Δεν μιλάω γιατί βαρέθηκα να εξηγώ Βασικά,βαρέθηκα να είμαι η μόνη που εξηγώ Κατάλαβα πως δεν έχει καν νόημα Το αστείο ήταν ότι μέσα στα πολλά, σου το είχα πει και αυτό Μισώ την αλλοίωση των ανθρωπίνων σχέσεων Και το αστείο ήταν πως είπες “ και εγώ ” Μα τελικά κάθισα να περιμένω πότε θα συμβεί αυτό που δεν ήθελα Όπως όλα τα πράγματα που τείνουν να συμβαίνουν Όταν δεν θέλω ή όταν δεν μπορώ να θέλω Μέσα σε όλα αυτά τα αστεία λοιπόν Εγώ είδα να μου κάνεις αυτό που απεχθάνομαι Δεν γέλασα καθόλου Δεν ξαναγέλασα ποτέ Δεν θυμάμαι πως γελάνε οι άνθρωποι Δεν θυμάμαι την τελευταία φορά που γέλασα και το εννοούσα.
He can hear the annoyance in the tone of her voice, the fact that they’re willingly driving through a snowstorm in the middle of the night because of a potential lead. On a case that they’re not even officially assigned to. Because they no longer work for the FBI.
She’s reminded him of that last detail so often over the past few days that it’s become white noise to his ears. No longer with the FBI. That may be the case, and it has been for years, but he still feels an obligation. When someone needs help, he comes to their rescue. He can’t help that it’s in his nature, drawn to the defenseless like a moth to a flame. And he knows she knows it; once he sets his mind to something, anything, he can’t control himself, he goes all in. And this, finding a missing woman, with whom he has no connection, for an agency that more than once tried to destroy his life, is no exception.
Isolation had been hard on him. He knew it was necessary, more for her safety because at some point, he no longer gave a damn about whether or not they found him. It wasn’t fair, though, that she had been cleared by the FBI, no longer a person of interest, not long after they settled into their home. Their unexpected visit from Skinner at the house to tell her almost scared them, her, back into a life of fake IDs and scratchy motel sheets, but Skinner assured that no one else knew where they, he, were. Skinner set up a PO box for them, helped Scully get back into medicine, get her life back, essentially. And then, there was him.
He hated being cooped up in the house all day, still feeling the sting, almost of rejection, of remaining a recluse while she got to move on with the world. But he found things to occupy his time. He rekindled his love for cooking, of which Scully reaped the benefits. When she’d saved up enough, they installed cable and internet, and he spent some time scrolling through UFO forums, finding stories that captivated him the way X-files used to, especially when daytime television became too over-the-top. He stayed active by working on the house. Installing the gate, tightening the plumbing, fixing a loose shingle on the roof here and there, chopping lumber in the backyard for them to use in the fireplace. Scully reaped those benefits, too, his physique healthier and toner than it had ever been.
But he didn’t ever really venture much further than their property. Scully was the one that picked things up for him at the hardware store, or did the grocery shopping, all on her way home from the hospital. She sometimes went days without coming home because of her shifts; on those days, he thought he was slowly losing his mind, her reappearance at the end of the day often the only thing that truly kept him going. Some days he hated her, too, for abandoning him, for staying at the hospital. Logically, he knew that it wasn’t reasonable for him to be so angry with her for going to work, having means to support them. But logic was never his forte, anyway.
So when the request from the FBI for his assistance came, he masked his initial excitement with disinterest, feigning his need to be involved with something important again, because he didn’t want her to think this new normal they had created wasn’t enough for him. He thought that if he could convince her to go with him, to be a part of this alongside him, that she, too, would remember what it felt like, discovering the mysteries of the unsolved, the rush of following a lead. That she would be supportive of his immersion back into the real world, no longer a wanted fugitive. Apparently, he had been wrong.
Instead, she sits begrudgingly behind the wheel, acting as his chauffeur as they make their way to the site Father Joe claims to sense something that will help further the investigation. But he thinks she’s only following him out here seemingly out of a loyalty for him, not to the truth. And it makes him furious, because he thought he knew her better than this.
It isn’t just that she isn’t interested in this case, but he gets the feeling that she wants nothing to do with anything even remotely resembling an X-file. This isn’t my life anymore. Truthfully, it wasn’t his life anymore, either, but he refused to see the harm in dipping their toes back into the waters of the unexplained. There was something more to this that she was reluctant to tell him, presumably that she thinks being involved with this is harmful, and it pisses him off. They rarely kept things from each other anymore, and he can’t understand why she wants to start back up now.
So he delves himself further into this case. To piss her off? Because he’s genuinely curious about Father Joe’s visions? He once thought his motives to be clear, but frustration has perplexing power of clouding his judgments. All this time, and no one can get inside his head, make him question anything and everything, like she does.
Closing his eyes, he refocuses the objectives of his involvement. It’s not simply just the paranormal elements of the case that have drawn him in. Nor is it just fulfilling a need for freedom, to be more than half a mile from their home. Surely, he thinks she realizes that by now.
It’s because every time he closes his eyes, Monica Bannan’s picture haunts him.
When he sees the picture, he thinks of Samantha. How the missing woman’s waved hair matched Samantha’s whenever it wasn’t in braids. How the two of them would be the same age, if Samantha were still alive. How the details surrounding their disappearances are mysterious, eerie. Those similarities are obvious, and he knows that she will call him on it.
What evades her, at least he hopes, is how much Monica Bannan reminds him of her. It’s not the red hair and the blue eyes, though those physical features are not lost on him, in spite of every other difference in their appearances. No, this case, a missing FBI agent, vanished with fairly little trace, is all too familiar. He is reminded of her own disappearances, of how he couldn’t save her. When Duane Barry took her to Skyland Mountain, when the chip in her neck called her Ruskin Dam. He thinks that if he can find this missing FBI woman, he can right all the times he couldn’t find Scully.
This is why he feels the need to drown himself in locating this woman. He wants to prove, both to her and to himself, that he can save someone, especially after he’s failed so many others.
And maybe, just maybe, he can get some part of his old life back. Just as Scully has.
Staring out the passenger window, ignoring her comment so as to not pick a fight, the snow falling furiously with the wind, he thinks of how good it feels to be wanted, to be a part of something bigger than himself. And he doesn’t seem to care that right now, it isn’t Scully that wants him.
This feels different, though, somehow, compared to all the other times they’ve looked for lost souls in the dark. The potential for destruction, both of the only constant aspect of his life, which has weathered for more than fifteen years, and of himself, seems to be at an all-time high. A bomb with a short fuse, waiting to go off; a constant buzzing, a hum that he’s just noticed and if he hears any longer, he fears he’ll snap. If they keep this up, the effects could be disastrous, their promises to each other dissipating with the wind, evaporating into nothingness. But if they fight this out, he’s afraid that one of them may end up resenting the other.
He thinks he’s found himself at a crossroads: Lose himself and keep Scully, or lose Scully and keep himself. He doesn’t know which possibility scares him more.