The Canvas Bag

By Brandon D. Ray
publius@avalon.net


DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT:  Anywhere is fine, so long as my name stays on
it and no money changes hands.

FEEDBACK:  Go ahead; knock yourself out.

Ephemeral: *FEEDBACK*publius@avalon.net

SPOILER STATEMENT:  Small ones for Folie a Deux, FTF and Amor Fati.

RATING:  PG

CONTENT STATEMENT:  ScullyAngst.  Very mild sexual suggestions.  MSR,
if you look at the show the same way I do. ;)

CLASSIFICATION:  VRA

SUMMARY:   Surely she cannot pack everything she needs, everything
that matters, into a plain, canvas bag.

THANKS:  To Brynna & Sharon, for the quick readthrough.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  This is inspired by Morgan's fine novel, "The Last
Gift", as well as her equally fine vignette, "Path of the Night".  If
you've read either of them, you'll quickly realize why.  There is,
however, no direct connection between my story and hers, and my story
does not contain any spoilers for hers.  They just got me to
thinking.  :)  And if by some chance you *haven't* read either of
them, get thee to my recs page and do so.  The url is at the bottom of
this message.

DISCLAIMER:  In my dreams...


The Canvas Bag

by Brandon D. Ray


She digs deep into her closet until she finds the canvas bag -- the
old, battered canvas bag given to her so many years ago by her
father.  The bag he carried when he first went away to sea, the better
part of half a century ago.  The bag he had in turn received from his
father, who in turn received it from his father.

The bag should have gone to her brother, she thinks, as she sets it
carefully on her bed and opens it.  The bedclothes are undisturbed,
despite the late hour, and they will remain undisturbed for several
days, at least.  As long as it takes for someone to realize she is
missing, and become concerned enough to check on her.  Her mother or
her supervisor, she decides.  It will most likely be one of them.

Her thoughts return to the canvas bag.  It really should have gone to
her brother.  It is a father-to-son sort of heirloom, a thing of no
intrinsic value, but of deep emotional significance to the stoic men
who guard the frontier, grow old, and eventually pass the
responsibility on to their sons.  It is masculine and powerful, and it
should have gone to her brother.  But for some reason, it was given to
her.  It's almost as if her father knew, even then, that she would be
the new guardian.  It's almost as if he knew ....

She sighs and shakes her head, thrusting the thoughts away.  She
doesn't have time for such things; not tonight, at any rate.
Eventually the day will come when she can spare a moment for these
reflections.  Eventually the day will come when she can grieve for the
things she is giving up.  But not tonight.

Not tonight.

She turns to her bureau and pulls open the top drawer, and
methodically begins to transfer its contents to the canvas bag.
Underwear she will need, and socks, as well.  No matter where she goes
or who she becomes, she will have use for these things, and so she
loads them into the bag.

She pauses for a moment as she reaches the bottom of the drawer, and
her fingers encounter not the plain cotton of her sensible
underclothes, but the slick, exciting feel of satin.  With trembling
fingers she draws out the pair of forest green panties and the
matching bra, given to her by her sister on the long ago day when she
left for college.

//Don't open this until you get to your dorm.//

She can almost hear her sister's voice, echoing inside her head, still
fresh and familiar, even after all these years.  The older girl's
voice had been casual, but from the mischief dancing in her eyes, she
had known that the nondescript box wrapped in plain brown paper
contained something calculated to embarrass her.  And so she had made
sure she was alone when she opened it ....

Again she sighs and shakes her head, dropping the brightly colored
garments back into the drawer.  She doesn't have time for this; she
really, really doesn't have time.  It's already nearly eight p.m., and
the man who called her this afternoon -- the sweet, funny, tragic
little man who has loved her so desperately for so many years -- that
man informed her in grave and unhappy tones that nine o'clock was the
deadline.

//He's leaving,// her informant had said, his voice choked with
sadness.  //He's leaving tonight.  I should have told you sooner, but
he made us promise not to tell.  But I can't do it; I just can't do
it.  Not to you.  He's leaving, and you deserve to know before it's
too late.//

She thanked him, of course, before she hung up the phone in shock.  It
never occurred to her to question the truth of what she'd been told.
She has always known that this could happen; as long ago as their
first year together, she had realized that her partner was fighting a
constant war with his inner darkness, and that someday it might
overwhelm him.  But that doesn't make it hurt any less, now that the
day has finally come.

She has wasted no time on recriminations, though -- not to herself,
and certainly not to her partner.  The call came shortly before five,
leaving her only a few hours to make her own preparations.  And so she
grabbed her briefcase and stuffed it full of files, chosen almost at
random, and left their office for the last time, barely making it to
the bank in time to clean out her savings account before it closed.

She realizes that she is standing over the canvas bag once again, and
that now it is more than three quarters full.  While she was thinking,
her body continued the task she had assigned it, folding and packing
shirts, blouses, blue jeans and slacks.  She will leave her business
suits; she is unlikely to need them, at least at first.

She will also leave several pairs of ridiculous three inch pumps --
the ones she wears to work, despite their impracticality.  This
hopeless attempt to be tall -- or at least, not short -- is her single
vanity, and now she has no time for that anymore, either -- nor is
there room in the canvas bag for all those shoes.  In their stead she
packs a pair of running shoes, and a pair of plain, dark-blue flats.
Sensible shoes, she thinks.  Shoes that she can wear in any weather
and almost regardless of the footing.

Still, the bag is not full, and for a moment she stands beside her
bed, staring down into it.  It ought to be full, oughtn't it?  Surely
she cannot pack everything she needs, everything that matters, into
this plain, canvas bag.  The files, of course, are in her briefcase,
which she left in the car when she arrived home a short while ago.
Likewise her laptop is there; she saw no point in hauling it into the
apartment, only to carry it back out again an hour or so later.

There is something wrong in all this; something she is missing.
Everything she has packed so far, everything she is taking with her,
is plain and utilitarian.  There is no joy in this bag, or in her
briefcase.  There is nothing here of *hers*.  Just some clothes, some
money and some records.  Things she will need to have to survive.

But there is nothing for her soul.

Is that how it's going to be?  She ponders the question for a few
fleeting moments.  She knows that she has to go; she made the decision
a long time ago that if he ever had to leave, she would go with him.
She can no more live without this man than she can live without
breathing, and if she has to give up everything else in order to have
him, then so be it.  It is not a decision that others will understand,
and it will hurt those who care about her.  But it is her life, and
her choice is to be with him, no matter what the cost.

She smiles a bittersweet smile at her own choice of words, because she
has never been with him, of course -- not in the way she has wished to
be.  Sometimes it has seemed to her that they were close; on the
brink.  But always, always, something came up to block them from that
goal.  Always, always, the ultimate consummation of their unspoken
love affair remained just beyond their grasp.

Always, always ....

Perhaps now it will be different, she realizes.  Perhaps now, by
removing themselves from the rest of their lives, they will finally be
able to reach out to each other.  They will have to do that, she
thinks.  It will be necessary, if they are to survive.  They will have
no one and nothing left, and they will have to turn to each other.

Even in her current state of mind, she knows that there is an element
of wishful thinking -- even desperation -- in that last thought.  It
is always possible that he will refuse her tonight.  It is possible
that she will have made these preparations for nothing.  He is a
strange, driven man, and if the darkness has finally become so strong
as to force him to flee, it might also have overwhelmed the part of
him that loves her and clings to her in moments of crisis.  The fact
that he has not spoken to her of his intentions is a warning that this
may be true.

He might refuse her.

He might.

For the third time, she shakes her head, and turns once more to the
bureau.  She will not believe that -- not until she hears it with her
own ears; not until she sees him leaving her behind.  He will not do
that; he cannot.  He needs her as much as she needs him; he has said
as much so many times in the past.

//You're my one in five billion.//

//You make me a whole person.//

//Even when the world was falling apart, you were my constant ... my
touchstone.//

She reaches back into the top drawer and once again withdraws the dark
green panties and bra, and weighs them thoughtfully in her hand.  She
knows better than to think she can sway him with such things; the men
who sent her to him all those years ago were fools if they thought he
could be diverted from his purpose by sex.  Nevertheless, these two
scraps of cloth stand as a symbol in her mind; a symbol that she and
her partner may yet transcened the obstacles between them, and become
even closer than they already are.

She's going with him, isn't she?  Surely that will count for
something.

She turns decisively and drops the last two items of clothing into the
bag, and finally snaps it shut.  It is really no fuller than it was a
moment ago, but now it seems complete.

She lifts her father's canvas bag and walks briskly through her
apartment, turning off the lights as she goes.  She pauses in the
living room only long enough to scoop her small collection of family
pictures off the shelf and dump them into a shopping bag.  These, too,
will help her retain her humanity, much as it will hurt her to look at
the faces of those she is leaving behind.  And then she's out the
door, carefully locking it behind her.

It is twenty minutes before nine.

She has cut it dangerously close.

But somehow, she knows that she will be in time.


Fini

--
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man on fire, and you keep him warm for the rest of his life!
==========================
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