Tel’enara bellana bana’vhenadahl, Sethen’a ir san’shiral, mala tel’halani Ir sa’vir te’suledin var bana’vallaslin, Vora’nadas san banal’him emma abel revas. Ir tela’ena glandival, vir amin tel’hanin. Ir tela las ir Fen halam, vir am’tela’elvahen.
“We lost eternity, the ruined tree of the People Time won’t help when the land of dreams is no longer our journey We try to lead despite the failing of our markings. To the inevitable and troubling freedom we are committed. When we could no longer believe, we lost glory to war. When the Wolf won, we lost the People to war”.
She looks at him and is 14 years-old all over again. Ashamed and awkward. The jocks used to buddy up with her in chemistry and biology, telling her that she was pretty and funny when what they really wanted was someone to do all the work so they could goof off during class. One of them even kissed her, groped her breast over her shirt, made her feel so fucking special. She cried hot, angry tears when she saw him holding hands with someone else.
The whole thing has made her feel childish and rebellious and she hates herself for it, hates the feeling of being taken advantage of. Her belly sloshes with vodka and nausea. She realizes what she must look like but she doesn’t care, doesn’t give a shit about any of it anymore.
He’d let her in, looking somewhat dumbfounded. He’s never seen her like this. She doesn’t let people see her when she’s like this. But there are things to say.
“I would’ve fucked you, did you know that?” she asks as she weaves about. She imagines that she is moving very smoothly, almost serpentine. But her higher thinking brain is still buzzing in the background, reminding her that she probably looks like a fool.
She’s not sure what surprises him more, her use of the “f” word, or the fact that she used it reference to him.
“If that bee hadn’t stung me,” she clarifies. “I woulda-”
“I know what you’re talking about, Scully,” he says, raising a hand to stop her from saying any more.
“Thank god for the bee, I guess. Got you what you really wanted anyway, didn’t it? Another piece of the grand puzzle? A UFO sighting? Got me to stay and be your dutiful little partner?”
“You’re drunk,” Mulder says, with just a little too much understanding in his voice. He comes to her and drops a hand into the small of her back. “Come sit down and I’ll call you a cab.”
“Don’t touch me,” she nearly hisses.
He raises his hands quickly, defensively.
“Why’d you come here, Scully? To tell me that I got cock blocked by a bee?”
“I came here to tell you that I’m leaving,” she says. Only she’s not, she’s sitting down, the leather of his couch creaking underneath her. “You were right; this is personal, all of it. And I don’t want it anymore.”
“Don’t do this, you’re being petty,” he says dismissively.
“Maybe I am,” she says, quietly, almost to herself. She gets up slowly, her head swimming and her limbs pleasantly numb. “But I never lied to you, Mulder. Never once.”
“When did I lie?” he asks, now even more defensive.
“You only want my talent, my skill. You begged me to stay that day, manipulated my emotions. But when it comes right down to it, you don’t trust me. You never did.”
“I’m not gonna have this argument with you right now. You’re drunk and you’re lashing out. You need to go home and sleep it off,” he says as he picks up the phone.
“Don’t bother,” she sighs, surprised to find her eyes wet. She doesn’t know what she expected. Mulder does grand gestures, but not acts of contrition. Besides, he’s not sorry.
She ambles to the door, realizing that this was a terrible mistake.
“You’re not gonna drive like this,” he warns as he maneuvers around her and blocks the door.
“I can get my own cab,” she says, the defeat evident in her voice. She’s fumbled this whole thing. What was it even meant to be? She’s not sure anymore.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmurs.
She looks up just as he is leaning down and she tenses up, readying herself for whatever comes next. His lips brush hers and press gently. She lets him kiss her, lets her eyes drift shut, lets her tongue swipe his lip. It feels so good that it aches, makes her head swim and her eyes water.
She pulls away and looks for penance in his eyes. She’s not even sure who needs to be forgiven at this point.
“You only love me when you’re losing me,” she whispers.
Growing old for Atsumu feels like he flew through time. And here he is, thirty five years down the line, still taking the same walks and eating the same meals at the same time wondering where the time had gone.
Fatty tuna on a small plate, and a bowl of rice in the middle. A cup of lukewarm water to his right, then a melon bread for dessert if he’s feeling it for the night. Most nights, he doesn’t anymore, but because a memory comes once every so often, he finds himself keeping it there for just in case.
For the week, he bought seven; a single piece for Monday through Sunday. Considering that today’s already Saturday and he’s only got two more left in the cupboards, he supposes it’s been a good week.
Admittedly, it has. The years have been kind to him.
At fifty five, he’s not blonde anymore, but he insists that the few specks of grey do him more justice than the bleach ever did. He’s a little temperamental when it comes to getting caught in the rush hour, but he’s still the uncle that chooses to stand in train-rides, rather than sit on the seats reserved for the elderly.
