Date sent: Fri, 25 Jul 1997 17:00:59 -0400 (EDT) From: LillieD@aol.com Subject: Cloths of Darkness, Cloths of Light Title:Cloths of Darkness, Cloths of Light Author: Doc Alien (LillieD@aol.com) Rating:PG Classification:V, with hints of MSR Spoilers: Gethsemane Summary: Scully goes to check on Mulder's empty apartment. Yes, it is still empty, but she finds some small surprises, about Mulder and herself. Standard disclaimer thingy: I don't own them. If I did, I would certainly be doing more than this meager piece with them! CC&co, the Fox Network, and other big and powerful folks are the ones in charge. The poem belongs to W.B. Yeats. I don't know who he belongs to now, so I won't bother with that. I just borrow (no money made here!) and have fun. I hope you do too! Send all comments to me, Doc Alien, at LillieD@aol.com. Even if you think that I must be flooded with mail, because this is such a wonderful story (ha ha!), send some anyway. Believe me, I'm not flooded. Warning! This is a cross between all of those Scully-journal stories posted after "Memento Mori", and all of the Note-From-Mulder stories that appeared after "Gethsemane". Yeah, they do get boring after a while, but I have tried to do something a little different here, so do me a huge favor, and take five minutes to read it. Once again, that name is Doc Alien, and the address is LillieD@aol.com. PLEASE give me feedback! I know I need it. Quickly, thanks to Ann-Marie, for being a good friend, a great editor, and for telling me it sucked when it did. ;-) Cloths of Darkness, Cloths of Light Apartment 42 was dark and stuffy when she stepped in, ducking under the garish, yellow crime scene tape. The air pressed against her like dark velvet, heavy and hard to breathe. Scully tapped the light switch by the door, blinked her eyes in the suddenly bright room, and flicked it back off again. It was better in the dark. It was safer. She couldn't see the unpleasant details of the empty room. She could only sense the complete silence around her. Shutting the door behind her, Scully stepped forwards into the darkened room. Streaks of bluish light came through the venetian blinds by the window. When she parted two slats with her fingers and looked out, Scully could see a streetlight casting an eerie blue glow on the sidewalk below. Stars high above glimmered faintly, and even the brightest of them was transformed into a mere ghost of itself by the DC light pollution. Scully gave the cord of the shades a yank, and opened the window behind them, letting in a blast of cool summer night air, and the sounds of a sleepy city. Scully could smell the approach of rain, the dampening of dusty streets, and the greening of city grass, in the gentle breeze. As the new air began to clean away the opresiveness of the apartment, Scully wandered over to the fish tank. Surprisingly, its occupants were alive and doing reasonably well, after she gave them a meal of Tetra Flake anyway. The fluorescent light glowed and buzzed faintly and Scully smiled as she watched the fish swim busily around the little hot pink plastic castle that dominated their small, walled-in world. It was ironic, she thought, how these fish seemed to be doing better now that their primary caretaker was gone. The fish performed their hypnotically relaxing dance for Scully, but she was already tired, and soon moved away to sit on the leather couch. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and now she could see things despite herself. She could see the empty apartment with its bits and pieces frozen where Mulder had left them. He would never touch them again. He would never readjust the papers strewn on the coffee table, he would never pace around the room, fighting insomnia, and he would never call her late at night just to talk about some new crazy theory. It had been hard enough to see him lying on the floor at the foot of the couch, but then she had been forced to report to the committee that same day, and too soon afterwards, Mulder's body had been buried. She had never gotten to say good-bye. It somehow didn't seem right though. What she had seen put into the ground didn't feel like the Mulder she knew. She had known someone full of life, with his own thoughts and feelings, no matter how strange they seemed to her. The thing in the ground was not Mulder. It was too dead to be him. It wasn't her friend, it was something else. Oh, stop it, she thought. You are just trying to escape the truth. Scully had told Skinner that she wanted to look through Mulder's apartment, just to make sure that he didn't have any files or important notes tucked away somewhere. That was true, in theory, but Scully realized that subconsciously she was trying to find some sort of proof that this was all just a bad dream or a hoax that could end if she just pinched herself hard enough. She was trying to find something of Mulder's that could keep him alive for her. Tomorrow his mother would come and get what was left over ready for auction. Then Mulder really would be gone. There would be nothing of his left. Scully tried to think about what she would do now that she was alone, but her brain wouldn't function right. She kept getting distracted by the smell and feel of the apartment. It seemed like Mulder. Images flooded her brain. Mulder behind his desk, looking through the big grey file cabinets, Mulder thinking, Mulder smiling, Mulder laughing. She shuddered, and her body ached. In her mind's eye, Scully could see herself screaming, crying, tearing her hair with grief. But the tears refused to fall. She had barely cried at all. It was like she was just empty. Nothing was there without him. It hurt so much that he was gone, she finally admitted to herself, but she felt numbed by it. She was so tired. Too tired. Just for a minute, Scully said to herself, as she swung her legs up onto the old couch, and lay down. I'll just rest for a minute, and then I can clean up some of this, she thought. The couch seemed to cradle her, like a smooth, cool cocoon, surrounding and protecting. There was a depression in the cushions from years of Mulder's nights alone. He must have lain here while his mind followed those of some of the cruelest serial killers ever, Scully thought. How many people did he profile while lying awake, after some nightmare? Did he ever think about me? Scully fought back the idea. She and Mulder had been partners, and the closest of friends, but though they understood each others actions, they never really sought to share each others thoughts. She had simply accepted him, and he had just adapted to her. There was never anything more, and no matter how she hoped for it, now there never would be. Scully sighed and rolled over, facing the back of the couch in a fetal curl. She wrapped her arms around herself, and felt her own breath warm the leather around her. Alone, alone, alone, in this empty apartment. Only the fish and the purplish mercury vapor street lamp to keep her company. Scully felt her forehead wrinkle, and she wanted to cry so much, just to do something to forget emptiness, but tears can't come from emptiness. It was like someone had thrown a door open inside of her and walked out, never to return. She sighed again, and slowly sat up. Her head spun as her heart strained to adjust to the gravity pulling the blood to her feet. Even more slowly, Scully stood. Immediately she sat back as the room spun around her. Then she realized that she could feel something underneath. There was something hidden under the seat of the couch. Crouching, she slid off of the leather, and pulled up the cushion. There was a small book there. Scully picked it up, and looked at it questioningly. Returning to her seat on the couch, she opened the book and read by the light of the fish tank and the street lamp. It was a journal, from Mulder, addressed to her. The handwriting was scrawling and sloppy, obviously written hastily. "Scully, only now am I beginning to realize what I have done to you. You wrote to me in the hospital, when you were alone, and confused, and frightened, and now that the tables have turned, I will do the same." The words didn't flow in the well-written vein of Mulder's typewritten reports, and Scully could almost physically feel the frantic, chaotic thought pattern that was the source of the words. "I can't think straight and I can barely write, but I need to talk to someone, anyone, even if merely on paper. You know that I trust you, Scully. You have always followed me in my search for the truth, guiding and supporting me, but I have never really appreciated you, or understood what I put you through until now. I could feel your presence but I couldn't name what I felt. Even when it seemed like I didn't care, I always could feel you there for me. You must believe that I valued it, although I have never shown it before. But you are being taken away from me, and only now do I see how much I need you, and how much you mean to me. I love you, Scully, in a way that I don't quite understand, but it's there." Scully's breath caught in her throat, but she read on. "In loving you though, I have betrayed you. You are my weakness, and through hurting you, They have crushed me. But you are my strength too. The thought of you and a chance for your cure stays present in my mind. The liars are trying to sacrifice you in an attempt to make me believe their lies. Oh, Scully, what have I done? In my one minded rush for what I thought was true, I have left you behind as a casualty, only to discover that you are my lifeline, and you may all too soon be cut. I can't let that happen, Scully. I can't let them beat me by using you, and I can't, and won't, let them beat you. Ever. I won't let you go. I'm unable write more. I need to get out, get some air. Stay with me Scully. I'll always be with you." The entry ended there. Scully sat in silence. The journal was strange. It didn't make sense. Why would Mulder have written this, telling her that he would never leave her, and then killed himself? She had perceived his desperation at the beginning of the entry, but the feeling had slowly faded. Even the script became neater and more calm. It just didn't seem like the final words of a man about to kill himself. Still puzzled, she turned the page, and discovered something else. "This is for you Scully- Had I the heavens embroidered cloths, Enrought with golden and silver light, And the blue and the dim and the dark cloths, Of night and light and half light, I would spread the cloths beneath your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly, because you tread upon my dreams." Below the poem was a sketch of a sunrise which flowed into a river of fabric that was draped over the page. Scully hadn't realized that she was crying until a drop of salt water fell onto the page in front of her, blurring the edge of 'dreams', and running down through the sunset. She slapped the little book shut, wiping her eyes with the back of a hand. He loved me, she reflected, forlornly. He loved me, and I loved him. But we didn't understand each other until it was too late. No, she thought. There is something wrong here. I don't know what happened, but I don't think that he is really gone. He can't really be gone. Slowly she pulled together the pieces that had been shattered inside by the few words. I'll find out what happened, she decided. I'll find the truth, because that's where I will find Mulder. And Scully put down the book, and left the apartment, locking the door. Behind her, the fish swam in their own world, and the streetlight flickered, alone. Scully knew that she was not, and never would be, alone again. Finis! Ok, honestly, what did you think? Ok, it is sort of fluffy. It won't float away into the stratosphere or anything, but it is fluffy. Ok, not *fluffy*, so to speak, but well, I'll let you tell me. Comments NOW, please. LillieD@aol.com.