Date: Thu, 21 May 1998

Title: The Dark and The Light
Author: Daydreamer
Author E-Mail:
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are owned by Chris Carter,
1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are
wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny and Gillian
Anderson. I am only borrowing them for a little
exploration into the dark side and will return them come
light. I will make no profit from this, and neither will
Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have nothing material
they can profit from.
Rating: PG-13 for language - no violence - no sex
Category: short VA - MSR/UST
Summary: Scully's nightmares cause Mulder distress as
he struggles to find a way to reach out to her.

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 though 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 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
for now. What to do? She would kill him if he barged
in uninvited with no good 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 sight
when he accepted 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 whimpers of
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 evisceral,
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 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 her. All the demons that haunted her nights.
All the darkness that leached away the light that was her.

He listened = a sharp cry - "NO!" - followed by a whimper.
He dropped to his knees, unable to stand, clutching the
door frame. His stomach twisted, his soul ached as he
listened to her struggle, alone, in the room next door.
Another moan and his heart broke, scattered into a million
timy pieces, flung into the long cold winter of his soul.
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. "Scully, let me help." Finally, he lay
prostrate on the floor, the tears spilling into the carpet,
his arms empty, his heart in pieces, his soul shattered.

And then . . . like a beacon, she stood before him. He saw
her small feet first, a delicate ankle, 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. She
trembled in the cool night air. 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. "Why did you come?"

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 wnated to see you." "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," she said at
last. 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 very soul, if
he tried hard enough, held on long 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 on
the floor, wrapped up in one another, the darkness receded,
giving in to the light, as darkness always must.