From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Sun, 6 Feb 2000 20:51:01 -0600 Subject: The Hour of the Wolf (Missing scene from Sein Und Zeit) by Kelly Moreland Source: direct Reply To: k_a_moreland@hotmail.com Title : The Hour of the Wolf Author : Kelly Moreland Archive :Anywhere, just let me know. Spoilers : Sein Und Zeit Rating : G Category : Scully POV Summary : The long night after Teena Mulders suicide. Feedback : is what keeps me writing. k_a_moreland@hotmail.com Disclaimer : In the big inning, CC created M & S, and the fans saw that it was good. Then CC proclaimed 'Let them have any fun, and I will sue you!' And the fans saw that this was bad, and did it anyway! ;-) Authors note : --The hour of the wolf is a phrase that means a time of great sadness, or the darkest part of the night. The Hour of the Wolf by Kelly Moreland ********************* Maybe I'll find some peace tonight, in the arms of the angel -- Sarah McLachlan ********************* "She was trying to tell me something!" Mulder gasps. His grief can no longer be contained. His fist comes down against the arm of his chair in slow motion, an ugly parody of his true strength, before he falls limply across the arm. "She was trying to tell me something!" The words are almost incoherent, shaded by anguish, and by loneliness. His arms cover his eyes, as he begins to sob. It rips my heart to see him like this. I touch him, trying to let him know that I'm here. That I'll always be here. I rub his back, his hair, as if my touch could brush away his loss. "Mulder, she was trying to tell you to stop. To stop looking for your sister. She was trying to take away your pain." I try to soothe him, but my own voice cracks. His pain becomes my own. As it always has. He moves forward, into my arms. His strength gone. I feel his tears against my skin, and my own burning at my eyes. I press my lips against the back of his neck, and hold him. "She was trying to take away your pain." I whisper to him, my tears falling with his. I cradle his head to me, and rock him gently. He leans heavily against my shoulder, still sobbing. I support his weight. I'll be his strength. I'll be his touchstone. I owe him so much more than just this, but for now it is all I can offer. Time hangs suspended. There is just he and I, and his grief. It's a tangible presence in the room with us. His cries have slowed to unsteady breaths, and hiccuping sighs. He's struggling for control. I wish he wouldn't. I wish he'd just let it all go. Let it all out. My own tears dried with my resolution to give him my strength. I'm suddenly aware of the pinprick pain in my feet. They've gone to sleep, as I crouched here holding him. I'm not even sure how long we've been crouched here like this. My feet tell me it's been a very long time. I reach and take both of his hands and stand up, pulling, half dragging him over to his couch. He doesn't resist, he doesn't even look curious as to where I'm leading him. He just follows me, his head hanging down, his chin against his chest. I sit down and pull him toward me. He lays down on the couch, curling into a tight fetal ball, his head on my thigh. His hands clasp my leg. One on my knee, the other clutching at the back of my calf. "I'm not going anywhere." I whisper softly to him, stroking his temple with my fingers. His grip tightens, he's going to make sure that I don't. I feel his tears, renewed, soaking through the fabric of my slacks. I can almost hear his thoughts. 'Don't leave, please, not you too.' The voice in my head, real or imagined, starts my own tears again. Images flash up from my memory. I suddenly see every smile that has ever graced his features. The open laughs, the 'I've got a secret' smiles, the 'why do you put up with me' smiles, the shy little boy smiles. The last one undoes me, and my chest hitches as I feel my heartbreaking for him. Little boy lost comes to my mind, and I can't shake the phrase from my head. He feels the shutter as my breath catches in my chest, and rolls his head back to look up at me. His hand reaches up, his thumb brushing the tears from my cheeks. I reach down and brush the moisture from his own face. We both seem to stop in mid action, and our eyes hold one another. We speak without words. We speak in the language of trust, of love, of faith. Time spins out again, suspended, as we sit here trying to wipe away each other's tears. Trying to heal each other's pain. His hand cups the side of my face, as his look of momentary calm is shattered by some random thought. His mouth twitches, and one single word slips from him, a half strangled gasp. "Scully." It's not a question, or a statement. It's not even a plea. It sounds like a realization. His body starts to shake, as he cries soundlessly on my lap. I don't try to calm him with words; I know that I can't. I remember how useless and infuriating the words can be. I heard them with Daddy, and Melissa. Cliched phrases. I hate them with a passion. Instead, I touch him everywhere. I trace his brow with my fingers, follow his jaw line. I place my hand over his heart, willing it to find peace. I take his hand in mine, and just hold it. The room has darkened, the single lamp on his disarrayed desk, casting the only light. He's still and silent on my lap now. I continue to caress his face, letting my touch reassure him. I notice for the first time the heat that radiates from his skin. I start to move out from under him, but his grip tightens again --painfully this time-- on my leg. "I'm just going to the bathroom." I whisper quietly to him. He releases me reluctantly. I get a washcloth from his linen closet, and soak it in cold water. When I return he is sitting up right on the couch, his shoulders slumped in a way I don't like. He looks beaten. I kneel in front of him and hold the cool, wet, cloth to his face. His eyes never leave mine, as I bathe first one side and then the other. I lay it on the coffee table, and take my seat again. I don't ask, I simply take his shoulders, and pull him back to the same position. He follows my lead willingly. I snag the blanket from the back of the couch, and toss it out, mostly covering him. He sighs, and it's the saddest sound I've ever heard. I take his hand in mine, and raise it to my lips, kissing the back of it lightly. It isn't exactly a romantic gesture but it is a gesture of love. He squeezes my fingers in return. In understanding. I take the cool washcloth, and fold it over his forehead. He makes no argument, he just lies there, enveloped in his pain. Eventually he sleeps, tossing and kicking his legs restlessly. When he does, I smooth back his hair, and whisper his name. I know he has more nights like this ahead of him. Grief is never a one night stand. And I know I'll be right here through them all. Fini~