Title: Lighter Shade Of Pale Author: Shawne E-Mail: shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com URL: http://www.shawnex.freeservers.com Rating: PG-13 for disturbing themes Category: VA Spoilers: post-ep "Tithonus", Redux II mention Keywords: M/S DAL Summary: 'I don't need to count my blessings,' she declares proudly, defiantly, 'I'm not going to die.' But the shadow in the shape of a man moves, the sand curls around him... Archive: I love visiting my little fic-children when they're released to the world at large, so please let me know where this ends up. ;) Disclaimers: If Mulder and Scully were mine, they'd be over here right now, enacting the whole of Season Seven for me. But since I *don't* own them (dammit!), I've got to rely on my slightly rusty memory and produce post-ep fics for somewhat ancient episodes. Author's Notes: To Dreamshaper, CazQ and bugs for the amazing betas, especially in the face of the little war I declared on punctuation. Huge thanks for the much-needed encouragement on what was essentially a big experiment in style for me, for the thwapping and yelling and whip-cracking that always makes me feel so loved... and most of all, for always believing that I have a story to tell. :) Thanks also to Shannon, for very neatly averting beta-reading Armageddon (in the space of a few minutes, no less!), and to Piper, for letting me whine and then telling me to shut up. ====================================================== She stands in the eye of a hurricane of sand, watching it rise and spin and fall, fiercely, giddily, painfully. It's almost beautiful, but she shields her eyes from the raging mist. She cannot bear to look; her eyes are already tearing. What he said was wrong -- he was only scaring her, telling her lies he knew would affect her. He wanted her to drop her guard, to lose her self-control. And still the sand whirls arounds her, swooping, dipping, forcing her to hide her face... but she is one second too late. A wall of light crashes through the gritty barrier of sand, then it melts, collapses onto itself, fading in, out... becoming the midnight-coloured shape of a man. It's Mulder, her mind whispers, isn't it? He will come, and he will believe like he always does, and she can be doubtful again. Oh, but the light is burning her eyes... how can one think when it is so bright? So bright, so glaring, so she doesn't think anymore. She can't. It is mere seconds before the sand whips itself back into a funnel, churning around, in her; she barely notices her body, her arms, her legs. She is immaterial. 'I don't need to count my blessings,' she declares proudly, defiantly, 'I'm not going to die.' But the shadow in the shape of a man moves, the sand curls around him... He explodes into her, shards of sharp white-hot light stabbing through her every muscle, nerve, thought. She feels whatever supports her - her legs? - slip, and cries against the thundering pain that shudders through her, comes to rest, coagulates, in the pit of her stomach. She falls, and it is slow, pained, graceful, like the passage of a swan crossing a near-frozen lake in the dead of ebony winter. It must be centuries, or may be only seconds, before she really, really feels her body again, solid, encasing her bones, the flesh clinging so tightly to her skeleton that it begins to hurt. She drops onto burning, yielding sand, slides on it, tries to grab a handful, a handhold, fails. Her legs - they are legs after all, then - fold beneath her, clammy cold skin meeting burning, yielding sand. The grains burrow into her, like moles channelling their way through earth -- she is sinking. The soundless cacophony of dust swirling around her suddenly stops, frozen, still. She watches the walls around her in fear: are they closing in? Why can't she breathe, why does it hurt? She struggles against the sword of flame slicing through her abdomen, draws in a torturous gasp of air, chokes on it, for it becomes tangible in her throat, a rocky lump she can't swallow past. 'I'm dying,' she shouts, but no one hears. The walls of relentless sand shiver, hover in the air around her, real and yet fantastical... maybe her eyes can see through them. She strains, trying to collect her scattered thoughts. But three of the walls, in front, behind, on her left, begin to melt, dip, fade into nothingness. The one on her right shimmers, flickers, coalesces into a moving, living skeleton. She almost screams, almost shuffles back, but finds that she cannot make a noise, cannot move. She is chained to the ground, pinned to the air around her by the wound in her body, the body that is still tightening, becoming more compact and concentrating the pain, the ache, the intolerable heat. Fear, her mind whispers, irrational fear. But the sight of the skeleton, creamy-white skull, dark caverns watching her over a double row of tiny marbled gravestones... fear, I'm afraid, I'm going to die! She coughs again, tasting salty-sweet blood, feeling more pulse up through her veins, her neck, ebbing and spreading into her mouth. The metallic burn of the blood against her lips matches the poker-hot lashing against her heart, as if someone is whipping this errant piece of meat into submission, curling a thick metal chain around it, snapping and then tightening it. Pain. The skeleton next to her, not hers, *can't* be hers, she isn't meant to die today!, reaches for her with bones, only bones. Then the gravestones fall open, and it speaks. 'Do you see him? Do you see him?' The words echo in her ears, and her eyes slide half-shut, cutting off the garish sight, its mocking screech. No, I don't want to, a voice in the left side of her head protests. Yes, I do, the right side retaliates, and the conflicting urges mix with her unvoiced fear that she is dying, her worry that Mulder will never know she is lying here in the sand with a skeleton telling her not to look - look at what? Her eyes open, because she must know, *should* know what is killing her. What it looks like, why someone... why Fellig could have spent years, decades, chasing, hunting it. Don't look! Close your eyes! the command shoots through her brain, reverberating, and she is defiant at first. Why, she wants to know, why close what is meant to be opened? She cracks her fever-dried lips to protest, ignoring the blood, crimson-red and sweet (she is growing accustomed to its taste), as it dribbles down her chin. Close them, comes the command again. Don't look! Why? she wants to ask, feeling the lids of her eyes sink, grow heavy, like a down blanket, like another person holding her close. Her hand, it is a part of her body after all, and someone else's hand is covering it, strong and firm, relentless. The hand is talking to hers, syllables slipping through skin, saying the same thing: close your eyes -- don't look. It must be a conspiracy... everyone wants her to close her eyes, but why? Because you are not meant to die today, the hand whispers, and the fear bubbling in her stomach comes to the boil, weaving itself into the pain. She can feel the flesh of the hand lying on top of hers softening, first into a mass of jelly, then evaporating into the stiff, unyielding hand of Death. She tries to focus, wants so much to see... but he is tricking her; it's not the skeleton. It's only an old man, a man so old he could try to capture Death. He was the one who told her to count her blessings, told her she was *lucky*, it was him. He'd said she was going to die, wanted her to die, was almost happy that he would be alive when she wouldn't, happy for all the wrong reasons. She wants to strike out at him, he has killed her, he must have, but watches in suspended horror as his face begins to tremble, melt, fade into nothing. He is disappearing, disintegrating, dying before her eyes! His skin is burning... and there is something, something flitting around the room, just out of the corner of her eye, she can almost see the shadow as it hisses past. But it is too terrible, the sight of him imploding on himself, terrible. Close your eyes! the command tears again through her mind, is issued by her mind, resonant, compelling, and this time she no longer has the strength, the courage, to disobey. She closes her eyes, watching the shadows of light chase themselves across the dark blackness of her mind. In the split second that follows, she tastes blood, sand, feels coarse grains settle around and in her, comes too near to the elusive shadow, feels the skeleton's hand tighten around hers... and then the fire in her side leaps, and she gasps, and the stark night claims her for itself. %%% Darkness. She is swimming in darkness, upwards, pushing against the weight of the thick black water, wanting so much to breathe. Through the dark oppressive silence, she hears the airy notes of a long-forgotten song in her head, and maybe it guides her upwards, up, up, and she just barely breaks the surface, flailing, gasping for air, for light, for life or anything, anything at all. Don't move, the gentle words play to the tune in her head, don't be scared. You're safe. I am? she asks, or maybe she doesn't, there are strong arms holding her down, pressing her against softness. She feels someone's efficient hands tuck warmth firmly around her tired, sore body. The whisper comes to her as in a dream: go to sleep, you're safe, you're alive. How good to know that! And yet... she lifts her head, struggles against the suffocating iron belt she is wearing, the iron belt that eats into her movements, enslaves her, marks her for sleep. 'I can't move,' she whimpers, afraid, and peels her eyes open with the greatest of efforts. Colour explodes before them, a blinding swarm of blue and red and green, yellow and purple, churning, swelling, and she blinks once, twice, thrice, against the brightness. White, she reassures herself that everything is really a cool comforting white, and white is real, she decides. It means she is alive, colour is elusive, transient, but she sees only white here. Why is everything white? Don't ask questions, another voice slips into her, like a wave through the ocean, you should rest. Sleep, be well. 'But I can't rest, I shouldn't,' she protests, 'I'm on assignment!' She twists half around in her cotton prison, chained to a unyielding lump of soft feathers, and she wonders dully why there is a hole right through her. She can't see anything beyond the white, and she cannot recall what happened, all that is black. But she *does* know there is a hole somewhere inside her, clean, thorough, piercing. The assignment is over, and you must rest! the voice insists. Aren't you tired? Yes, yes, she agrees, I am. But why is there a hole in me... and now that the memories are returning, tumbling back, where is the man? Where is Fellig? Still, lie still, she is told. But she doesn't want to! She struggles helplessly against the warmth strapping her arms and legs down, even as those limbs grow heavy, like bricks... thick, like wood... sleepy, like her eyes. She wants to say she doesn't need sleep, wants answers, but the soft white cloud she is lying on refuses to cooperate, to wait for her to begin. Suddenly, it detaches itself from the ground, spins slowly up into the white white sky, and she watches as it turns a chilling black... Before she knows it, she hears someone's quiet sobbing, and she stiffens. Is she the one crying? She never cries, hates it, thinks it weak, especially in public. She is strong, and it would be awful if... no, it is not her, there are no sticky trails of moisture on her face, her face is cool, dry. Not her, but she recognises this sound, has heard it before through this same cloying haze lingering around her senses, and she wants to reach out to silence it, to comfort, to reassure. I'm fine, she tries to say, but her lips are welded shut, her eyes screwed tight against all her efforts. Mom, mom, don't cry. Not for me, I'm alive, I'm still alive, it's not the cancer. I'm not Melissa. Not dead. Not Melissa, alive. But no one can hear any of it, she is only half-conscious, reacting to sounds so wrenching, sensing worry so strong, that it penetrates even the foggy balm of sleep. Her sleep is too deep, too powerful, and already it is reclaiming her, drawing her back into its deepest and most comfortable folds, its oblivion, its soothing complete warmth. She wants to tell her mother not to worry, but already her tongue grows, thickens, fills her mouth, her mind's whispers die down, the black, the black returns, and she sinks back into it. Maybe an eternity passes, or maybe just one night, but moments crystallise, then shatter, and is it her imagination or a dream? There is the skeleton again, chanting its mournful dirge: do you see him? Do you see him? Don't look, close your eyes, close your eyes, close your eyes. It stands, shakes, bones rattled by the wind of sand whipping around them both, and she shrinks away in disgust. 'Don't come near me, I'm *alive*,' she hisses, backing off, adding as much distance as possible to the stretch of desert between them. The skeleton's midnight-deep caves, set deep in its smooth white skull, suddenly snap into life, glow bright red, and she screams, thrashes about, go away, I'm safe now! Her throat is torn and scratched, bleeding raw, the words lingering, clinging to the tender walls, and she turns, wants to run, but cannot, trapped by warmth, body immobilised, paralysed. 'No no no,' she mutters aloud. She cannot turn away from the sight of the skeletal frame swaying towards her, watches in horror, pain, fear, transfixed as it extends a thin bony finger in her direction. 'No no no,' she chants, 'safe, alive, not Melissa, safe, alive'... but she cannot convince herself, not as the finger draws nearer, points straight at her, catches fire and burns brilliantly. Bone, bone can't burn like that, she tells herself desperately. This is a dream, and bone can't burn! But the finger draws so near to her face she can feel the flame jump against her skin, feel the heat as it shivers through the air and into her flesh, straight down through her body, to her toes, spreading, so so hot. She continues to watch the finger of flame in awed fear, wondering where it will strike, what will happen, how she will die for the second time. It seems inevitable, necessary, fate, when the finger, Fellig's finger, plunges into her stomach, blazing a hole clean through to the other side. She chokes around the pain, feels her flesh tense around the wound, even as the fire licks at her blood, flows into it, becomes it. So much pain it hurts to think, and she is still looking, terrified, into the deep glowing wells embedded in the skull, falling away into nothingness, into forever. Such a fearsome, horrible sight, and she forcibly pulls at herself, scrabbles against the sand that quakes and jolts beneath her feet. Get up! she pushes, pinches, nudges at her mind, don't look! don't look! "Don't look at what?" She pauses, surprised, and the fire in her stomach suddenly dampens down, until it's just a glowing ember, occasionally sparking to life. Who asked that question? Did she? She waits tentatively in the darkness, pleased to realise that the nightmare has been vanquished, has vanished, but she still has no idea who - what? - saved her. "Are you awake?" The words, deep golden honey, wrap around her, warm, thick, sun, and she delights in them, like a cat arching its back in the dappled yellow light streaming through a window. Slowly, she pushes one eye open, is greeted by a canvas of white, and decides it is safe to open the other. The light blurs, the shadows fade, then darken at the edges, sharpen into recognisable shapes, into objects, and there he is. He's sitting by her bedside, and she is in a hospital, waist firmly bandaged, blanket tucked tightly around her, trapped by all the white. It is him, he has found her, and it is awfully warm here, turning dim like the inside of a church, but he's here. "You shouldn't be here," she blurts out loud, "why are you here?", and she almost hits herself for asking such a stupid question first. Why not 'thank you for being here' or 'I was so afraid' or 'I love you'? Why never the *truth*, her tongue must hate the truth, and the moment, the chance to say so much more, is gone again... and she must watch it go as she has all the others. "I *have* to be here," he whispers, and drops a warm, gentle hand on her cool, dry forehead. She allows him to smooth her hair, push it gently off her face, his hand dips to follow the curve of her cheek, and it is warm, so warm that she can feel the world stop spinning, the sand is disappearing quickly, fading to white. She is on solid ground again. She is beginning to remember what happened, the skeleton, the man, the nightmares, the brief dream-like moments of consciousness, and she is too glad that he is here, too glad to push him away, to turn her back on his concern like she would normally do. I am strong, alive, safe, she tells herself, but maybe that is not always good enough. She takes his big hand in hers, feels his warm flesh against hers, solid, not dissolving, and squeezes it, feeling his heartbeat through the thin barriers of skin separating them. "Thank you," she says, and turns her head to the side before he can see the liquid crystal that has formed in her eyes, is poised to fall onto her eyelashes. She blinks it away, she is strong and does not cry in front of others, but she is also so tired, so sleepy, so lost, and feels her heart constrict in fear when he speaks again. "Close your eyes." She wants to protest, saying that it will all happen again, exactly as it did before, the sand, the skeleton, the man, the bony hand, and she can't face up to it, she is strong, but not that strong, and... But then he repeats himself. "Close your eyes," he says, his hand gripping hers tightly, not going to let go, squeezing back, "Rest. I'll be here." His other hand traces the length of her arm, slips whisper-soft across her neck, and two fingers gently kiss her cheekbone. "I'll be here." He'll be here, her mind echoes in a singsong, he, Mulder will be here, and this bed is soft, so soft, and her eyes are losing the will, the ability to stay focused, open. He'll be here, she can close her eyes, maybe one day she can tell him why he shouldn't look, but he'll be here, because she can feel warmth - his warmth - flowing through her. Her eyes blur, colours merging, fading into a brilliant sharp white light, eyelids flicker, he's here, he'll be here, and maybe that makes sleep possible, desirable... maybe that even makes it good enough. ====================================================== Feedback is like a cashew nut, because... um, because... I'll have to get back to you on that. In the meantime, talk to me at shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com. :)