I can feel the tears running down the sides of my face, into my useless ears. I just want . . . I just need . . . Scully, where are you? Maybe this was too much. Maybe this time she's figured out that the best place to be is far away from me. I know she was here earlier, I could smell her, I felt her touch my cheek. But I haven't felt that for a while. I can only smell hospital smells, someone else's dinner, bleach washed sheets. No Scully. She's gone. Now I'm really crying. The pain I felt when I woke up is nothing compared to this! It rips through my chest, my heart is squeezed in a vise. I'm having a heart attack, I know it. But I don't care. Not if she's gone. Not if she's left me because she finally figured out what a loser I am. I'd be better off dead if I finally chased her away. Pull the fucking plug already! What reason is there to keep me alive? Why prolong this agony? I can't work, I can't care for myself. I'm a vegetable on this fucking bed. So get it over with, for God's sake! There must be some machine tethering me to this goddamned mortal coil. Just turn it off! Put a pillow over my face and get it over with! I must be saying all this out loud because I feel hands on my arm, on my chest. A nurse, nice perfume, but not Scully's. Some one else, male, judging by the aftershave, a doctor or maybe an orderly? I realize I'm pulling on the restraints, struggling to end this charade once and for all. Then, the cold in my vein again. Oh, I get it. Keep the invalid alive. What ever happened to quality of fucking life, huh? This is not life! This is endless dying! But the cold is working, numbing my only remaining senses. My hands start going to sleep. No! Not that! Don't take away all I have . . . I don't know how long it's been. I've been awake a couple of times but so damned groggy. They have me on sedatives now. Not just pain killers anymore, they want to dull my mind. Sure, why not? It's not like I can use it in any purposeful way. Scully hasn't been back, either. I think Skinner was here, at one point. I could smell that High Endurance a mile away. I could smell him, but he didn't venture close enough to the 'blob' on the bed to touch it. That's all I am now, a blob. I take in fluids and dispel them into a bag. I defecate and they clean me up. They turn me, from time to time, like a turkey on a spit. Can't let the vegetable get bedsores. A few weeks ago I was wandering the video aisle, deciding not to go into the little back room for a change, and I found the movie 'Altered States'. I'd seen it once, at Oxford, after about six pints and half a bottle of tequila. It was a mind-altering experience, at least in my drunken state that's how I perceived it. Anyway, the whole idea of sensory depravation has taken on new meaning for me, the blob. I think William Hurt can kiss my ass right now. I don't have any mushrooms, but I have plenty of time to kill and the sedative they have me on is producing some really colorful images on the backs of my burned out retinas. I see Scully on a beach. She's naked and the water sluices down her body. She smiles and puts her hand up to shade her eyes from the sun. The image changes and I'm standing beside her, close up. I can see her breast move as she breaths. I reach around her as the waves lap against our feet. Stupid drugs. They lull me into a false sense of serenity. There will be no beach, no Scully. I'm never getting out of this bed. She'll never come back. I remember back at Oxford reading in a text about an experiment in directed dreams. With just enough of the joy juice in my veins, I think I can direct my dreams, maybe even project my will. I slow my breathing, put myself in a light trance. Now I'm standing on that beach again, but this time, I start walking. I walk into the water, away from the beach. I walk and I walk and the water is up to my chest. I keep walking, even though I can feel the sand slipping away under my feet. It's up to my neck and I tilt my chin up. I want this to last. The water has reached my mouth and I open it, taste the salt on my tongue. It's over my nose and my body fights as I breathe in deeply, taking the salt water as far into my lungs as possible before I gag and my instincts take over and I start to fight . . . I wake up with something plastic down my throat, air being forced into my lungs. Wow, I had no idea it would work that well. All for naught, of course. Fat lot of good it did me to direct myself into a dream of drowning. With all the monitors and shit I'm hooked to here, they just shoved the vent down my throat and I'm good to go -- as far as they're concerned. It's set too fast. I don't want to breath in that much. I gag on the plastic, it rubs right at the back of my throat. I pull at the restraints in a futile attempt to free myself and pull this fucking thing out. Maybe I could rip my esophagus on the way and drown in my own blood. Would they be able to figure that out? Would they know enough to stop it in time? Probably, but I can dream of that, too. I can dream of my release from this Hell. Even the other Hell, that one that surely waits for me on the other side has to be better than this. This time, sensory input wakes me. I feel a hand on my arm. It's resting, like Scully does when she sits by my bedside. I take in a breath through my nose, which causes me to gag a little on the vent tube. Not Scully's perfume. No, but it's still familiar. I have to wrack my brain to come up with it. Where have I . . . Mrs. Scully! It's Scully's Mom. I remember it's an older fragrance. Can't name it, but I remember it from all those nights I'd stop by and check on her when Scully was missing. Wait. If Mrs. Scully is here . . . that can only mean one thing. Oh God. Oh God oh no not that oh god please not that not that . . . If Scully's Mom is here, it's because Scully can't be. How long since I remember her here? Two days, three? It could have been fifty, I've been so out of it. But she was here, I remember that! Could something have happened? An accident? Maybe she was injured in the blast. Shit! Of course! She was right behind me when that fucking barn blew! She was injured, too. Why did they let her come to my bedside? What am I thinking, she would have bullied her way here. She would have demanded to be here. But if she were injured . . . I'm going to be sick. I'm going to puke in this tube and it will kill me just as I've been begging for so long. Scully's dead, that's the only answer. And I'm stuck here. I don't want to be here, I don't want to be anywhere Scully isn't. I'm sobbing and trying to scream around the tube and the hand on my arm is tightening and I gag and keep gagging. Fuck this ventilator! Fuck these fucking machines! Let me die, you sons of bitches, just let me fucking die . . . I'm alone again. I think back to my directed dream. I've figured out my mistake. Drowning was a good trick, but not effective. No, I think I know how to do this now. I lie very still. I can't control my breathing, so I just have to let it become a focus. I let my mind float. I lose all the tension in my body. I turn my attention to my heart. It's there, even though I can't hear it. I can feel it when I'm very still. I direct my thoughts on it. Slower. Slower. An extra second between beats, then two seconds. Slower. Slower. I can do this. I can stop it all. I can make it all end. Slower. Slower. Something startles me, something cold against my face. Oh God, they figured out what I was doing! They're stopping me again! Fuck this. Fuck them! Why are they doing this? But wait. The tube is gone! I can breath on my own. I don't have time to ponder this when I feel something cold against my temple again. I'm a little nervous, something metal is slipping under the bandages by my eyes. What the hell? Infinitesimally, light penetrates the bandages. I can feel hands moving around my head, peeling back the gauze. My full attention is riveted on the light I see around dark discs directly over my eyes. The gauze falls away and the discs are peeled off. Soft pads of fingers press my lids shut. My head is tilted back and I feel drops fall into the corners of my eyes. The light dims just slightly. A finger slides down my cheek, touches my chin and forces my head up and down. I take that as a signal and open my eyes. Every thing is blurry. I see shapes, shadows. The shapes move and blur. At first it's all grays and blacks with little areas of white. Slowly, colors form. I blink a few times and my chin is tilted back so that more drops can be applied. I accept them greedily, hoping they will clear my vision. Oh God, I can see! I blink again and this time, a face comes out of the shadows. It's close to me, and my heart skips a beat. Scully. I realize my hands are no longer tied to the bedrails. I wrap my arms around her, squeezing her so hard I'm afraid I'll hurt her. I push back and just look at her. There are tears in her eyes, but she's smiling. You'll be OK, her eyes tell me. She mouths words but I can't understand them. She touches my ears and smiles. That's clear enough. My hearing problem is only temporary or she wouldn't be smiling. She holds my hand to her cheek and then turns it to kiss my palm. 'I'm sorry', I can make out when she mouths the words to me. She keeps talking, something about the case, I catch the word 'escape', I can just make out 'Holzer'. That's where she's been! I'm so stupid! I pull her into another hug. When I pull back, she tugs at the back of my neck, pulling me toward her. She kisses me. She kisses me deep and hard and I feel my toes curl and a certain 'sleeping dragon' wakes. She takes my breath away. I should have seen it coming. the end.