From xangst@frii.com Fri Nov 08 06:49:36 1996
Standard Disclaimer: CC owns it all.  I make no profit
from this--that's never been my goal.  What
these characters have given me, money can't buy.

SPOILERS: In The Field Where I Died
CLASSIFICATION: V
RATING: G
SUMMARY:  Scully's reflections related to the
case in Apison, Tennessee.

Dedicated to the dear soul sisters who grace my life.
I thank Creation for your presence and support.  AND
to the many who were deeply touched  by ITFWID.

**********************************************************************
Tonight I Watch You Dream (1/1)
by LuvMulder@aol.com

Delta Airlines
Flight 254
35,000 feet
 

Mulder,

You sleep fitfully beside me as I write, your brow furrowed in the solitary
pain I have witnessed so many times since I first walked through your office
door.  On this night, at this moment, high above the earth, I feel you dream;
yet, for  the first time since I've known you, I doubt it is Sam you see.
 Unconscious oblivion, the softness of night and shadow are but words, failed
promises that bring you no peace as we head back to our lives, far removed
from the grassy fields of Apison, Tennessee.

I'm glad to be going home.  We deserve a week of bad coffee and
boredom--alone--in the clutter of our basement sanctuary.

I need.  I sense....questions.

My friend--are we forever changed?

I am so afraid.

My fear acts as an impediment, mocking my cowardice as I attempt--only to
turn and flee--coming to terms with what I have seen these last few days.

My God, Mulder...where do I begin?

Did I ever admit this journal sat unopened months after you first laid it on
my desk?  I smiled at your gift, realizing you knew me not half as well as
you liked to think, and tucked it away as a crutch I was sure I would never
need.  Now, I gratefully put pen to paper and acknowledge these blank pages
as the most cherished of friends,  for where else can I turn when we have
both been so mercilessly tossed by Fate?

When the pain is so red and raw we cannot help one another.

When we are tired.

Spent.

The severity of our mutual injury overwhelms me.  I'm a doctor at a loss to
help either of us heal.

This case, arriving while memories of Gerald Schnauz still burn feverishly in
my mind, brought more visions I am neither able to accept nor push aside.
 The bodies...so many....so young--their talents and promise horribly,
senselessly lost.  And you, crouched protectively above Melissa,  your grief
made me ache with its intensity.  You barely noticed I was at your side,
 mourning that yet more agony had slammed into your life.

How much can one man stand?

I never told you that your strength is one of the things I most admire about
who you are, and yet there is a fragility that makes me wonder at what point
your balance may be inexorably lost.

Were you aware when I took your hand and lead you from the carnage in that
room?  I turned away for just an instant, and you were gone.  But I knew
where you'd be.

I gave you that solitary time, in your field of memory, as one of the few
gifts I had to offer.

The other I shared with Melissa when I covered her body with my jacket.  I
never left her alone.  I remained at her side until the coroner's van drove
off into the night.  Only then did I come for you, drawn into the darkness by
our mutual grief.

I have no sense of how long I stood by, reverently, waiting for you to return
from your past.  We shared  the sound of night insects and the rising of the
moon.  We felt the same gentle Southern breeze,  though it caressed my  face
in one century, and yours, no doubt,  in another.  When you looked over at
me, finally aware, I knew you had only one wish.  A singular prayer--that I
could feel what you felt.  That I could know and understand.  It was a wish I
could not grant.

How alone you must have felt.

You cried out just now, then softly mumbled "Sarah" as you shifted
uncomfortably in your seat.  I'm saddened to note how, even at rest,
exhaustion ravages your handsome features.  I wipe a tear aside before
turning to assure the stewardess there is nothing she should do.  I reach to
lay my hand on your shoulder only to have you move toward my touch, though
still asleep, as if you instinctually know how much I care.

Have I done this before?  Reached out to touch you with protective
reassurance--as your father?  Your sergeant?

The stewardess walks by again.   She stares at me strangely, glancing down at
my left hand; I can tell she wonders what we are to one another.  That's a
question I was once so sure I could answer.  With conviction.   No more.
 It's not one I'm sure you could answer either, though for very different
reasons.

I failed you during this case.

Perhaps I succeeded as an agent, self righteously following SOP, but
reflection is a heady thing and in this light I know I failed our friendship.

Days ago you saved my life with brilliant leaps of logic that are so uniquely
yours.  I'm ashamed that when you needed my heart and bravely offered up your
soul in complete nakedness and trust, I could only volunteer objectivity in
return.   Watching your eyes fade into bitter disappointment at my lack of
courage will stay with me the rest of my days.

I can't believe.

I refuse.

I'm afraid.

Mulder, can you understand? You ask me to see possibilities that defy
everything I am.  Everything!  My training, my faith--you test me at every
turn.  The more you push, the more inexplicable things I see, the harder I
can feel myself dig figurative heels into the dirt in an effort to preserve
my identity.  Yet, isn't it a kind of progress to realize and acknowledge
fear as my Waterloo rather than retreating solely to the paradigms of
science?

I can almost hear the arguments as you try to convince me that I'm being too
hard on myself.  Ever protective, dear friend, whether your eyes dance in
anger or in pain.  Don't be so sure I searched for evidence in historical
records *more* to support you, than to blast theories that make me so
uncomfortable I cannot begin to articulate all the reasons why.

I, too, am weary.  Maintaining ordered thoughts tonight, even with a journal
as guide, is a challenge that is beyond me.  Scene after scene replays
savagely in my mind.  I hear harsh words I'd like to change, see insensitive
actions I would not have thought myself capable of...all which joined to
burden your already heavy heart.  Do you know what bothers me the most?  Not
your ideas or your theories, your poor choice of motels--

The fact that I questioned your courage.

Mulder, erase those words forevermore and hear me now.  You are, without a
doubt, the bravest individual, in the face of personal tragedy, I have ever
been privileged to know.  You meet each test Life thrusts upon you with faith
and heart.  How many so challenged would not choose a bitter mantle against
the world?  You retreat when assaulted--as do we all--but you emerge anew,
open to whatever experiences come your way.  A beginner's mind with the soul
of a sage.  It is in these pages, with their unconditional acceptance, I feel
safe to admit it wasn't your courage I questioned, but my own.

We land in a few minutes.  Thank God.  I'm grateful to have an excuse to
stop.  I know I will visit this journal in the weeks and months
ahead--sorting, rethinking who I am and who I will become.  As confused as I
feel at this instant, there remain truths I have no need to question.

You begin to stir.  Your eyes, bloodshot and heavy with sleep, return my
gaze.  I don't know what to say.  Where do we go from here?  Where do we
start?

As if in response, you reach for my hand, give it a gentle squeeze and smile.

I have my answer.

We start here, now.  Together.  The friends we have always been.
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Finis