From: "the *enigmatic* Dr. Scully" 

Subject: **NEW** Darkness and Light III (1/1) by Leyla Harrison

Date: Wed, 02 Jul 1997 18:36:44 -0700



Darkness and Light III

by Leyla Harrison





Disclaimer: All characters owned by CC and Fox.



Classification: VA (*lots* of angst), MSR hinted at but not referred to



Rating: R for language.



Spoilers: Gethsemane.



Summary: You should read the first two in this series to understand

what's going on here.  Scully's still dealing with her mortality and is

trying to figure out what role Mulder is playing in her life.  



Stories in this series: (this may be redundant, but I feel like I have

to do it anyhow) 

- Darkness and Light

- Darkness and Light II

- Darkness and Light - Round Table Discussion (this is the only fun one

in the bunch) -   did anyone read it, anyhow??



Warning: This one's a killer.  Keep tissues nearby.  I'm *not* kidding.



This one's for MJ.



*****



He's alive.



God, thank you.  Thank you for bringing him back to me. 



I shift position slightly in his arms.  He's here.  Nothing matters. 

Nothing at all.



I open my eyes.  



Oh, God, no.  



Nononono.



I'm alone.  Mulder's arms are not around me.  He is not sitting with me

on my couch.  He is not holding me safe in his arms.  I was imagining it

all.  



Imagining it.  How can this be?  How could I have imagined him calling,

leaving a message on my machine, being here when I got home?  How could

I have imagined all of that?



Pain stabs through my chest and I close my eyes again.  I can't take

this.  I can't have him here, then gone.  I can't handle it.







Tears prickle from behind my eyelids.  Not this, Daddy.  I can't handle

this.



I open my eyes and get up, shakily.  I'm still fresh from the treatment

and I know I'm going to be sick later.  I want something to drink,

though, to quench my thirst.  My throat is dry as if I've been in the

desert for days.



Tea.  Something light.  Something that won't upset my stomach. 



On second thought, fuck that.



Fuck me being careful and conservative and cautious.  I'm sick of it.



I pour myself a healthy glass of Scotch and take a large swallow.  It

burns going down.  The bottle's been sitting here for over a year - and

it's still unopened.  I haven't had a drink in ages.  The alcohol hits

my system quickly, and my face flushes.  I feel warm.  I go to pour more

and I instead put the glass in the sink and carry the bottle with me to

the bedroom.



So it was a hallucination, I think, setting the bottle down on the

bedside table and getting undressed.  I pull on a t-shirt and sweats,

something comfortable.  



I imagined him there because I wanted to.  Because I can't deal with the

possibility that he's really--



Stop it.  Stop it right there.  Don't even think that.  Don't say the

word.



But I know it.  I know, without a doubt, that Mulder is dead.  He's

dead.  And I was imagining him there in my living room, just as I was

imagining him on the answering machine.



I take a swallow from the bottle.  The sting is not as bad this time.



God.  I must be so far gone.  Far enough gone to have imagined seeing

him.  It was one thing to see him while I was getting the chemo - at

least I know that was just a drug-induced hallucination.  But this -

this is far more humiliating, even though I am the only one to know

about it.



I get into bed and leave the light on.



Since this has gotten worse, since I've had those two "appearances" from

Mulder during my chemo treatments, I've left the lights on at night.



Just in case.



I shake my head.  I'm going crazy.  The cancer must have pressed into my

brain, I think absently, even thought I know from the last MRI that this

is not true.  I must be insane.



I take another few swallows from the bottle, wincing at the taste. 

Wincing at the slight nausea that is already beginning to form in the

pit of my stomach.  My body can't handle this kind of an assault. I know

that.  I'm going to be sick later.  I know that.



And I don't care.



I close my eyes.  All I want to do is sleep.  I want to forget all of

this.



Minutes later I drift into a deep sleep, helped along by the alcohol.



****



"Scully.  Wake up, Scully."



Mulder is shaking me.



No, he's not.  I'm dreaming.



Dreaming, I remind myself as I open my eyes.



I pull myself up from the laying position I am in.  Mulder is standing

at my bedside.



"OK, Mulder.  Enough, already.  Stop this.  I know I'm dreaming.  Or

hallucinating.  Or both.  I don't care which it is.  Just stop this. 

Stop, do you hear me?"  My voice is loud and angry. 



"You shouldn't have had so much to drink," he says softly, sadly. 

"You're going to be sick later."



"I don't care."  Stubborn.  Petulant.  



"Scully, you should care.  You--"



"You're dead, Mulder.  And soon I will be too.  So leave me alone."



His face clouds with concern, his eyes growing dark with pain.



"Don't look at me like that.  You were the one who told me that I was

going to die.  So don't look at me like that.  Don't."



"Scully, I want to help you."



I laugh out loud, a bitter, dry, laugh.  "Help me?" I ask

incredulously.  "Help me how, Mulder?  Help me with the nosebleeds? 

Help me when my hair is falling out from the chemo?  Help me when I

throw up from the side effects?  How the hell do you think you're going

to help me?"



His eyes are sad and he sits down on the bed next to me.  "I want to

help you face what you need to face."



Realization hits me like a punch in the stomach.  



He *is* dead.  



And he wasn't lying when he said he would see me soon.  That we would be

together soon.



Oh, God.



No.  I'm not ready.  Not ready for this.  Not ready to die.



He sees the understanding was over my face and touches my cheek

tenderly.  "It's OK, Scully."



I push his hand aside.  "Don't touch me."



"Scully--"



"I said, don't fucking touch me.  You're a ghost.  Is that what you're

saying?"



He bows his head.  







He looks up.



He can still hear my thoughts.



Well, of course he can.  He's a ghost, for Christ's sakes.



"You lied to me," I spit out.



"What?" he asks.



"You said you were coming back to me.  You said that you had to let

everyone believe that you were dead-" the word comes out harshly on my

lips - "for you to pull it off.  You lied, Mulder."



"I didn't," he asserts.  "I did come back to you.  I'm here.  I never

told you I was alive, Scully.  You know I never said that."



My mind races over the previous conversations I had with him.  God, he's

right.  He never once said that he was alive.  



I sigh heavily.  "What is it I need to face, Mulder?"



"Scully, I know you don't want to hear this.  But the cancer...it's not

getting any better.  It's spreading.  Quickly.  And you need to face

that.  You need to face the fact that you're going to die."  The last

sentence comes out softly, slowly.  It obviously pains him to say this.



"I don't want to die, Mulder," I say to him, tears sudenly choking my

throat.  I am suddenly scared.  Pain.  It's going to hurt.  And then

what will happen to me?  All that I have learned from being a good

Catholic girl tells me that I need to get to confession.  I'll need last

rites.  God help me.  I walked away from God, and now I'm running back

to him when I realize that I'm really, truly going to die.  Imminently. 







  His thought, even though it is communicated from his mind

to mine, is unbearably tender.  



"I'm going to help you," he murmurs, brushing his lips across my

forehead.  "I promise."



And then he's gone again.



My eyes are heavy.  I want to get up and look for him, but I can't.  I

have to sleep first.



******



Nausea.



It hits me like a sledgehammer.  I'm clammy and shaking, my head

aching.  My stomach is rolling violently as if I'm on a ship that is on

out of control waters.



I open my eyes and head for the bathroom as quickly as I can.  The

nausea is so strong that I almost don't make it.  I vomit several times

into the toilet, gagging and choking.  I hate vomiting.  I'm always

terrified that I am going to choke and stop breathing.



I throw up several times, tears coming from my eyes unbidden.  I'm

gasping and whimpering.  Alone.  I'm alone in the apartment.  Damn, I

should have stayed with my mother.



Mulder's voice comes back to me.  



"You shouldn't have had so much to drink.  You'll be sick later."







Finally I am heaving, and nothing is coming up.  This goes on for

another few minutes, and I finally am able to reach for a washcloth and

wipe my mouth, my eyes, my nose. 



Blood comes back on the washcloth.



Another nosebleed.



No.  Not just that.  I'm throwing up blood as well.  



Oh, God.  God, help me.  Please.



I sit on the bathroom floor, the cold tiles under me.  



My hands are trembling.  My whole body feels as if it is trembling.  My

heart is racing.  My head is still pounding, as if someone is hammering

on it with a blunt object and yet I'm unable to pass out from the

brutality of it.  I'm having trouble catching my breath.



Oh, God.  What's happening to me?



Anxiety, Dana, I tell myself.  Just anxiety.  Hold it together, girl.



I push myself up from the floor and realize that my legs are hardly able

to hold me up.  The weakness is almost paralyzing; I can hardly make it

to the bedroom and to the phone.



I slump over on the bed, pain pushing through my head now, through my

chest, and I am truly frightened.  This isn't just anxiety.  This is

something much more terrible, much more ominous.  I grab the phone and

dial.  



"Mom," I gasp into the phone before she can even say hello.  "Mom,

help."



"Dana?" her voice comes through the line. Her voice is filled with panic

and I know that she hears the agony in my voice.  I breathe heavily

against the mouthpiece, her voice saying my name a huge relief.  







"Mom, help me.  Help."  



The pain in my head is blinding now.  Where the *hell* did all of this

come from so fast?  What's happening?



The phone slips from my hand and I am in darkness.  My world goes

completely black.



******



I can't open my eyes.



I'm blind. 



"No, you're not."



Mulder.



"Mulder, what's going on?" I ask.  "Where are you?"  I reach for him

blindly in the dark, and can't find him. Can't touch him.  "Mulder?"



"It's OK, Scully.  Soon."



******



My eyes open, barely.  The room is dim.  I can hear beeping.  I feel

pain, but it's dull.  In the background.



My mother is sitting beside my bed.  I'm in the hospital.  Her head is

down and her eyes are closed.  Dozing.  I hate to wake her.  



But there are things I have to say.



"Mom," I whisper, and she stirs.



"Dana," she says, her eyes open in a flash.  She moves to my bedside

quickly and takes my hand, touches it gently.  "How are you?  How do you

feel?"



"I'm dying," I tell her.  Her face is frozen.  "I'm dying, aren't I."  A

statement.  Not a question.



Tears fall over her cheeks like rain.  "You've been unconscious for

three days.  It spread - somehow it went right into your brain.  Oh,

Dana."



That explains the pain.







"She'll be all right.  Your mother is strong."



Mulder is across the room.  So close, yet so far.  I look to him. 

"She's hurting, Mulder," I tell him, and he nods his head.  He knows,

and he feels her pain as well.  He loved her.  I know this.



My mother strokes my forehead gently.  She cannot see Mulder; cannot

hear me talk to him.



The pain lances through my head again.  I cry out.  The room explodes

into a bright white light and I cannot see.



******



The next time I open my eyes, I am sitting beside the bed.  I can see

myself laying there.  My mother is standing next to me, holding my

hand.  My brother is there.  A priest, murmuring soft words.  Skinner,

standing back behind them all, his face just as pained, though.



Mulder is standing beside me, one hand on my shoulder supportively.



"God," I breathe, realizing what I am witnessing.



I'm dying.  



Right before my own eyes, I am watching my death.



Mulder's helps me to stand next to him.  "You're in no pain, Scully. 

They made sure of that."



I look up at him.  Tears are wet on his face.  "Why are you crying?" I

ask him, catching some of his tears on my fingertips.  "I'm almost

here.  I'm almost with you."



"I know."



"Then why are you crying?"



"I love you."  He pauses.  "It hurts me to see you like that, Scully,"

he admits, his voice low.



It's the same reason why I can't bring myself to look.



A sudden lightness fills me.  As if a breeze has passed through my

body.  



A sigh escapes my lips.  I feel free and strong, as if I could run the

track at Quantico again for hours.  As if I could run and jump and

scream.  I feel as if I could fly.



I don't have to look back to know what has happened.



"I'm ready to go now," I tell Mulder, and he takes my hand in his and we

walk away.



END



Don't worry - there *is* more to come, if you can believe

that...Darkness and Light IV will be coming out within about a week. 

Comments and feedback, as always, are encouraged.

-- 

Mulder: "What is that look, Scully?" 

Scully: "I would have thought that after four years you'd 

	 know exactly what that look was." 

---------------------------------------------------------

the *enigmatic* Dr. Scully

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