Title: "Left Holding the Blur" Author: R.M. Stratford E-mail: ddlover42@aol.com Rating: I dunno, PG maybe Category: V and I think a little bit of A Spoilers: Not really. Summary: Another one of those post-colonization fics. Archive: Gossamer, yes. Anyone else: If you really want it, ask me first, and then you most certainly can. Disclaimer: Not mine. Thanks: To Janie for letting me use her e-mail addy, oh, and her webspace. Love ya. Notes: Everyone's writing one of these. Well, I'm sorry for adding to the bunch. (More notes at end.) Oo! I have a webpage! http://members.aol.com/ddlover42/ Enjoy! "Left Holding the Blur" by R.M. Stratford ___________ "the dust settles, the arcwelders come out and reconstruct the obvious, and we are all left holding the blur." -- Billy Corgan, The Aeroplane Flies High liner notes (I think that's what they're called) ___________ He watches the way the moon shines in her eyes, and he wants to smile. But, as always, there are difficulties. He can't remember a time when there weren't any. She's been distant lately. Or perhaps it was just lately that he noticed it. He sighs to himself. He let her drift. She doesn't look him in the eye anymore. He thinks he misses that most of all. She'd keep her emotions locked away, but he always had a glimpse of them when their gazes met. He could say he's in the dark now, but, then again, so is everyone (so to speak). He remembers clearly every last time he watched the sun rise and fall, even if it was just out of the corner of his eye. He can still see that last sliver of sunlight fading below the horizon and the purplish hue the sky took on in that moment. It was far more vibrant than the ever-present darkness that surrounds them now. Somehow they blotted out the sun. He never believed it could happen until the day he woke up and it wasn't there. He turns his eyes to the only bit of brightness left in the sky. The moon. Or the artificial moon. It's not real. Nothing is anymore. The earth is dead and cold, except for the colonies. That's where it's warm. But only because the aliens gestate fastest in the warmth. He looks away from the blackness above and realizes that he's stopped moving but that she hasn't. Somehow he keeps finding himself trying to catch up with her, be on the same level, just so they can communicate. He misses all their conversations. Even the arguments and all the one-sided chats they'd have. Though she wouldn't speak, she would still respond with the shake of her head, a raised eyebrow, or maybe even a tight smile. At least then he could be sure she was listening. He meets her stride and lays his hand against her arm. She doesn't pull away, and he's grateful for that. But she doesn't seem to notice either. As if she can't feel it. He wonders sometimes if she's even alive anymore. He wonders if either of them are. They ought to be doing something, fighting back maybe. He knows she feels useless. Everything she ever knew is gone. It's amazing they've survived this long. And the only reason he's decided to keep going is because she's still with him. He knows how naive it was, but he thought that just having her there was hope enough for him, that everything would be alright. He'd still like to think that. But nothing's changed. He remembers when it began. It's only gone downhill from there. He was determined to fight then. He may even have had a chance. But it's too late now. It's only the two of them (and their small band of resistance "fighters"). He used to think they could take on the world. He knows now it isn't possible. There isn't a world to take on. Now it's simply enough to survive. *** Every night, or what used to be night (with the absence of sunlight everything has been blurred together), she walks. He's not sure why. Maybe she just wants time to herself. He's sorry he hasn't given it to her. But he can't bear to let her out of his sight. He thinks she looks into the darkness and remembers the way things used to be, just like he does. But he isn't certain. He never thought to ask. The silence between them was always an unspoken rule. Even when they went back to the camp, they wouldn't discuss the walk. It was a quiet time, a time for them drift back into the past, uninterrupted. A way to forget the present. But he knows the silence can't go on forever. It isn't right. He needs to reconnect or risk losing her completely. That is, of course, if he hasn't done so already. He pushed her away. Perhaps not knowingly, but it is his fault. He knows he never told her, but he was always thankful for her presence. He wasn't sure how to say it. He let her believe that there was nothing that needed to be said. He wishes he could reverse that. He wishes he could let her know. So, he steps swiftly out in front of her, halting both their movements. Her head turns from the sky, and her eyes are met with his for the split-second before she looks away. She seems genuinely startled but will not allow him to be sure. He follows her gaze downward and realizes that his hand still rests against her arm. He pulls it away but steps closer to her. He'll not let her escape him. She sighs, and he thinks her breath might actually be warm against him if it weren't so damn cold outside. He wants to speak now. He wants to ask her if she's ok. He wants to know what to do. He's sure she could tell him. But he's not quite certain he should say those things, he's suddenly not certain if he should say anything, but for some reason, "I'm sorry," comes out. It is just a whisper, and he isn't sure what he's apologizing for. Maybe for not knowing what else to say or perhaps all the other things he never told her he was sorry for. "Scully..." he begins again, thinking she hadn't heard him. But her hand finds his in an effort to quiet him. She knows. This isn't your fault, he thinks he hears her say. But he knows he is only imagining it. Just as he is imagining her inviting his embrace. But he realizes that much must be real because she is in his arms, and he remembers all the other times he's ever held her. All times of grief, pain, despair. He can't remember holding her simply for the sake of holding her. He'd like to try that, though, he decides as he memorizes the way she feels against him. But all too soon she pulls back and looks into his eyes. He thinks he sees tears glimmering in her gaze because the moon is sparkling more than it usually does. He could almost say it's beautiful. But it isn't real. After all, nothing's changed. He steps slowly to the side, and they continue moving as his hand drifts to its long-abandoned place against her back. He watches once more the way the light shines in her eyes, and again he wants to smile. But there are always difficulties. He wishes, now, he could remember a time when there weren't any. Maybe then it would be easier to hope. --finis-- Notes (cont'd): Alright, well, thanks so much or getting down here. Perhaps there were some plot holes or inconsistencies along the way. If so, I'm sorry. I hope you can overlook them. If not, then maybe I was just feeling inconsistent while writing. Well, anyhow, any questions, comments, etc. you might have would be greatly appreciated: ddlover42@aol.com. Now, maybe you're wondering about the title. And maybe you're not. Well, in any case, I'm gonna talk about. It comes from that quote. I'll just redisplay it here: "the dust settles, the arcwelders come out and reconstruct the obvious, and we are all left holding the blur." -- Billy Corgan I just thought it was kinda ironic. Just MHO of course. That's it.