TITLE:  The Canvas Bag 
SPOILER STATEMENT:  Small ones for Folie a Deux, FTF and Amor Fati. 
RATING:  PG 
CONTENT STATEMENT:  ScullyAngst.  Very mild sexual suggestions.  MSR, if you 
look at the show the same way I do. ;) 
CLASSIFICATION:  VRA 
SUMMARY:   Surely she cannot pack everything she needs, everything that matters, 
into a plain, canvas bag. 
THANKS:  To Brynna & Sharon, for the quick readthrough. 
AUTHOR'S NOTE:  This is inspired by Morgan's fine novel, "The Last Gift", as 
well as her equally fine vignette, "Path of the Night".  If you've read either 
of them, you'll quickly realize why.  There is, however, no direct connection 
between my story and hers, and my story does not contain any spoilers for hers.  
They just got me to thinking.  :)  And if by some chance you *haven't* read 
either of them, get thee to my recs page and do so. 
  
The Canvas Bag 
by Brandon D. Ray 
  
She digs deep into her closet until she finds the canvas bag -- the old, 
battered canvas bag given to her so many years ago by her father.  The bag he 
carried when he first went away to sea, the better part of half a century ago.  
The bag he had in turn received from his father, who in turn received it from 
his father. 
The bag should have gone to her brother, she thinks, as she sets it carefully on 
her bed and opens it.  The bedclothes are undisturbed, despite the late hour, 
and they will remain undisturbed for several days, at least.  As long as it 
takes for someone to realize she is missing, and become concerned enough to 
check on her.  Her mother or her supervisor, she decides.  It will most likely 
be one of them. 
Her thoughts return to the canvas bag.  It really should have gone to her 
brother.  It is a father-to-son sort of heirloom, a thing of no intrinsic value, 
but of deep emotional significance to the stoic men who guard the frontier, grow 
old, and eventually pass the responsibility on to their sons.  It is masculine 
and powerful, and it should have gone to her brother.  But for some reason, it 
was given to her.  It's almost as if her father knew, even then, that she would 
be the new guardian.  It's almost as if he knew .... 
She sighs and shakes her head, thrusting the thoughts away.  She doesn't have 
time for such things; not tonight, at any rate.  Eventually the day will come 
when she can spare a moment for these reflections.  Eventually the day will come 
when she can grieve for the things she is giving up.  But not tonight. 
Not tonight. 
She turns to her bureau and pulls open the top drawer, and methodically begins 
to transfer its contents to the canvas bag.  Underwear she will need, and socks, 
as well.  No matter where she goes or who she becomes, she will have use for 
these things, and so she loads them into the bag. 
She pauses for a moment as she reaches the bottom of the drawer, and her fingers 
encounter not the plain cotton of her sensible underclothes, but the slick, 
exciting feel of satin.  With trembling fingers she draws out the pair of forest 
green panties and the matching bra, given to her by her sister on the long ago 
day when she left for college. 
//Don't open this until you get to your dorm.// 
She can almost hear her sister's voice, echoing inside her head, still fresh and 
familiar, even after all these years.  The older girl's voice had been casual, 
but from the mischief dancing in her eyes, she had known that the nondescript 
box wrapped in plain brown paper contained something calculated to embarrass 
her.  And so she had made sure she was alone when she opened it .... 
Again she sighs and shakes her head, dropping the brightly colored garments back 
into the drawer.  She doesn't have time for this; she really, really doesn't 
have time.  It's already nearly eight p.m., and the man who called her this 
afternoon -- the sweet, funny, tragic little man who has loved her so 
desperately for so many years -- that man informed her in grave and unhappy 
tones that nine o'clock was the deadline. 
//He's leaving,// her informant had said, his voice choked with sadness.  //He's 
leaving tonight.  I should have told you sooner, but he made us promise not to 
tell.  But I can't do it; I just can't do it.  Not to you.  He's leaving, and 
you deserve to know before it's too late.// 
She thanked him, of course, before she hung up the phone in shock.  It never 
occurred to her to question the truth of what she'd been told.  She has always 
known that this could happen; as long ago as their first year together, she had 
realized that her partner was fighting a constant war with his inner darkness, 
and that someday it might overwhelm him.  But that doesn't make it hurt any 
less, now that the day has finally come. 
She has wasted no time on recriminations, though -- not to herself, and 
certainly not to her partner.  The call came shortly before five, leaving her 
only a few hours to make her own preparations.  And so she grabbed her briefcase 
and stuffed it full of files, chosen almost at random, and left their office for 
the last time, barely making it to the bank in time to clean out her savings 
account before it closed. 
She realizes that she is standing over the canvas bag once again, and that now 
it is more than three quarters full.  While she was thinking, her body continued 
the task she had assigned it, folding and packing shirts, blouses, blue jeans 
and slacks.  She will leave her business suits; she is unlikely to need them, at 
least at first. 
She will also leave several pairs of ridiculous three inch pumps -- the ones she 
wears to work, despite their impracticality.  This hopeless attempt to be tall 
-- or at least, not short -- is her single vanity, and now she has no time for 
that anymore, either -- nor is there room in the canvas bag for all those shoes. 
 In their stead she packs a pair of running shoes, and a pair of plain, 
dark-blue flats.  Sensible shoes, she thinks.  Shoes that she can wear in any 
weather and almost regardless of the footing. 
Still, the bag is not full, and for a moment she stands beside her bed, staring 
down into it.  It ought to be full, oughtn't it?  Surely she cannot pack 
everything she needs, everything that matters, into this plain, canvas bag.  The 
files, of course, are in her briefcase, which she left in the car when she 
arrived home a short while ago.  Likewise her laptop is there; she saw no point 
in hauling it into the apartment, only to carry it back out again an hour or so 
later. 
There is something wrong in all this; something she is missing.  Everything she 
has packed so far, everything she is taking with her, is plain and utilitarian.  
There is no joy in this bag, or in her briefcase.  There is nothing here of 
*hers*.  Just some clothes, some money and some records.  Things she will need 
to have to survive. 
But there is nothing for her soul. 
Is that how it's going to be?  She ponders the question for a few fleeting 
moments.  She knows that she has to go; she made the decision a long time ago 
that if he ever had to leave, she would go with him.  She can no more live 
without this man than she can live without breathing, and if she has to give up 
everything else in order to have him, then so be it.  It is not a decision that 
others will understand, and it will hurt those who care about her.  But it is 
her life, and her choice is to be with him, no matter what the cost. 
She smiles a bittersweet smile at her own choice of words, because she has never 
been with him, of course -- not in the way she has wished to be.  Sometimes it 
has seemed to her that they were close; on the brink.  But always, always, 
something came up to block them from that goal.  Always, always, the ultimate 
consummation of their unspoken love affair remained just beyond their grasp. 
Always, always .... 
Perhaps now it will be different, she realizes.  Perhaps now, by removing 
themselves from the rest of their lives, they will finally be able to reach out 
to each other.  They will have to do that, she thinks.  It will be necessary, if 
they are to survive.  They will have no one and nothing left, and they will have 
to turn to each other. 
Even in her current state of mind, she knows that there is an element of wishful 
thinking -- even desperation -- in that last thought.  It is always possible 
that he will refuse her tonight.  It is possible that she will have made these 
preparations for nothing.  He is a strange, driven man, and if the darkness has 
finally become so strong as to force him to flee, it might also have overwhelmed 
the part of him that loves her and clings to her in moments of crisis.  The fact 
that he has not spoken to her of his intentions is a warning that this may be 
true. 
He might refuse her. 
He might. 
For the third time, she shakes her head, and turns once more to the bureau.  She 
will not believe that -- not until she hears it with her own ears; not until she 
sees him leaving her behind.  He will not do that; he cannot.  He needs her as 
much as she needs him; he has said as much so many times in the past. 
//You're my one in five billion.// 
//You make me a whole person.// 
//Even when the world was falling apart, you were my constant ... my 
touchstone.// 
She reaches back into the top drawer and once again withdraws the dark green 
panties and bra, and weighs them thoughtfully in her hand.  She knows better 
than to think she can sway him with such things; the men who sent her to him all 
those years ago were fools if they thought he could be diverted from his purpose 
by sex.  Nevertheless, these two scraps of cloth stand as a symbol in her mind; 
a symbol that she and her partner may yet transcened the obstacles between them, 
and become even closer than they already are. 
She's going with him, isn't she?  Surely that will count for something. 
She turns decisively and drops the last two items of clothing into the bag, and 
finally snaps it shut.  It is really no fuller than it was a moment ago, but now 
it seems complete. 
She lifts her father's canvas bag and walks briskly through her apartment, 
turning off the lights as she goes.  She pauses in the living room only long 
enough to scoop her small collection of family pictures off the shelf and dump 
them into a shopping bag.  These, too, will help her retain her humanity, much 
as it will hurt her to look at the faces of those she is leaving behind.  And 
then she's out the door, carefully locking it behind her. 
It is twenty minutes before nine. 
She has cut it dangerously close. 
But somehow, she knows that she will be in time. 
  
Fini