Title: The Witching Hour Author: Nat Rating: Um....PG? Spoilers: Anything from season seven is fair game, a couple of other quick mentions but nothing earth shattering Summary: Several nights in the lives of our two agents; can connections be carried through dreams and what really is the thing that keeps us up at night? Keywords: MSR? An introspection piece. Disclaimer: Before you sue me, CC, could you please stop this nonsense of an eighth season w/out DD? Feedback: Of course!!! I'll even send you back little, speedo clad mulders in whipped cream and frosting! Archiving: Gossamers, spookys do it. Anywhere else can archive, but tell me, I will always say yes. :) "and here's to silent certainly mountains; and to a disappearing poet of always, snow and to morning; and to morning's beautiful friend twilight(and a first dream called ocean)" -e.e cummings The Witching Hour It was the witching hour. The period of several hours where time itself seems suspended amid a dusky, pillow of stars. When the moon filters through pulled shades and the air is crisp and cold with only a trace of wind. When lonely and detached souls lie in their beds, eyes open, staring into the dark expanses of their ceilings. There they lie, until they finally fall asleep, just as the first rays of faded pink and yellow light seep through the grasp of night. Mulder knows this time, it is his companion, a familiar feeling that wraps around his chest and squeezes. Scully knows it too. But, for her it is a blanket that slowly descends over her body, enveloping her in thick shadows. She can't sleep here anymore. Not in this bed, or in this apartment. She remembers her old apartment. Her old one filled with ghosts and bloodstains. The small, brown stain of her first nose bleed, the larger, lighter blotch of Missy's blood. The window where Duane Barry broke in. The tub where Tooms attacked her. The couch where her dead father said good-bye. So, many memories can overwhelm you and it got to the point where each article in her house was no longer an object but a symbol. Whenever she turned she was accosted with memories and each chipped glass held a year's worth of sorrows. She remembers buying her new, larger apartment. She worked on it single-handedly and turned it into the home of her dreams. Bright, elegant, expansive, cheery, and totally devoid of emotion. So, she created memories for things. This is the cup that she will break in a moment of passion. This is the couch where she will learn that she's not infertile, it's all been a mistake. This room will be Emily's room. This is the closet that will fill up with expensive, well-fitted suits. This is the bed where Mulder will make love to her. Then Pfaster came back. These are the candles he held in his hands. This is the closet she was locked in. This is the bookshelf that survived the fall. This is the bed where she attacked him . This is the rug where she killed him. Even in the dark she can almost see the blood stain, bruise red, spreading across the braided surface, trickling down. No, she can't stay here, and yet if she moves her old ghost will follow her, continue to haunt her. Because ghosts do not leave unless exorcised. She will not move, but yet again she is disillusioned. Slowly, her thick, shaking lashes droop down until they cover her eyes, pond river green. Out her window the stars glow iridescently, the radiant shine of creatures on the verge of death. - - - - - - - Twenty-four minutes away another weary soul watches the skies, hoping for nothing, expecting nothing, and yet looking upward anyway. His eyes gleam in the darkness, reflecting the orange-yellow light of the stars, turning incisive green to burning, golden tiger. Outside a rare breeze dances through tree's branches. He is filled with the sounds of the night. He thought that tying up the ends with Samantha might improve his sleep, but old habits die hard. So, he remembers too. He remembers Sam. He remembers his idyllic childhood. The island was small and Sam and him played with the same kids. There was Patrick, the joker with a malicious smile and Allison the bossy, athletic director of their group. Samantha was the baby of the group, always coddled, and always last, but always the favorite. They played so many games; baseball, soccer, touch football, freeze tag, kickball, Whoopee, tennis. They made tree houses and pretended they were pirates. But, the water, the ocean, that was their real home. They fished and went boating, their short legs glinting in the sun. They would play sharks and minnows, screaming merrily each time they were tagged. Samantha usually did well in the games since she was never tagged or thrown out by anyone, except for her brother. Well, in all but one game: Dead man's float. Competitions were also a favored form of fun for the tan vacationers. They would see who could swim the longest underwater, who had the best cannonball, who could do the dead man's float longer than anyone else. Fox always won the dead man's float, which was a source of great irritation for his competitive sister. She practiced every day to beat him, waited until her face had turned blue and it would be suicidal for her to stay underwater any longer. She was determine, and Fox would laugh as he ducked underwater, his larger lungs pumping easily. The day before her abduction Sam had beaten him for the first time, but when she had come back up her victorious face was constricted and she started choking. James, Fox's best friend, had run to get an adult while Fox held her hand. "I'm sorry, Sam. you shouldn't have done that! What were you thinking? C'mon Samantha, open your eyes." he had implored to her in innocent whispers. Then his father came running out, looking absurd in his heavy expensive suit and brown, leather shoes that made the sand click. He helped her up, did some elaborate CPR-like treatment and she was fine. But, Fox promised himself that he would never be cruel to her or allow her to get near danger again. He broke his promise that night when he started teasing her, cheating at stratego, and generally being an older brother. It would be his last chance to be an older brother. Mulder is jerked out of his painful remembrances by a sudden noise by his window. But, it's just the pigeons bringing in the day. Farmers have roosters, he thinks, and we have pigeons. And then, lulled by the grating coo of the birds he falls asleep, his eyelids unhindered by the single tear that make it way down his face. And the stars fall, bringing with them the last whispers of night. The sun rises in it's lavender bed and then as the sky dims, it sets, striping the sky in purples and red and smudging it with pink. Bringing the end for yet another day. - - - - - - Tonight, a small sliver of the moon shines through the clouded, raven sky. Scully dreams, tossing in her sleep. She sees herself walking along a silver, sand studded beach with crystal, blue water. Then in a blinding flash of rain and wind, a storm rises and she is drowning, drowning in glacial waters. Out of the corner of her eye she spots a life preserver with the word Dana printed on it in large, dull letters. She reaches out for the preserver and grabs it. Suddenly she is overwhelmed with a fear that maybe there is someone else drowning . She looks around frantically, but the rushing waters are empty. She takes the preserver and puts it around her waist, and then watches in relief as the waters cloud and recede. The preserver sags and in seconds it is gone and she is back to the glittering beach. Ahead of her she spies something, maybe a shadow, maybe a person, maybe a monster, but she wants to find out.... Scully sits upright, yanked out of her uneven slumber by the sudden sound of sirens. She doesn't want to think about her dream or what it means. There is something sick about not recognizing your own name. It used to be that she was unsure of who she was, so confused that sometimes it physically hurt her. She would think of Dana and Scully as two different people with different faces, different memories, different personalities. Now, she is Scully. Dana sounds unfamiliar to her, awkward like a gangly girl with braces trying to impress a senior. Nonetheless, she doubts she will sleep again tonight and she curses whoever it was that needed the ambulance. She leans back further and gently brushes her hands over her eyes for the tenth time that night. She believes. There is something she has learned recently. Before, she used to use science as a crutch, an excuse for not believing in what was most likely. But, you can only use science as a guide for finding other truths, not ignoring the one that is staring you in the face. There is so much she doesn't know, so much that she can't comprehend, but she can believe now. She is willing to believe and that is the first step. Things are changing, she is changing, they are changing. But, she doesn't analyze their relationship anymore, because it has been thoroughly analyzed, inspected, catalogued, and declared insane. There were times when she would wonder when their strong trust had morphed into an insecure love. She had assumed they were just drowning partners, but somewhere along the way they got out of the water. But, it takes them a long time to dry, even in the glaring sun. So they rest on the shore, and salt residue turns into wrinkles and water droplets weigh them down. Waves still crash on their legs, running over their scarred surfaces. Tonight, she feels the touch of a light, luke warm wave approaching. It brushes her toes, wrapping around them, filling in the black spaces in between. - - - - - - Mulder rests too, even if his rest is filled with unrest. He dreams of Samantha, she is young like he always imagined finding her. She walks around him and each time she completes a circle another Samantha appears, this one slightly different. He doesn't know what the difference is, but he feels it. The Samanthas have hollow, metallic voices that whisper Fox. They are stuck in a white room and soon the Samanthas overrun it and they are all pushed together. "Giving up Fox. You are giving up and you promised." they hiss, with only the slightest trace of a malicious smile on their innocent faces. Then slowly they start changing, their hair lightens, their faces sharpen, their eyes unfocus and turn blue. They are Scully. "Mulder, what are doing? Mulder?" they murmur to him in her mellow, vanilla white voice. "Mulder." He is overwhelmed by them as they start pushing in, a gentle smile on their lips and eyes the color of oceans. "Scully!" is on the tip of his tongue as he wakes up. He has a vague idea as to what the dream meant, but he hates scrutinizing his own dreams. He won't sleep again this night. So, he watches the moon, its crescent shape half covered by large, fluffy, black clouds. He waits for the sun to rise, so he can get on with the day. Another rotation passes, another day. Funerals are held, squalling babies are born , people laugh, travel expense sheets are filled, the night comes again. Tonight she sleeps peacefully, barely moving except to snuggle deeper. Her face is unruffled and her lips turn up into a mysterious smile. Above her the stars fly in the inky sky and the moon twinkles down. The same moon glances down at Mulder's slumbering form. His expression is tranquil and his only movement is to shift his arms occasionally. The same muscled arms that cradle the restful figure of Scully. And the sky lightens and dawn wakes yawning colorfully, and another day begins. - - - - - - Wow, you finished it! So was it too winding? Repetitive? Did the characterization suck? Well, tell me! The first ten people to write get the grand prize of..... umm....I'll get back to you on that. But everyone who reads this gets cyber hugs and kisses! Hmm, I think I'll thank some people. A big shout out to beth. You're the greatest! You and Anna both get yummilicious cape cod shakes for free! Annex, you are the best! You gave me the courage to post this, so a gigantic thanks and a :P) Also, thanks to the people at the haven spoiler boards, you keep me up at night laughing! Here's a quote for everyone: "Underneath every swan is a pair of legs paddling madly." You guys are my legs, even if I'm hardly a swan. -nat Soccerdev1@aol.com