From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 31 Oct 2001 17:25:39 -0000
Subject: Air of Fall by KatyBlue by KatyBlue
Source: direct

Reply To: katy2blue@aol.com


TITLE:  Air of Fall  (1/1)
AUTHOR: KatyBlue
CLASSIFICATION: MSR, A
SPOILERS: Nestled somewhere in season 7, before the 
cider went sour ;)
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER:  Well, they don't belong to me, but don't 
really seem to belong to anyone else anymore either (at 
least any of the versions of Mulder and Scully that I'm 
familiar with...)
WEBSITE:  It's NEW!  It's IMPROVED!  Bookmark it now!  Pass 
it on to all your fanfic friends !!  Spread the word - I've 
moved! - - > http:/www.geocities.com/katyblue_shadesofblue
E-MAIL:  If you'd like to send feedback, the addy is
katy2blue@aol.com  (I'll warn you that, despite being very
appreciative, I'm also heinously slow to respond (due to that
annoying RL thing. My guilt trip over this enforced sloth 
results in much angst...please forgive me ahead of time.)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: A special thanks to Meredith, who has stood 
staunchly through all my attempts at fanfic, gracefully 
slicing out schizophrenic Scullys and morbid Mulders - 
like Stonehenge, she rocks! All poetic excerpts herein 
are from 'The Hollow Men' by T.S. Eliot.  
Happy Halloween to all!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(1/1)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Mulder walked ahead on the road, kicking at the piles of 
leaves in his path.  The fragrant, fetid air of fall rose 
in his wake.

"Stop that, Mulder."

"Why?"  Scully sometimes seemed to be trying a bit too hard
to shape him, to modify his behavior.  To turn him into 
something that looked and resembled normal, a mostly losing 
battle for her.

"Because you're bothering me."  Her simple answer lay 
between them, creating space.  An inane reason -- an 
unreasonable request.  Who was she to stop his kicking?

Nevertheless, he stopped.  But not before one last swish of 
his shoes through the dry, rotting pile, the whistling 
noise of the wind he created a satisfying one.  This was 
why he kicked.  It soothed something in him, and he 
resented having to stop, but he did.  For her.

One more day ending, and not with a bang as some of their 
more disturbing cases created, but with a characteristic 
whimper they were growing familiar with.  There were no 
monsters present on this most hallowed of days.  But above 
them, the moon was already visible in a blue sky, waiting 
in morbid expectation of the sun's setting.

He wanted to howl at it, an irrational urge fueled by the 
same imp that inspires all irrational desires that strike 
in unexpected moments.  A craving to shout out loud on a 
crowded street, any and every act that would embrace the 
impulsive and unforeseen.

This was not a crowded street, but a deserted country road 
somewhere in Vermont.  And this trip was not a failed case, 
but another failing attempt at normalcy.  An attempt as 
fall colors blazed their final glory, shouting out to the 
skies and the heavens and anyone that would listen, 
advertising their deaths before they fell at his feet to 
decompose.  

A solitary leaf plummeted in his peripheral vision, and he 
made a half-hearted attempt to catch it before it hit the 
ground.  He and Samantha used to stand outside for hours 
under the trees on the Vineyard, trying to snatch the 
hopelessly elusive leaves out of the very air so they could 
make their wishes on the inevitability of foliage's final 
death spiral.

He missed.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," she griped.

"Trick or treat," he said in answer.

"You wish."

Scully was a trooper.  She always had a comeback.  Well -- 
almost always.  No matter how hard he tried to throw her 
off balance, she came back at him swinging.  Making light 
of his more morose statements and giving tit for tat after 
those sarcastic rejoinders he specialized in.

"So...where is this place?" she inquired.  The impatience 
in her tone warred with the indulgence she visited upon 
his more preposterous actions, imagining him in one of 
his more out-there places, maybe.  He merely shrugged off 
her question, baiting her.

"Do you even know?"  This one had a bite to it, as crisp 
as the fall air and her snapping, white teeth.

"Scully," he said gently.  "Yes, I know where we're going 
and I told you that we didn't have to come."

"Of course we did.  But why all the secrecy?"

He hadn't meant to be secretive.  Just private.  He 
stopped.  Shook his head in exasperation at her.  And 
looked at her.  Just looked.  He wished that he could see 
with unaffected eyes, the blaze of color in her cheeks, 
the framing of her fury by dying fire in the leaves 
behind her.  But colorblind was colorblind.  Instead, he 
filled her in with descriptions of colors he couldn't see.  
Despite her irritation with this unexplained walk down a 
deserted country road, she was here, despite whatever 
implausibility he might be up to.  And he felt the 
characteristic surge of affection he always felt for 
her.  And a strange surge of protectiveness, thick and 
unwanted.  Because he knew he couldn't always protect 
her -- couldn't even protect himself -- but wanted to
all the same.

She would be offended by this attitude, so he kept it to 
himself and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.  "Look, 
Scully.  All I know is it's almost All Hallow's Eve.  And 
this cemetery we're going to has the most reliable reports 
of hauntings around here."

"I didn't think this trip was about ghosts, Mulder," she 
accused, and he knew what she was asking.  "Is that why 
we're here?  Why do you always insist on putting your faith 
in the ravings of local lunatics?"

Okay, that one hurt.  This time he stopped and stared an 
accusation back at her.  Before he could even speak the 
words though -- accuse her of not believing in the work -- 
ask her why she stayed with him at all --

"I'm sorry, Mulder."  She reached out and grabbed his hand.  
Warm and small, hers had a grip like iron, holding him 
there with her when he felt like moving away.

"Maybe I am a lunatic, Scully," he said gently.

"No."

"Maybe that's what you want to believe."

"You're not a lunatic, Mulder," she said firmly.  And then 
repeated it, as if trying to convince herself.  "You're 
not."

He sighed and moved forward.  And she followed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two stone cherubs held vigil, orbed and sightless eyes 
upraised to towering chestnut trees.  Mulder bent over and 
scooped up a handful of the tree's bounty, pulling his hand 
away from Scully's in order to place a rounded, polished 
fruit in hers.  He watched her rolling it back and forth in 
her palm, enjoying its smoothness.  "We used to collect 
these as kids," she observed.  "I used to keep them in a
box until I realized they were rotting."  She dropped the 
chestnut carelessly as they entered the cemetery. Mulder 
pocketed his, and imagined planting it somewhere -- 
imagined that underneath the eventual rot might be a tiny 
budding seed that would sprout.  But he kept this 
impossibly optimistic thought to himself.

"It's supposed to be over here," he said instead, moving 
through the artfully planted maples toward the back of the 
cemetery, which was graced by a crumbling stone wall.  

Scully sighed and followed.  "What -- your hypothetical
ghost?"

The trees were thicker toward the edge of the plot of 
stones, giving way to an eerily silent forest.  There was 
an expectant hush in the air.  The ground was strewn with 
the fragrant corpses of leaves.  He could imagine that 
there were no other souls in the world besides themselves, 
despite the fact that they stood on earth covering so many.  
Mulder kicked at a pile of leaves again, not to annoy 
Scully, but to lift the scent of them to his nostrils.  The
delicious, loamy fragrance of dirt, the crisp press of 
leaves returning to the soil from whence they originated.

"Is this it?" Scully asked when he stopped.  She moved 
around him to see their destination and had to tilt her 
head back to take it in.

The gravestone was ostentatious, to say the least, in this 
small, more modest gathering of granite tombs.  The angel 
towered over them, one arm raised to the sky, the other 
held out in supplication; the base of this angelic entity 
seemingly almost too fragile to support the lift the wings 
conveyed.  The high-gloss marble facing was gouged with the 
name of the occupant that rested at this formidable 
specter's feet.

Scully's face blanched when she saw the name.  Still, she 
read it aloud.  A question and an accusation.  "Mulder."

"Who knew?" he said quickly.

She turned on him.  "You knew," she charged.  But he saw 
the anger leave her like a pin-pricked balloon, escaping 
into the surrounding forest where some animal would no 
doubt pick up on the vibes and kill something.  She stood 
before him, deflating, and he was afraid that at any moment 
she would reach out -- and that her empathy would look 
instead like pity and he would reject her for it.

"My great, great, or maybe not so great grandfather," he 
stated. "Disowned by the Mulder family after he made a 
bundle and promptly left the Vineyard and his wife for the 
greener pastures of Vermont and a woman half his age."  He 
looked around him, and saw very little green under the 
carpet of gilded golds.  "At the time, he was the outcast 
of the Mulder family, deserting the homestead to cavort in 
sin."  He grinned.  "You know how it is, Scully.  The usual 
scandal and pathetic sordidness of normal family life."

He didn't add that his branch of the Mulder family could 
have topped this man for sordidness.  And that he would 
have counted himself the latest Mulder outcast, but with no 
family remaining to be outcast from, in some sense he 
belonged again, though he wasn't sure to what.

"How did you find out about this?" Scully asked, natural 
curiosity in her voice.

"Ah, the genealogical powers of the internet."

She smiled slightly and continued to stare at the 
tombstone, her eyes traveling upward to appreciate the 
angel atop it, that one animated eyebrow rising in 
speculation.  Was she wondering at his motives or those of
his ancestors?  He watched her surreptitiously, admiring 
the way she could ignore him.  Accept him.  Listen without 
being overbearing.  He should appreciate this more, he knew.  
Appreciate the fact that she followed his lead so readily, 
despite any complaints she voiced.  What he should do was 
tell her of this appreciation, but his lips stayed 
together, holding the secret inside.

"So where are we staying tonight, Mulder?  And if you say 
'here', be prepared to protect the family jewels from 
someone trained in offensive, hand-to-hand combat."

"Ooo, do you promise, Scully?"

She smiled fully then -- one with teeth.  Predatory, like a 
shark as she cast a look at him.  "Let's just say that if 
this trip doesn't have some mulled cider in it, you're 
going to be sorry you invited me."

He laughed.  She continued to surprise him -- mostly in the 
way she continually came back at him.  Never put off in the 
manner he'd learned to expect from people.  Freaky, spooky 
Mulder had close to forty years of not being understood.  
Despite any gap in understanding that still lay between 
them, Mulder knew he would probably never find anyone 
with a higher acceptance level.

"Is it okay if it's in a thermos?"

"No," she shot back.

"I promise it's not drugged..."

"There aren't vampires here too, are there Mulder?"

"You got me," he answered.  "Somehow, I doubt it.  Imagine 
that -- no restless ghouls -- at least none that I know 
of."  He looked around him, at the peaceful lull of their 
surroundings.  Felt the fragrant, crispness to the air 
that accompanied his false pretenses of a ghost hunting 
expedition and would follow them on their progress back 
toward town.

Scully cast another long eye at the stone, reaching out 
to trace her fingers over the full name, her demeanor 
meditative now that she'd figured out the purpose of this 
trip was not to hunt monsters but merely to share a bit of 
himself with her.  "What is it with your family and names, 
Mulder?  What kind of a name is Brick?"

There was a chip in the angel's foot, he noticed.  Inside
her toes, the stone sparkled in the dying rays of sun with 
numerous flecks of foreign mica.  "Don't knock it, Scully 
-- it's better than Fox."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hot, mulled cider.  The crackling blaze of a fire across 
the room.  The susurration of murmuring couples throughout 
the room.  And shadows -- falling everywhere.  All Hallow's 
Eve and Mulder was in a restaurant, eating pumpkin ravioli, 
described in the menu as 'a gourmet jack-o-spicy treat', 
and wondering what the hell he was trying for here.

Scully watched him, her gaze growing more and more careful. 
Reproachful of his growing melancholy.  He watched the 
reflections of the last light of sun fade from her eyes as 
evening set in.  And he cursed the tenacious Mulder ability 
to turn the tables on himself, even as the leaves outside 
the window took on the colorless hue of twilight, then hid 
themselves in the darkness that finally came.

"Should we go back to the cemetery?" Scully asked dryly, 
starting to pick at her zucchini and spinach pasta, 
unsettled by his mood and pushing the green goo around 
her plate.

Two jack-o-lanterns were flanking the fireplace hearth.  
The proprietors had carved one as slit-eyed, grinning 
Devil; the other in an open-mouth startled O, casting its 
hollowed eyes toward its companion.  Tiny flames winked 
inside, bringing each alive in their shell of death.

Fox Mulder, you are one sick bastard, he thought.

"Mulder..."

Scully's voice brought him back.  He looked at her, forcing 
himself to stay still when her hand touched lightly over 
his on the table.

"We don't have to do this," she said quietly.

He shook his head and laughed at this.  "Do what?" he 
asked, half-amused, the other half truly half-confused 
himself.

He saw that little crease appear in her forehead.  Realized 
that it accompanied a scowl -- anger flaring hot again in 
the already present heat of the room  -- hurt hidden behind 
that.  She tossed her napkin into her plate and sat back, 
crossing her arms and bathing him in her level stare.

"I'm ready to go," she stated quietly.

He sighed and reached for the check.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully truly did want to return to the cemetery, imagining 
that a little ghost-hunting in the family plot might cheer 
him up.  Mulder didn't.  He needed no escape from the night. 
He only desired to escape her expectations.  All his life, 
expectations were something he'd excelled in failing at.  
Why not add Scully's to the list?  Did he really think he 
could escape the inevitable failure?

"We should have gotten two rooms," she remarked, throwing 
her case down on the one bed.

"Scully..."

He moved toward her.  She moved away.  

"Scully..."

She migrated to the window and pushed it up.  Cold air 
drifted into the room, carrying the pungent aroma of 
fall along.  The moon was visible and full behind the 
glass.  All Hallow's Eve, a full moon and Scully -- 
could he possibly ask for more?  He crossed the room and 
stood beside her, pushing the filmy curtain aside to gaze 
out on the night, his irrational urge to howl returning.  
It was said that if a woman exposed herself to moonlight, 
slept under its direct influence, she would begin to 
cycle in synchrony with the moon.  A timeless, endless 
tide of life that would ebb and flow on a lunar path.

"I don't know what we're doing, Mulder," she murmured.

He moved closer.  She shifted away.

"I didn't ask for this.  We shouldn't even consider it..."

He steeled himself and grew brave enough to put his arms 
around her.  It felt awkward at first, and he was surprised 
to feel her trembling.  This uncharacteristic fear made him 
braver and he pulled her against him, closing her into the 
circle of his arms when she turned.

"I didn't get my cider."  Her voice was muffled against his 
shirt.  Saddened.

"You will," he promised.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


They walked in a street absent of traffic.  The hour was 
early enough that some children were still out, dressed in 
their ghoulish gore or bejeweled Cinderella splendor, 
capturing the last candies of the night.  Mulder noticed 
Scully turn her head to watch as they passed, a small, sad 
smile on her face she gave no voice to.  They passed a 
store where Dracula, sitting on a stool in the doorway, 
raised a dripping goblet of ketchup blood to them.  "Trick 
or treat," he said in an exaggerated Bela Lugosi accent.  
Growing bolder, Mulder took Scully's hand and pulled her 
along with him, away from the crowd.

"Where are we going?" she complained, sounding tired.  Or 
perhaps just weary of the seesaw that was Fox Mulder.

"You'll see."

The establishment resembled a stone cottage.  A sign hung 
outside on a pole, the likeness of a badger in a waiter's 
uniform, carrying a tray full of drinks to a table of 
patrons of some unidentifiable species.  The name had 
nothing to do with badgers, but rather proclaimed the 
place to be called 'Crowskin's'.

"Ick," Scully observed.

Mulder ducked through the doorway, which couldn't possibly 
have been regulation height.  "Just your size," he noted.  
Scully scowled and followed him into the bar, seemingly 
resigned to her fate, whatever it may be.

"Two mulled ciders," Mulder requested.  The bartender 
bore a striking resemblance to the badger on the sign 
out front.  He merely nodded and returned with the drinks, 
taking Mulder's twenty and bringing change without saying 
a word.  The place was thick with plants that mimicked the 
colors of autumn outside and looking up, Mulder noticed 
the ceiling was painted a deep midnight blue and splashed 
with pinpoint stars.  "Scully, I think maybe this is an 
enchanted bar," Mulder whispered, pulling out a stool 
for her.

She sat without speaking at first, and fought back a 
smile unsuccessfully. "Maybe every Halloween, the local 
forest animals are under some ancient curse where they're 
turned into public servants and have to cater to 
demanding humans," she observed finally, playing along.

"That hardly seems fair."

"Who said life is fair?  We, of all creatures, should be 
aware of that particular fact."  Scully picked up her mug 
and closed her hands around it.  Tendrils of heat rose 
from the surface of the liquid. He watched, mesmerized, 
as her nose hovered delicately over the steaming liquid, 
inhaling deeply.  "Mmm..."

She took a sip, her lips closing over the rim of the cup 
and something below the area of his belt gave an answering 
surge to this sight.  Mulder pulled up a stool and sat 
down quickly, both to hide the evidence and lest he pass 
out from the loss of blood currently rushing southward.

The possibility of Scully was almost too much for him.  The 
reality of Scully definitely was.  When had they crossed 
this line?  How could he possibly think he might satisfy 
this woman?  It seemed a ludicrous wish.  He didn't even 
know where to begin.

"Scully..."  It was a feeble start to an even more feeble 
protest.  How could he explain to her what he knew in his 
heart?  That in the end, he would fail her?  That in the 
end, everyone fails others in those nobler intentions they 
hold.  That all anyone can hope for is to grab what little 
happiness they can before forced to leave this world -- 
moments that are never a promise but only a delay to the
ever-present shadows.

She put a finger up to his lips.  "No, Mulder.  Don't spoil 
it.  It's not that bad."  She set down her mug on the 
polished wood bar and reaching over, picked up his with one 
hand.  With the other, she closed his hands around it.  
"Take a sip," she urged.

He raised the mug to his lips.  The steam rose into his 
nostrils and almost made him sneeze.  Scully, grinning 
over the rim in his line of sight, bewitched him.  He 
took a huge gulp and scalded his tongue.  She laughed as 
he set the drink down and berated her for the wound.  But 
the cider was good and healed his soul.  A hot elixir of 
life in the dying breaths of autumn.

"Thanks for bringing me here," Scully said, her tone 
shifting to solemn before returning to a lighter note.
"And on your favorite holiday, of all days."

"Thanks for sharing your room," he grinned.

"Oh, we haven't even gotten to that part yet," she 
announced mysteriously.

This time, he promised with confidence enough to 
chase the lingering shadows away, forcing them to 
flee outside into the gilded forest or up into the 
painted, midnight blue of the sky.  At least for a 
while.  For long enough. "Oh, but we will."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE END