Nights with the Lights On
Mulder dreams of shadows and figures, places he has been and places forgotten. Scully and Samantha are the same sometimes—lost in the sunlight that is everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. He tries to shout, to scream, and he can't; not only is his voice gone, but he can't decide whose name to use. He decides on Scully, because it seems to him that it's Samantha's fault that he is where he is right now. And then he wakes with a start, because the lights are bright, and the haze has made him think horrible things.
He moves slowly, as if he has no control. Maybe he doesn't. After a few days, Mulder begins to wonder if he's being drugged. He tries to stop eating, to stop drinking, to watch Angela prepare his food. Somehow, he never catches her, but he can no longer find the strength to go outside, or go towards life or anything past the dream state. Sometimes, waking, Mulder shouts obscenities at her, but she is always there, and always laughs at him. They watch soaps together, and she tells stories and he laughs. He doesn't want to, but they're so silly, so silly, and the part that used to tell him to run has fallen asleep.
The part of him who used to tell him to run, fast and far away, sleeps when the lights are on. The darkness is what brings the terror, the unnamed fear of the unknown, death, and slavery. Darkness has never been so needed or wanted by Mulder than now.
Two weeks after Skinner told Dana Scully Fox Mulder was dead, Mulder realizes Angela's right. It is always dark when the aliens come, when they are chased or are chasing the truth. The truth is always found or fleetingly seen with flashlights, clever illumination, danger or darkness. They are never there in the plain daylight, the afternoon warmth or heat. They find their prey by the small pinpricks of flashlight light, he guesses. They must know Angela is here, but there is no darkness in her house to dwell in. She has lights everywhere. Every room, every corner is brightly lit. There is no darkness. Not in a closet, not in sleep. Mulder dreams all the time, and there is never darkness. There is simply sunlight; Scully or Samantha growing paler in it as they try to find him while Mulder seeks them in turn.
After two and a half weeks, Mulder feels sorry for Angela. He realizes he is sympathizing with his captor, realizes this is a psychological condition, but doesn't care. Angela has spent too much time in these lights, and there is no longer darkness in her mind. Just mysteries that have had light shed on them. Mysteries with no answers, and she's been unfortunate enough to see this. Mysteries and unknowns and there is no hope or idea, just what she knows. It's driven her insane, and the idea that humanity needs the darkness as much as terror is slowly doing the same to him.
The unknowns are slowly losing coherence, clarity losing its shape to frayed edges and blurred vision. Mulder doesn't know what he needs to know anymore, it has simply blended into a cloud of anxiety and fear, and he holds on desperately to that fear. He doesn't want to forget—forget Scully or Samantha, Skinner or the X-Files, abduction or what they're running from. He remembers Scully in the freezer, the first alarm, her red hair glinting in the darkness, and the fear he felt there keeps him alive now. He doesn't want to forget in the haze of drugs why he needs to leave. He doesn't remember much. Angela's trying hard, but he's trying as hard as he can.
After a nearly a month in captivity—he guesses, because he doesn't know—Mulder dreams of darkness. It is simply darkness. No one is there but him and blackness—blackness so dark that he cannot see his hands in front of him. For the first time in two weeks, Mulder feels relief, and laughs loudly. Laughing at the darkness, because it is cool, dark and better than anything, Mulder feels better than he has in decades.
Then he hears the shrill, anguished scream, Angela's scream, and realizes he isn't dreaming.
Thank you firelight, for being my one reviewer. I'm glad you're enjoying it :)
