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Title: Against the fall of night
Author: X-Phylia
Disclaimer: The X-Files are not mine, but the owner is
kind enough to let us play with his toys :)
Category: MA
Rate: PG13
Spoilers: Late Season 7
Summary: Twilight comes for all of us.
Originally written for the MR-contest: Moose on the
loose.
This wasn't beta'ed, so I apologize for mistakes.
Disclaimers as usual, including the title, which was
shamelessly stolen from an Arthur C. Clarke novel, who
in turn stole it from a poem by A.E. Housman.
AGAINST THE FALL OF NIGHT
By X-Phylia
I left the office early yesterday. It had never happened to me before,
but I felt something strange, a dull pain in the chest, as if I
couldn't stand being in that basement another minute.
When I arrived home, my first impulse was to get rid of my work
clothes, put on my jogging outfit and hit the road. I did need to
clear my head, but it didn't take long to realize that the last thing
I needed was running -I was incredibly tired. So I simply walked, no
destination, no rush... the sun was about to sink and it was getting
cold, which didn't exactly help my gloomy mood. I found myself looking
at the sky, so beautiful. I've always been one of those people who
find comfort in the realm of infinite skies, who need to reach out to
feel grounded. Orange-tinged clouds painted against a blue-purple
canvas, an exquisite combination of simple elements -light, air,
water. The walls of the buildings were turning oppressive and my feet
found their way to the Mall, where I could appreciate the sunset with
less visual interference. The chilling wind was permeating through my
less than adequate garment, but I didn't want to go home, I didn't
want this image to fade, just yet. I lay down on the grass to
contemplate DC's busy sky, and felt a strong urge to fly, to leave
-and I don't mean in a plane. The dull pain in my chest intensified
when I realized that my current position was more like that of an
earth-bound worm than of a free, majestic eagle.
It was the story of my life, tantalized by what seemed so palpable but
could never attain; forever condemned to watch, to wait, to yearn. I
closed my eyes and took a deep breath -with any luck passers by would
take me for a jogger catching his breath. But if I curled up and
stayed quiet as I felt like doing, someone would end up calling 911
first and asking questions later. So I got up painfully, wrapping my
arms around my chest in a feeble attempt to conserve some body heat,
and started to walk. The sky no longer looked like an object d'art;
darkness was closing in intensifying my sense of loss and
hopelessness. I wanted to go home, I wanted to hide. What else can a
man do, against the fall of night?
*******************************************************
After three unanswered phone calls and five minutes of fruitless
pounding at Mulder's door, I finally decided to use my key to let
myself in. It was over 7 pm, twilight, and the apartment was filled
with a gloomy light that somehow spoke of loneliness and desolation.
I had to repress the impulse of turning around and leave, only my
concern for Mulder -whom I haven't seen or been able to contact since
he had fled our office the day before -kept me from running away from
that oppressive atmosphere. I wondered if I would ever be able to talk
him into painting the walls in white, that dark yellow color was
awfully depressive.
He wasn't on his couch watching TV, in fact the apartment was eerily
silent. Clothes were strewn carelessly over the floor on the way to
the bathroom: sweatshirt, running shoes, socks... I picked up the
discarded t-shirt and rolled my eyes. In the front, in big green
letters, it read "moose on the loose". What was *that* supposed to
mean? <Gee Mulder... only you could wear something like this.> The
bathroom, as could be expected, was quite a mess, but this time I
simply closed the door and headed to the bedroom. He was there, lying
quietly in the middle of his bed, his hunched form silhouetted by a
thick blanket. And he was crying.
I stopped on my tracks, luckily I was wearing rubber sole boots and
not noisy pumps. Apparently he hadn't heard me, or if he had, he had
chosen not to acknowledged me. All my alarms were in full tilt,
needless to say. What in the world had happened to him now? My fingers
curled into a fist as anger surged through me. Hadn't this man been to
enough already? His hushed sobs reverberated through my soul -grown up
men didn't cry like that unless they were in immense emotional agony.
Before I knew it, tears were rolling down my face too.
For the longest ten or fifteen minutes I stepped outside, reluctant to
intrude. If he hadn't called me, or even bothered to return my calls,
it was because he wanted to be alone, he needed the intimacy. But now
I was there, he had to know I would check on him if he disappeared on
me. How could I just stand there and watch him like that?
"Mulder?" I called him softly, hoping not to startle him as I
approached the bed. He didn't move or react in any way. I spotted
Samantha's journal lying open over the bed. Mulder knew it by heart
already, but he insisted on reading it again and again, as if trying
to convey an occult message. The journal was exceptionally
well-written for a fourteen-year-old, I often wondered if Samantha was
a naturally talented writer or if her ordeal had given her early
insight and sensitivity.
I gingerly sat on the bed with him, this time he recoiled like a
turtle inside his shell, burying his face deeper into the pillow. With
the corner of my eye
I detected a disturbing object on his night table: an open vial with
pills. I grabbed it immediately: Xanax.
Could this be the reason why he seemed so out of it? Or was he trying
to...? Oh, God. It all fell into place with crystal clarity. Mulder
had been through too much, too soon. The journal, the pills, they were
all part of his recent tragedies. He had needed anti-anxiety
medication for a while after the brain surgery and heavy duty
painkillers after he was bitten by snakes, but he went on. Then in a
flash, his family, his hope were yanked away from him, and he still
went on. You can be oh so strong, Mulder, but one day something snaps
and you can't find the strength to get out of your bed.
Even though I wanted to pick him up and hold him dear life, my
instinct told me to let him be, to give him space. Mulder and I had
reached a level in our relationship where we felt comfortable enough
around each other to address almost any topic, *almost* being the
operative word. And yet, he had run away from me yesterday, ignored me
all day today, and apparently was not interested in my company right
now. The need to know what was wrong was overwhelming, but I willed
myself not to pry anything from him, and to let him come to me in his
own terms. After what seemed a long battle with himself, Mulder turned
around and all but threw himself to my arms.
He caught me off-guard, I confess. Honestly, I didn't know what to say
to him. My medical self wanted to examine him, make sure he was okay
and not overdosed with tranquilizers. However, it was my instinct I
listened to, and I let him be.
*******************************************************
When I couldn't resist the temptation any more, I finally took her
unspoken offer of warmth and acceptance. After my time alone, and I
hadn't been able to find the release I needed, so I gave myself to
her, let her touch me. But even though there is something cathartic in
feeling fragile, yet safe in the arms of your loved one, not even
Scully could take away the pain that was consuming me that night. I
could cry and she will hold me, seek her touch and feel her soft hands
caressing me, but all the comfort in the world wouldn't be enough to
change my fate. All the truths I had bled searching for paled in
comparison to this one. I was a dying man, my brain was falling apart
and I couldn't do anything to prevent it -except maybe throw myself
back into the claws of the people who had done this to me in the first
place. Otherwise, I'd wither slowly, in pain, just like my mother
would have had if she hadn't resorted to extreme measures. Her death
was an open wound that was far from healed, and now I had the perfect
excuse to get even. Who would blame me? I thought about my family,
torn apart by a fateful event I spent a lifetime taking the blame for.
My father was murdered, my sister was tortured, my mother committed
suicide... and I, the last one standing, finally found absolution only
a few months before death. Samantha was dead before I started looking
for her, my father died in my arms apologizing to me, and my mother
chose to die alone, depriving me of the chance to say goodbye, to
comfort her. So maybe it wasn't all my fault. Maybe I could let go,
finally be free. But I guess my happiness, just like Scully's
daughter, was never meant to be.
I cried in her arms and she never asked why. I wondered if it was her
feminine intuition whispering her the answer or if she believed I had
just cracked up. Or maybe she didn't really want to know, and simply
did what I would have done for her if the roles were reversed.
Whatever the reasons, I could only be grateful. Even if it didn't do
much for me, this would comfort her once I were no longer there. With
any luck, she'd hang on the memories and find peace in the fact that
she had been there for me, giving me shelter, wiping the tears from my
face. She would know that, unlike my mother, I had chosen to stay by
her side until the end, despite the pain and the desperation that
threatened to overcome me. In the meantime, I would do my best to
offer her at least a little of happiness. I promised myself -and her,
silently- that from now on I'd live day by day, as if I didn't know my
fate.
Because, after all, who does?
=====
"Happy people have no stories" (Therapy?)
Title: Against the fall of night
Author: X-Phylia
Disclaimer: The X-Files are not mine, but the owner is
kind enough to let us play with his toys :)
Category: MA
Rate: PG13
Spoilers: Late Season 7
Summary: Twilight comes for all of us.
Originally written for the MR-contest: Moose on the
loose.
This wasn't beta'ed, so I apologize for mistakes.
Disclaimers as usual, including the title, which was
shamelessly stolen from an Arthur C. Clarke novel, who
in turn stole it from a poem by A.E. Housman.
AGAINST THE FALL OF NIGHT
By X-Phylia
I left the office early yesterday. It had never happened to me before,
but I felt something strange, a dull pain in the chest, as if I
couldn't stand being in that basement another minute.
When I arrived home, my first impulse was to get rid of my work
clothes, put on my jogging outfit and hit the road. I did need to
clear my head, but it didn't take long to realize that the last thing
I needed was running -I was incredibly tired. So I simply walked, no
destination, no rush... the sun was about to sink and it was getting
cold, which didn't exactly help my gloomy mood. I found myself looking
at the sky, so beautiful. I've always been one of those people who
find comfort in the realm of infinite skies, who need to reach out to
feel grounded. Orange-tinged clouds painted against a blue-purple
canvas, an exquisite combination of simple elements -light, air,
water. The walls of the buildings were turning oppressive and my feet
found their way to the Mall, where I could appreciate the sunset with
less visual interference. The chilling wind was permeating through my
less than adequate garment, but I didn't want to go home, I didn't
want this image to fade, just yet. I lay down on the grass to
contemplate DC's busy sky, and felt a strong urge to fly, to leave
-and I don't mean in a plane. The dull pain in my chest intensified
when I realized that my current position was more like that of an
earth-bound worm than of a free, majestic eagle.
It was the story of my life, tantalized by what seemed so palpable but
could never attain; forever condemned to watch, to wait, to yearn. I
closed my eyes and took a deep breath -with any luck passers by would
take me for a jogger catching his breath. But if I curled up and
stayed quiet as I felt like doing, someone would end up calling 911
first and asking questions later. So I got up painfully, wrapping my
arms around my chest in a feeble attempt to conserve some body heat,
and started to walk. The sky no longer looked like an object d'art;
darkness was closing in intensifying my sense of loss and
hopelessness. I wanted to go home, I wanted to hide. What else can a
man do, against the fall of night?
*******************************************************
After three unanswered phone calls and five minutes of fruitless
pounding at Mulder's door, I finally decided to use my key to let
myself in. It was over 7 pm, twilight, and the apartment was filled
with a gloomy light that somehow spoke of loneliness and desolation.
I had to repress the impulse of turning around and leave, only my
concern for Mulder -whom I haven't seen or been able to contact since
he had fled our office the day before -kept me from running away from
that oppressive atmosphere. I wondered if I would ever be able to talk
him into painting the walls in white, that dark yellow color was
awfully depressive.
He wasn't on his couch watching TV, in fact the apartment was eerily
silent. Clothes were strewn carelessly over the floor on the way to
the bathroom: sweatshirt, running shoes, socks... I picked up the
discarded t-shirt and rolled my eyes. In the front, in big green
letters, it read "moose on the loose". What was *that* supposed to
mean? <Gee Mulder... only you could wear something like this.> The
bathroom, as could be expected, was quite a mess, but this time I
simply closed the door and headed to the bedroom. He was there, lying
quietly in the middle of his bed, his hunched form silhouetted by a
thick blanket. And he was crying.
I stopped on my tracks, luckily I was wearing rubber sole boots and
not noisy pumps. Apparently he hadn't heard me, or if he had, he had
chosen not to acknowledged me. All my alarms were in full tilt,
needless to say. What in the world had happened to him now? My fingers
curled into a fist as anger surged through me. Hadn't this man been to
enough already? His hushed sobs reverberated through my soul -grown up
men didn't cry like that unless they were in immense emotional agony.
Before I knew it, tears were rolling down my face too.
For the longest ten or fifteen minutes I stepped outside, reluctant to
intrude. If he hadn't called me, or even bothered to return my calls,
it was because he wanted to be alone, he needed the intimacy. But now
I was there, he had to know I would check on him if he disappeared on
me. How could I just stand there and watch him like that?
"Mulder?" I called him softly, hoping not to startle him as I
approached the bed. He didn't move or react in any way. I spotted
Samantha's journal lying open over the bed. Mulder knew it by heart
already, but he insisted on reading it again and again, as if trying
to convey an occult message. The journal was exceptionally
well-written for a fourteen-year-old, I often wondered if Samantha was
a naturally talented writer or if her ordeal had given her early
insight and sensitivity.
I gingerly sat on the bed with him, this time he recoiled like a
turtle inside his shell, burying his face deeper into the pillow. With
the corner of my eye
I detected a disturbing object on his night table: an open vial with
pills. I grabbed it immediately: Xanax.
Could this be the reason why he seemed so out of it? Or was he trying
to...? Oh, God. It all fell into place with crystal clarity. Mulder
had been through too much, too soon. The journal, the pills, they were
all part of his recent tragedies. He had needed anti-anxiety
medication for a while after the brain surgery and heavy duty
painkillers after he was bitten by snakes, but he went on. Then in a
flash, his family, his hope were yanked away from him, and he still
went on. You can be oh so strong, Mulder, but one day something snaps
and you can't find the strength to get out of your bed.
Even though I wanted to pick him up and hold him dear life, my
instinct told me to let him be, to give him space. Mulder and I had
reached a level in our relationship where we felt comfortable enough
around each other to address almost any topic, *almost* being the
operative word. And yet, he had run away from me yesterday, ignored me
all day today, and apparently was not interested in my company right
now. The need to know what was wrong was overwhelming, but I willed
myself not to pry anything from him, and to let him come to me in his
own terms. After what seemed a long battle with himself, Mulder turned
around and all but threw himself to my arms.
He caught me off-guard, I confess. Honestly, I didn't know what to say
to him. My medical self wanted to examine him, make sure he was okay
and not overdosed with tranquilizers. However, it was my instinct I
listened to, and I let him be.
*******************************************************
When I couldn't resist the temptation any more, I finally took her
unspoken offer of warmth and acceptance. After my time alone, and I
hadn't been able to find the release I needed, so I gave myself to
her, let her touch me. But even though there is something cathartic in
feeling fragile, yet safe in the arms of your loved one, not even
Scully could take away the pain that was consuming me that night. I
could cry and she will hold me, seek her touch and feel her soft hands
caressing me, but all the comfort in the world wouldn't be enough to
change my fate. All the truths I had bled searching for paled in
comparison to this one. I was a dying man, my brain was falling apart
and I couldn't do anything to prevent it -except maybe throw myself
back into the claws of the people who had done this to me in the first
place. Otherwise, I'd wither slowly, in pain, just like my mother
would have had if she hadn't resorted to extreme measures. Her death
was an open wound that was far from healed, and now I had the perfect
excuse to get even. Who would blame me? I thought about my family,
torn apart by a fateful event I spent a lifetime taking the blame for.
My father was murdered, my sister was tortured, my mother committed
suicide... and I, the last one standing, finally found absolution only
a few months before death. Samantha was dead before I started looking
for her, my father died in my arms apologizing to me, and my mother
chose to die alone, depriving me of the chance to say goodbye, to
comfort her. So maybe it wasn't all my fault. Maybe I could let go,
finally be free. But I guess my happiness, just like Scully's
daughter, was never meant to be.
I cried in her arms and she never asked why. I wondered if it was her
feminine intuition whispering her the answer or if she believed I had
just cracked up. Or maybe she didn't really want to know, and simply
did what I would have done for her if the roles were reversed.
Whatever the reasons, I could only be grateful. Even if it didn't do
much for me, this would comfort her once I were no longer there. With
any luck, she'd hang on the memories and find peace in the fact that
she had been there for me, giving me shelter, wiping the tears from my
face. She would know that, unlike my mother, I had chosen to stay by
her side until the end, despite the pain and the desperation that
threatened to overcome me. In the meantime, I would do my best to
offer her at least a little of happiness. I promised myself -and her,
silently- that from now on I'd live day by day, as if I didn't know my
fate.
Because, after all, who does?
=====
"Happy people have no stories" (Therapy?)
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