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.
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?
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.
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?
