A Clean Well-Lighted Place By RocketMan lebontrager@Harding.edu Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to CC, 1013, and Fox. No fringe intended. A Clean Well-Lighted Place is the title of a story by Ernest Hemingway, and no fringe intended there either. Summary: Mulder and Scully after The End. :::::SPOILER::::: I know, I know, you're thinking enough already. I can't help it. Kind of a play off of A Cold Dark Place in Beyond the Sea. So, can M&S get to the Well-Lighted Place? Dedication: For Jules and Jennifer for their McDonald's and Dr. Pepper. ===== A Clean, Well-Lighted Place ===== "Every deed and every relationship is surrounded by an atmosphere of silence. Friendship needs no words -- it is solitude delivered from the anguish of loneliness." -- Dag Hammarskold ( the "o" is supposed to have two dots on top) ===== "Say when." The foam and fizz rose as the sick feeling in him rose and he nodded his head to indicate he had enough Dr. Pepper. The McDonald's across from the Hoover Building was fairly nasty, with the putrid smell of Clorox and tile floor mixed with late night sleeplessness and morning after hangovers. He steered her to a booth far from the out-in-the-open drink machine, using his fingertip and his presence to let her know "when." She sat down and sipped her Diet Coke with a look of utter unfeeling, as if she could only function if she kept everything neatly shelved for later. She would have her catharsis later, after he had used her for his. He said nothing, but looked at her, at the planes of her face, the arch of her neck to jaw, the angel kisses in spots he'd only dreamt of touching, the vacuous expression of a faint horror residing in her eyes. He reached out and touched her hand, his forehead crumpling into the terrible loss that threatend to engulf him. She ignored her own far away fear and focused on his own crumbling mask of indifference and humor. There was nothing funny. She pushed him over in the booth and sat next to him, tucking her body into his and holding to him tightly. Without words she said "We're going to be okay. We're going to be okay." He held tightly and let his body shake in invisible tears, let his body contort to escape the pressure of unshed heartache, let her un-words speak to him in the language of silence. His Dr. Pepper fizzled out in front of him, much like the sound of the water hissing on their ruined lives that night . . . early morning, whichever it was. He sat still for a long time, amusing his mind with the thought that she would definitely not be leaving him, no matter what they did to them. He'd quit before moving away from her. What did he have at the FBI anyway? Ashes. Nothing but -- Her body quaked. He sat very stilly, very quietly, silently holding his breath. She was seeing the destruction again, behind her closed eyes, watching the fire of nothing burn them alive. She shivered and he held her tighter, closer, needing to comfort her too, needing to give back what she had wordlessly given. The McDonald's lights glimmered as one of the strips of bulbs winked and he wished the smell of bad cleaning and bad food hadn't interrupted the utter despondency of two people holding on for dear life. He raised her from his chest, saw her dry eyes and numb face, and kissed her forehead. His look showed her the way and she stood, and they walked back to his car and sat silently, waiting as he drove them back to his apartment. Waiting as he took them to a well-lighted place: a spot for their mutual release, for their relief of emotion: a spot away from the darkness of ashes. She reached out and grabbed his hand and held it: Tightly.