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?