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AUTHOR'S
NOTE: 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.
=========================================================================================
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?
FIN
Disclaimer:
I'm too bored to write one. M & S aren't mine. Nuff said.
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