Title:  Paper
Author:  Allison J.
E-mail:  allijohn@home.com
URL: http://members.home.net/allijohn/Ficpage.htm
Category:  A
Rating:  PG-13
Spoilers:  If you've seen it, you'll get it.  If you haven't, you won't.
Summary:  Deep, dark, and angsty.
Disclaimer:  Mulder and Scully are theirs, not mine.
Archivers:  Ask first, please.
Feedback:  Always.

As always, thanks to NFF for her comments and grammatical 
fixes. :)

****

Paper

He was not sure what woke him but he woke all the same, his 
temple pressed to the rough granite and his knees drawn 
tight to his naked body.  He supposed it was the creeping cold, 
insinuating itself into his skin and bones and internal organs, 
escalating its chill across a threshold to thrust him into 
consciousness.  Drawing the small, thin blanket over his shoulders, he
groaned in protest.  The narrow band of warmth that his thighs offered
his belly was a comfort and he basked in it, his only luxury.

Opening his eyes a crack, he shifted his head without lifting it, 
feeling tiny crystalline forms of stone dig into his scalp.  
The light wasn't upon this place yet, and he searched for the tiny slit
that permitted its entry for the few scant hours it deigned to visit
each day.  On some days the light was glorious, illuminating a patch
that he sat in and followed, his face turned to it, his senses seeking
out its feeble warmth.  Other days it all but absented itself, its wan
milky glow barely piercing the dark.  Today was going to be one of those
days.  He felt it.

He rolled to his knees, wincing at the stiffness in his neck and his
right shoulder.  The tension headache was there, as always, 
gripping the back of his head.  He could see his forearms, the 
muscle tone gone.  The skin would begin to sag soon, unless they 
fed him more than scraps of dry bread and water.  Unless he got out of
here.  A shape materialized in the dark, metamorphosing into the repast
of concern: a small metal tray with a large metal cup of water and a few
crusts.  And two buckets, one full of icy water and a rag, and one
empty.  At least, he thought wryly, they gave some concession to the
notion of personal hygiene.

Pulling the thin covering around himself, he lurched toward the 
provisions.  He drank half the water first, carefully rationing the rest
for the remainder of the day.  He considered the bread next, squinting
at it so that he might detect mold, and turned his attention to his
stomach.  No hunger pangs this morning.  It was always a bit of a
dilemma, this eating business.  If he wasn't hungry and he ate, it
ignited an agonizing, ravenous inferno in his insides.  If he was
hungry, the small meal did so little to satisfy him that the result was
the same.  Still, it was keeping him alive, sort of.  If they meant to
starve him to death, it was going to take awhile.

Then there was the familiar sheet of paper, and the pen.

He stared at them while he finished the bread, tiny morsel by tiny
morsel (no mold today).  The paper glowed with the coming 
daylight, a mocking sort of come-hither gesture in a trick of 
reflection.  He remembered the day he first awoke in this place: a
small, granite cell with a high ceiling, a floor drain, a scrap of
fabric for a covering, a sealed opening, and that sanity saving slit
near the top of the back wall.  His clothes were gone.  He'd screamed
his throat raw and beaten his palms bloody on the igneous rock; the next
day he did the same.  He estimated that nearly a week had passed before
he gave up trying to contact his captors verbally, and it was about then
that the paper and pen first appeared.

He wrote *where am I?* and *who are you?*  Not knowing where to 
put the paper, he left it on the tray.  All vanished in silence when he
wasn't looking.  As was to become the pattern, a fresh, blank page
arrived with his meal each day.  No answers.  *Why am I here?* he
wrote.  Always variations on the same three questions, sometimes laced
with profanity, sometimes not.  It ultimately dawned on him with dull
horror that he might not be the only one in this mess.  *Where is she?*
he wrote one day, and was rewarded the next with the same maddeningly
blank piece of paper.  In a rage, he tore it up into its constituent
fibres and scattered them around the cell.

He stared at the paper now and resolved to write nothing for the 
third day in a row.  It gleamed back at him.  He decided to 
reserve it for toilet paper.

Mulder waited for the light.  It came and went.  Then, just to do 
something different, he wept.  As the glow faded from the slit, he moved
over to where he usually lay and fell into a misery-soaked sleep.

****

The paper was there again when he awoke.   It lay in the company 
of its familiar companions: the bread, the water, and the two 
buckets.  The cell was still dark, but the paper radiated with its
strange inner light.  His eyes traced the dim outline of the tray and
its contents, always coming back to rest on the paper.  The paper.  The
goddamned paper.

A burst of rage lifted him off the floor and he scattered the tray's
contents, sending water and bread and paper and pen hurtling against the
walls.  When he was finished the tray lay bent, the buckets empty and
dented, the bread and the paper sodden, the rag in a lump.  He was on
his knees, his wasting muscles throbbing with effort, the air whistling
in and out of his lungs between sobs, past his ravaged larynx.  He'd
screamed his throat raw again, but it felt good.  It felt so good.

The paper lay in a puddle.  He resented its placid whiteness.  He 
hated it.  Why was it there? What use was it?  He clamped down 
on his logical mind, the part of his consciousness that defiantly tried
to make sense of his situation.  There was no sense.  None at all.  The
paper made no more sense than the cell or the cup or the buckets or that
tasteless bread.  He hated how it drew his eye, over and over again. 
Attracted to bright objects.  He'd been reduced to being attracted to
bright objects.  He hated it.

Something on it caught his attention and he stared, dashing 
moisture from his eyes with the heels of his cracked and peeling 
hands.  He crept toward it and picked up the sopping sheet in two 
fingers.  Today, the paper had writing on it.  His jaw slackened as he
recognized the neat, rounded letters.

Are you okay? it said.

And all he could think at that moment was "yes".

****

I don't suppose things are any better where you are. I've tried
everything I can think of to contact whoever's behind this.  I know you
have, too.  I don't understand what's going on, or why we're here, or
who's orchestrating this.  It's frustrating beyond belief, and it's
frightening.  I am so cold and hungry.  I keep thinking there's
something obvious that I've missed, something that will get me out of
here and allow me to get to you.  What do you know?

Mulder sat against the stone wall, the faint warmth from the 
window slit lifting the hairs on his arms in gooseflesh.  He read 
the note several times, taking in the rounded pen strokes, the 
sure way she finished each letter.  Whatever her physical 
weakness, it was not betrayed by her writing.  He ran a shaky 
fingertip over the paper, imagining that he could suck up her 
power, lean against it and use it to fortify himself, the way he had so
many times in the past.  He bit his lip against a painful 
surge of deep gratitude.  He was no longer alone.

He swept today's moldering bread and water from the tray, 
finding the pen and blank sheet brought to him by his jailers, still
partly dry.  Flipping the tray over, he balanced it on his knees and
steadied his hand.

I don't know any more than you.  Do you remember anything 
before you were brought here?  I remember talking with you in the
office.  I said something, you responded, and then I woke up here.  I've
been over every last square inch of this place.  All that I can reach,
anyway.  There's no way out that I can see.   I'm so sorry you're in
this with me.

He rotated the page and ran the final sentence up the right 
margin, filling the last of the dry white space with his 
idiosyncratic, disjointed hand.  He wanted more paper, more 
space, more contact. He wanted her to tell him she'd found a crack, a
loose brick, a weakness in the walls.  Considering how thorough she was,
it frightened him to know that she had no answers.

He placed his note on the tray, setting it halfway between the 
back wall and the indentation that he suspected marked the 
opening through which they brought things to him.  The light had 
left the floor and was working its way up the wall, dragging with 
it its power to warm and soothe.  Mulder folded her note in his 
palm and drew the blanket around him, leaning against the far 
wall.  He would watch and wait, as he had so many times before, 
for his keepers to take the tray away.  This time, he would catch 
them.

When he awoke later, in blackness, he discovered that his palm 
was empty.

****

Why are we only able to communicate with each other? I'm holding up
okay, under the circumstances.  I try to ignore the discomfort, but as
you know it's not always possible.  I'm not satisfied that there's no
way out of here, Mulder.  I keep trying to catch a glimpse of whoever
keeps delivering food and water to us, but I never do.  I keep watching
and waiting -- I can't just sit here and give up.

I don't know why we can only write to each other.  None of this makes
any sense.  I don't get it.  It's pissing me off. I'm doing about the
same as you, and I'm glad you're not giving up. Neither am I.  But it's
boring as hell in here.  Jesus, I'd ask for an old Reader's Digest if
the light would stick around long enough to read by.

Reader's Digest? Looking for that "I Spent Weeks Naked In A Stone Cell!"
article you've always wanted to read?

It was the first time he laughed since he got here.

****

I thought I saw them today, Scully. Out of the corner of my eye I saw
movement, but when I looked right at it, it was gone.  I didn't get a
clear sense of what it was. Definitely motion.  I looked right at it,
but I couldn't tell.  I tried calling after it, but of course it ignored
me.  I'm back to the old "who are they, what do they want" thing that's
been defeating me since I got here.  Tell me I'm not going crazy
already, that there is something out there that's responsible for this.

You're not crazy.  I also thought that I saw something once.  There's a
sentience about it, I can feel it.  I wish I could see it, too, but
there are physiological reasons why we're having so much difficulty. 
First of all, our light sensitive vision is concentrated at the center
of our visual field where most of the retinal cone cells are.  Once the
light drops below a certain level, it fails to excite the cones to the
threshold they need to fire and the more sensitive rods take over at the
periphery.  It's why we can often see a star more clearly if we don't
look directly at it.  Second, we're starving.  Our vision is starting to
be affected.  Eventually, we'll go blind.  I wouldn't let the inability
to catch a glimpse of our captors worry you too much, under the
circumstances.

Don't take this the wrong way, Scully, but I'm very glad you're here.

I'm glad you're here, too.

****

I don't know why I'm telling you this.  I got fired from my first job.  

Mulder sat with his back against the indentation in the wall.  He 
found it relatively comfortable, considering his vertebrae and 
shoulder blades were creating pressure points where none had been 
before.  There was, however, another reason he sat in this place.  
Over the last few days he'd decided that it was this wall, what he'd
decided was the north wall, that put him in closest physical proximity
to her.  He had no notion at all where she was.  She might be in a cell
next door, or in a cell miles away from here.  But he was certain that
the other three walls were aligned in the wrong direction.  She was
north of him.  Nestling in the shallow recess, he imagined he could feel
her energy in the rock, smell her barely perceptible scent, feel her
hand that had at various times both restrained and comforted him.  She
was working to keep him going, and he drank up her strength.

When I was in high school, I had a part time job in a burger place. 
There were always leftover buns, and one of the other girls told me to
take some of them because they'd only go stale and be thrown out.  So
this girl and I would split the buns and take them home.  We were caught
eventually, of course.  I knew Crystal was supporting her family with
this job, so I took the rap for both of us.  Crystal kept her job, but I
was so ashamed of myself that for many years afterward I could feel
myself cringe every time I thought about it.  Maybe joining the FBI was
in small part a way of expunging that guilt, of making a 
right of that wrong.

He wrote:

I used to get grounded a lot.  Dad was very strict, and as I got older I
sensed that his discipline was more about fear than a simple desire to
keep me in line.  I rebelled, although now in light of everything his
reasons are much clearer.  I remember sneaking out of my room at the
summerhouse several months after Samantha disappeared.   I so
desperately wanted to get away from everything.  I picked a random
direction and ran, not caring where I ended up.  I found this tree, a
huge oak, and I started climbing.  And I explored that tree, going up as
high as I dared, looking for the perfect branch.  I didn't find it the 
first time, or the next.  But finally I did.  I would scoot out until 
it began to bend downward, and just at that point it curved up, forming a sort of
saddle.  And I could see to the ocean.  Altogether I spent weeks there,
until they cut it down to make way for parking.  I think I grieved for
that tree almost as much as I've ever grieved for anything.

I can see you in that tree, thinking, watching the scenery.  I can see
you watching the masts of sailboats disappear over the horizon, maybe
spending whole nights there and seeing the sun come up over the water. 
I like this image of you.  It's quieter, more thoughtful.  I'm so used
to seeing you in pursuit of something, and while there's a certain
beauty in that, I think my favorite memories of you are the ones when
you're pensive.  Of course, that's when I start to worry, because
inevitably your mind is going to a place that I'm bound to follow you
to.  But I like it all the same.

Sorry, Scully.  I'm flattered by the picture you have of me in the tree
and when I'm lost in thought.  But I just can't see you as a bun thief.

****

The next day came and went without a note from her.  Mulder 
nestled in the shallow alcove, his eyes closed, reaching out with 
his being.  He still felt her; she was still here.  Somehow, though, the
energy was ebbing, its once steady stream now rising and falling, each
peak never quite as high as the one previous.  He regretted his flip
response to her portrait of him in the tree.  It was his characteristic
way of dealing with her warmth, the side that she most frequently showed
when he was in deep trouble.  Even now, as he rubbed his parched skin
and felt the bones beneath, he had a hard time reconciling himself to
the fact that he was dying.  Or to the fact that she was dying, too.

Scully, he wrote.  Stay with me.

The dawn came with a fresh tray and a new, blank piece of paper.

****

I'm sorry, Mulder.  I'm having a hard time focusing, and it's getting
harder to write.  I'm feeling a little better now, but yesterday I could
barely move.  I worried about you, knowing you were worried about me.
I'm still here, and I'll be here as long as I can.

He crumpled the note and, holding his clenched fist to his chest, 
curled into a ball.  When he woke he found that this time they'd 
let him keep it.

****

Tell me a story, he wrote.  Tell me any kind of story.

His hand cramped then and he shook it.  The cramp eased, but the 
pen felt like a brick in his weakened fingers.  He dropped it on the
tray, vowing to write more in a moment.  Tell me a story, he 
thought, his mind whirling with more thoughts than he could 
possibly hope to commit to the paper.   Where the hell had that 
come from?  In the absence of answers, he was desperate to 
ensure that their communication didn't end.  If they couldn't find
solutions, they at least had to remain connected.  The power of their
thoughts was the only power their captors would allow 
them, and they seemed content to do so.  So be it.  Tell me a 
story, Scully.

The tray returned the next day.  Mulder moved to it with care, his focus
only on the paper.  He smiled to see it covered in writing, careful,
hesitant writing at the beginning, as though she'd been unsure of where
to start.  His eyes refused to focus in the dim light and so he sat
eating bread and drinking water, his heart pounding in frustration as he
waited for the slit to provide him with the light to read by.  The light
was weak when it did appear, and he felt his eyes pull and strain as he
read:

Once upon a time, there were two people separated by a wall.  Some said
it was a single wall, some said it was many walls stacked upon each
other.  Sometimes the two people felt the barrier between them.  Other
times the barrier melted enough to become translucent, enough for each
to see the other as though through frosted glass.  And though neither
could ever claim to understand the other completely, the moments of
translucency made it clear that each saw and felt the other, and that
even when the walls became opaque again, they would always know the
other was still there.

He wrote:

Sometimes one would try to thicken the wall with mortar, putting more
distance between them, trying to block the light.  This one used the
mortar as armor, sometimes even as a weapon.  He did it out of anger. 
He did it because he'd come to know that the only one he could ever rely
on was himself.  He did it as protection, because as much as seeing the
other pleased and reassured him, he could never believe that the next
time she would be there.  He believed in many things, but never in the
constancy of another.  And each time she was there.  And each time he
refused to believe in the next time.  So he would thicken the wall to
block out the light and make sure that his prophecy would come true.

I think of the past several years and the things I've been through.  I
don't blame you, Mulder; these were my choices.  But sometimes I see my
father weeping, sure that I'd made a 
monumental mistake.  I see my abduction, my helplessness and
humiliation.  I see my sister and Emily.  I see whatever future I'd
imagined for myself as a teenager in ruins, and to this day I grieve. 
And then all I want is silence and comfort, but not solitude.  I look
for the silence of understanding from someone who knows, the silence of
compassion as it holds its breath and waits.  I look for you.

We are getting out of here, Scully.

I don't think so.

He wrote back a pithy, contrary comment, and waited.

The tray came back with the blank paper.  He wrote on it and 
waited again.

As near as he could estimate, five days passed between her last 
note and the day the tray arrived bereft of paper, as it had been in the
beginning.

****

When he could move no more, they came for him.  He felt himself 
picked up and borne away but saw nothing; his sight now 
consisted only of memories.  He laughed, a whispery, asthmatic 
susurration of irony.  

They carried him for awhile, silent and gliding, then laid him on a
pallet.  He felt rough cloth beneath him, felt it being drawn up around
his body and head, and tied around the neck, torso, and 
ankles. They were done with him.  The place smelled earthy, 
fecund, rotten. With absolute certainty, he knew the identity of 
the shrouded figure nearby.  They were done with her, too.

He grieved for her and himself in the embrace of the patient, 
eternal, Brown Mountain fungus.

****

Feedback always welcome.  allijohn@home.com