TITLE: Roll Me Away AUTHOR: TrexPhile EMAIL:trxphile@mindspring.com ARCHIVE: Yes RATING: PG-13 CATEGORY: S,R,A post-series (or this author's take on it) KEYWORDS:MSR SPOILERS: None Author's notes at the end. DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. I don't claim to. I'm just taking them for a ride. ROLL ME AWAY by TrexPhile June 1999 Samantha is dead. Krycek. Diana. That black-lunged bastard whose true name I never knew. They're all dead, gone. Along with the colonizers and the rebels and all the rest of them that for so many years threatened all the lives on this planet. The only one I mourn is Samantha. After all the lies and deception, I never really expected to ever see her again. But knowing without a doubt that she's dead... touching the bones, reading the forensic report... The finality of it all echoes dully through my brain still. Finality. Victory. Fulfillment. There is no fulfillment. There should be, shouldn't there? Shouldn't I be celebrating? Ecstatic? Delirious in my victory? I'm not. For the first time in twenty years, I don't know where to go. I woke up this morning, frightened by the unknown lying before me. What do I do now? * * * The road is deserted, gleaming dully in the new dawn. The bike stands against the curb, all shiny and new. The Harley salesman was thrilled by yesterday's impulse buy. I bet he made a hell of a commission off that one. I have plenty of money. It's gonna be hard to disappear completely using this credit card, but I'd rather not carry wads of cash with me. I know I'm leaving a clear breadcrumb trail but I'll deal with that later if necessary. All Skinner knows is that I'm taking a leave of undetermined length. I didn't tell Scully anything. The motorcycle is heavy and I feel clumsy as I maneuver it away from the curb. I'll get used to it. I'm finally out of the car, Scully, although I doubt this is what you meant. I roll away. The wind feels good on my face, the sun is warm at my back. I feel a euphoria that I haven't felt in a long time. This is freedom, I think. It feels good. * * * For the first few days, my body hurt like hell. Riding for hours, using muscles I didn't know existed. Sure is hard on this forty-one-year-old body. Soon the aches faded away and I'm riding like I've done it all my life, feeling hard and weathered. I can feel the skin of my face toughening up as well from the sun and the wind. After two weeks on the road, my hair has even changed -- it's already longer, looser. Memories of barbers and ties and mousse are already fading. Most of the time I find a small motel to crash in at night. I stay away from the interstates, passing through the small towns off the beaten path. I'm seeing life as I've never seen it before, far from the bustle and bureaucracy and duplicity and death that has been my life for so long. I see people. Just people, going to work, taking their kids to school, celebrating the end of the week down at the local bar. Laughing, fighting, living. They almost lost it all. And if they had, it would have been my fault for not stopping it. I roll through their towns and look at their faces and I'm glad that they'll never know how close the end was. I'm glad they don't know who I am. Sometimes when I get too tired to roll on, I pull over and find a nice spot to camp in. Camp -- there's not much to it. Just me and a bedroll. The stars can be so much clearer out here. I haven't seen them for a long time and, though the innocence I used to see in those little points of light is now gone, if I let myself, I can sometimes recall the boyish wonder I once felt. I remember looking up at those same stars so many years ago and telling myself that my future lay there among them. And it was, although not within the Star Trek visions that I yearned for. The truth was so much more evil. I try not to look at the stars much. They're now part of my tainted past. * * * I found her in a small town in Indiana. Or rather, she found me. I'd stopped in a little bar, nursing a beer, watching the people around me. The door opened, the tinkling of its bell almost lost in the strains of steel guitar keening from the juke box. She just stood there in the doorway for a long time, blending into the black night behind her. I held my breath, needing to disappear into the crowd, wanting to run to her instead, watching as the lights from the beer signs slid across her hair creating colorful twisted halos. And then she saw me. Our gazes locked and I could see the recognition, the relief in her eyes. I didn't move and she hesitated. Even from my corner, I could see the sudden glistening of her tears and I dropped my gaze to the table top, giving her the dignity she needed. I didn't look up. As she sat down across from me, her familiar scent wafted across me, sending a hallelujah through my soul even as I tried to tamp it down. She was here. She was here with me. I couldn't look at her yet, not this close. She represented everything I was trying to escape, everything I was trying to forget. I wasn't strong enough yet. But I couldn't help myself. I looked up. And it all came back to me. Anger. Pain. Deception. Guilt. It was all there in that face that I knew better than my own. And I wanted to lash out, to scratch out those eyes, to throw acid on those cheeks, slash those lips, destroy it all. I wanted to touch it, wanted to press my lips to that forehead, slide them along that cheek, kiss those beautiful lips, press that face to my chest and never let go again. The lips spoke. So softly. "Mulder." She was here. More than just the memory of a scent and a face. All of her. And I told her all. She didn't say a word. She listened as I rambled on and on about being lost and sick of doing the right thing. Of how I no longer knew who I was or what I was supposed to be anymore. Of my hope that I would somehow find out somewhere out here, out there. She was still silent even after I was done. I watched her as she looked out the window for a long time, and for the first time in years I didn't know what she was thinking. Where were the questions? Where was the demand for rationalization? The logic? The need for proof? Finally she turned back to me and what I saw in her eyes was clearer than any words she could have spoken. I laid a ten-dollar bill on the table, took her hand and together we walked outside where my bike waited. And we rolled away. * * * I'm not even sure what day it is anymore. We don't read newspapers, we don't even turn on the television in the motel rooms that we stay in. For all we know, the president could have declared war on China and we wouldn't know it until the nuke hit us. That's fine. We like it this way. It's late summer, of that I'm certain. The days are buzzing with heat here in the plains. We try to ride through the early morning and stop when the heat starts building after noon. It's easier on Scully that way, with her fair coloring. Of course, her appearance has changed as mine has. No makeup, her hair loose and longer and free, almost blonde from the sun, freckles popping out despite the sunscreen I keep on hand. She's even managed to get a bit of a tan, laughingly thanking her mother's darker coloring as she smoothes lotion into her chapped skin at the end of the day. It's hard to express the joy I feel as we ride down the road. Everything is pure sensation now and I revel in it - - the heat of the pavement, the wind against my face, the thrumming tires and rumbling motor vibrating through my body. The warmth of Scully's body against my back, her hands curled lightly around my sides, her arms sometimes tight around my chest. I can feel her hot breath against my neck when she leans in to rest her chin on my shoulder. Sometimes we speak, but not often -- the wind whips our words away too quickly. We save the talking for later. And we have lots of talking to do. We have, after all, nine years of "just talk" to make up. I wish we'd done it sooner. We're really much better at it than I thought we'd be. We laugh too. I'd never heard her laugh before, not really. It's a beautiful sound, brash and horsey. I couldn't help but laugh myself the first time I heard that big noise braying from that tiny body. She does it a lot now. I love hearing it. I've discovered more about her too, more than just her infectious laugh. I've learned that she hates the taste of lobster and that she isn't afraid of snakes. She thinks Star Trek is juvenile but admits to an attraction for Captain Picard. She hated moving around so much as a child, she was shy and bookish as a young teenager, and she lost her virginity to a boy named Scott in the backseat of his '78 Buick a week away from her eighteenth birthday. I know that she has a mole on her right shoulder blade and that she misses her green satin pajamas. I know that her eyes turn a deep blue-green when she's aroused. And that she moans my name softly when she comes. We didn't become intimate right away. I will admit that, through the years, I had had a few fantasies that involved her, more so in the beginning. But I never allowed myself to dwell on them or elaborate any real detail about those phantom encounters. We were partners, friends, and along the way, we became much more than that. But acknowledging it, becoming physically intimate... that wasn't in the game rules. The game is over and we're now free to finally learn each other. And we did that, tentatively at first like a couple of nervous kids, then opening up more and more. I was being given a gift that I didn't deserve -- Scully was giving me herself, heart and soul, with no regrets. I fed on it hungrily, greedily and gave back as much as I could in return. Sometimes we stop and spend a few days in a town, just resting, checking out the place. As we strolled through the downtown shops in this one place, Scully saw a dress that she liked, a short little green thing, something that I would have loved to have seen her in while we were living our other lives. I'd bought her some clothes in the beginning, jeans and shorts and t-shirts and a jacket, practical things. But as she gazed at this one dress, I knew that she needed it, that she missed being beautiful. I bought it for her and turned her loose in the drugstore cosmetic department. I bought for myself some new jeans, a dress shirt and even a tie, intent on surprising her. I even found a sweet little cafÇ a block away from downtown while she filled her basket with toiletries. Back at the motel, I told her to get fixed up, that I was taking her out, and she smiled that brilliant smile that I would never tire of. I don't know what I expected to see when she came out of that bathroom, but I was unprepared for my response. Yes, she was beautiful -- the dress fit perfectly, her makeup was impeccable, her hair was up and curled. The most beautiful sight, though, was that smile. The rest just paled in comparison. I knew that she was truly happy, and that I was partly responsible for that happiness. I don't think I had ever been able to say that before. I don't think I've ever made her happy before. I wanted nothing more at that moment than to make sure that she never lost that smile again. We made love that night for the first time. I could describe it in romance novel terms, but that would trivialize it. Yes, it was wonderful. No, it wasn't the most stupendous, amazing experience ever. After all, sex is sex, and with two mature people who are intent on each others' pleasure, it generally turns out well for both. In strictly physical terms, yes, we both enjoyed it. It was a long cleansing sigh of contentment, like when you pass that last exam, when you get that raise, when you finally say "I do" and are introduced for the first time as a couple to all the world, when you sit down in your favorite chair, showered and fresh after a hard day and see your mate sitting across the room smiling at you. That's how it was for me while I enfolded her and filled her. The baptism of true fulfillment. Her goodness fills me and I feel like a new man. * * * I'm ready to go home. I can still hear her saying those words. As I sit here looking out at the mountains in the fading sunset, I hear them over and over. I'm ready to go home. She said it into my ear as we lay together under the stars. They were the first words she'd said for hours, and I knew that it had taken that long for her to dredge up the courage to say them. I don't blame her. The season is turning. It's getting colder and we've almost reached the Rockies. I was hoping, though, that when she said it, I would feel it too. I don't feel it. Not yet. I'm not ready. I still haven't found what I was searching for. What are you searching for? She asked me that right before she stepped onto the bus that would take her back. I couldn't tell her. I still don't know myself. But I'll know it when I find it. I told her that. She looked off into the distance for a long moment then smiled sadly at me. She brushed her fingers across my cheek, let them rest against my lips for a brief second. "Keep your eyes open. I know you'll find it," she whispered. Then she turned away and disappeared into the bus's dim interior. I almost followed her. I couldn't bear the thought of never seeing her, never being with her again. But something held me back. I stood there for a long time after the bus had disappeared. Then I headed out. Alone again. I can feel how different I am from the man that left home those months ago. I've been cleansed, purged of those demons that have possessed me for so many years. I'm an empty vessel now. And that's what frightens me about returning to my old life. What if I can find nothing good to fill me? Scully is the good, I know that. And during this journey, she has helped me to pour out all that's old and stagnant and has begun to fill me with her sweet essence. If I go back now, what will happen to the still-empty parts of me? I can't expect Scully to fill every part of me. I need something new, something pure to fill me. Something of my own. I want my innocence back. I want to look at those stars and feel hope again. Somewhere in this world, I'll find it. I just have to keep searching. * * * The Great Divide lies before me. I've come to the turning point in my journey. East or west. The decision is wholly mine. The sky is lit with red and gold as the sun slips behind a peak. I feel charged with energy. Something's about to happen and I'm just sitting here, propped against my grimy Harley, waiting. I've seen so much since Scully left. I listened to her and I opened my eyes. I let myself see everything. Not just the clean tranquility of the small towns but also the dirt and turmoil that lay behind the facades. The poverty on the outskirts. The futility lying behind the eyes of the homeless in the bigger cities. The crime and the racism and the hatred. And despite all that was evil, there was an equal measure of hope and goodness and faith. It all balances out. I'd never seen that before, never realized while living in my old distorted world that good and evil could live side by side and good could still survive untainted. I realize that's what Scully was trying to tell me. The sun's light is almost gone now. I lift my face into the cold breeze, my skin tingling. And then I hear the cry of a bird. I catch it out of the corner of my eye -- a young hawk, rising up, silhouetted against the fading sunset. I feel my heart beating through my veins and I rise to my feet, following his flight as he goes higher. I feel strong and awake and very alive and as I watch, the hawk disappears into the indigo of the sky. And I see a star. One star shining strong and proud and pure. Its light pulses through me, filling me. "This time," I say aloud, "this time, we'll get it right." * * * I pull up in front of the apartment building. I look like hammered shit -- I'm dirty, haven't shaved in a week, have permanent helmet head. And I believe that at this moment, there's not a happier man on the face of the earth. I walk up the sidewalk, trying not to scuffle my boots. It's around 2:00 am and I don't want to disturb the neighbors. The door ahead of me suddenly opens and I see a figure silhouetted against the light. I smile, and as I step closer, I see my smile mirrored back to me and a hand reaching out to take mine. I take her hand and kiss her fingers and she laughs. I do too, and as she takes me into her arms, we let our laughter roll us away. Author's Notes: If you haven't guessed already, this story was inspired by a song called "Roll Me Away" by the incomparable Bob Seger. Since this isn't songfic, I won't be including the lyrics, but if you ever get the chance to hear this song, do so! The man writes and sings from the heart. This story would not have come to be without Kate's help. Gooah, you have the most amazing insight, and you certainly know how to kickstart me into writing! You're better than any muse, and I can't thank you enough for all your help, humor and patience. More thanks to my other supportive readers: Tenille, Erin and Kim. Kimster, I thank you for squashing your Sk/Sc leanings long enough to read this. Feedback accepted at trxphile@mindspring.com, or by public post.