Date: May 27, 1997

The Dark and The Light

He lay in the darkened room, blue light flickering from the muted TV screen. He watched the shadows on the wall, he watched the patterns on the ceiling, occasionally he even watched the TV screen.

But mostly he listened. He thought he had heard it twice now; that was why the TV was silent. There! Was that it again? A low moan, barely audible through the partially closed door between the rooms.

That was it. He bounced up off the bed and headed purposefully toward the door. But as he drew close, he slowed. And when he reached the wall, he stopped. Again, totally focused on the next room. All was silent now. What to do?

She would kill him if he barged in uninvited for no reason. Hell, she might kill him even if he thought he had a good reason. What to do? He stood, silent, muscles taut, barely breathing, just waiting for any sound, any clue of what was happening in the next room.

Why did she have to be so strong all the time? Why couldn't she let him be there for her? Hell, she'd been his rock more times than he wanted to count. It didn't demean him, or lessen him in her sightwhen he let her help. He could call on her anytime, anywhere, and she would come. She was the only one who would come, the only one who could make things right.

And yet, here he stood, paralyzed, listening to her small cries, her slight moans, her obvious distress, and he couldn't go to her. Damn her! Didn't she know how much it hurt him, to see her hurt? Didn't she know that he needed to help her, to heal himself? That the only way he could begin to assuage the guilt he carried, was to do for her, to offer some small level of comfort when needed?

She understood him so well in so many ways, why couldn't she understand this? It was more than a want, stronger than a desire. It reached beyond need, and became something primitive, something visceral, something that had to happen from the core of his being. In order to continue to live in this horrid, unfair, unreal, oft-times fucked up universe, he HAD to be able to help her, to be with her, to ease her pain and be her comfort. Why couldn't she see this?

He stood stock still, listening. Occasionally, when he felt himself grow light-headed, he remembered to breathe. He turned, hit the remote, and the TV grew black, as well as silent. Darkness consumed the room.

'Scully,' he thought, 'this is me -- this darkness consumes me when you shut me out. I need to be with you to keep the monsters of the dark away.'

He stood by the door, waiting. Another small sound -- a moan? A whimper? A cry? Suddenly it was very important to characterize these sounds. If he couldn't enter the room, then he would know what sounds she made. He would count them -- they would become his own personal flail. One he would use to punish himself for all the sorrow he had brought to her.

He listened -- a sharp cry, followed by a whimper. He dropped to his knees, clutching the door frame. His stomach twisted, his soul ached as he listened to her struggle with her demons in the room next door. Another moan and his heart broke.

Slowly, silently, the tears began their lonely trail down his face. He fell further to all fours, each small sound from the next room physically beating him down, leaving him helpless to end her torment -- or his own.

'Scully . . .' he moaned in his mind, 'Scully, let me help.' He lay prostrate on the floor, the tears spilling into the carpet, his arms empty and his heart in pieces.

And then . . . she stood there before him. He saw her small feet first, so delicate, and slowly lifted his head to gaze up at her. Her hair was wild, dark circles ringed her eyes, and tracks of her own tears were still visible. God, she was beautiful!

She knelt quickly, asking, "Mulder, what's the matter?"

And he turned, struggled to a semi-sitting position. She reached out to him, stroking his hair and wiping the tears from his face. He leaned into her touch hungrily, and told her, "You were crying in your sleep, and I couldn't help you!" It was part accusation, part plea, part despair. "Why are you here?" he asked.

She pulled her hand back, and he immediately felt bereft. Cold rushed in to fill the empty space where her warm hand had rested, soothing him. She dropped her gaze, but remained silent. "What is it?" he questioned again.

Slowly, she lifted her eyes to meet his, she reached out and he met her halfway, taking her hand in his. "I was dreaming ... a nightmare, really, and ... I woke up. I wanted to see you." Spoken hesitantly, shyly, almost reluctantly.

'She wanted to see me!' his heart sang. 'She came to me!'

Out loud he said, "Scully, you know I'm here."

She gazed at him. "I know."

He reached for her this time, and she leaned into his embrace. He pulled her tightly to his chest, thinking he could pull her into his heart, into his soul, if he tried hard enough.

And this time, she relaxed into his arms, molding her small body into his larger one. She let him hold her, she let him be strong, and caring, and comforting. She gave herself to him and let him begin to heal. And as they sat together on the floor, wrapped up in one another, the darkness receded, giving in to the light, as darkness always must.

End