Title : Becoming Judas II : Resurrection Author : darkstar Email : clone347@aol.com Feedback : adored and craved Website : http://members.tripod.com/darkstar_phile/index.htm Archive : I would be honored, only please let me know. Category : MSR/Angst/Post-Colonization Spoilers : None Rating : PG-13 for war violence Disclaimer : See Introduction Summary: He sold his soul. Now he wants it back. Disgusted with the life he is living and the man he has become, Mulder breaks from the Colonists and risks everything for one last chance at humanity with Scully. But redemption, like betrayal, has its own price. - - - - - - - - - - - - - Resurrection (16/32) by darkstar - - - - - - - - - - - - - The throbbing in her legs moved up to her head as she walked, pounding behind her eyes in balls of tiny white fire that flashed in time to the pace of the voices that bled through the wall, even after she shut the door. "They aren't always like this." Scully turned to see the girl standing behind her, a shy smile creasing her lips as she entered the room. "It's been hard for all of us, lately, and they're getting tired of standing by and watching." "Who wouldn't?" Scully returned the smile, drawn to the unfeigned open nature of the girl's eyes. They reminded her of her eyes, back when the term "X-File" was not a word she recognized, and when aliens lived only in cheesy Friday night horror flicks. She extended her hand. "My name is Dana." "I know." Her smile crinkled as if she were about to laugh. "Che's told me all about you. He thinks you're a good woman. I'm pleased to finally meet you in person. My name is Aida." "I don't think he ever mentioned you to me before." "Please don't be offended. He's just trying to protect us." Her hand patted her womb. "I’m not registered. General Skinner helped Che smuggle me here right before he left." "Are immigration laws that strict?" "For hybrids, always. But Che had a different reason. He....didn't want to share me with any officer." She said all this matter-of-factly, brushing a lock of hair from her face. She regarded Scully for a moment. "You are wondering why the risk?" The angles of her chin tilted upward with a determination that seemed out of place in her tiny frame. "Everything in life is a risk when you are what we are. No one's going to keep us from facing those risks together." "Don't justify it to me." Scully said. "I understand." /Believe me, I understand. More than you think./ "I believe you do." The girl's eyes took on an odd sheen, soft as the sun reflected in ebony. That light passed right through Scully, effortlessly sliding from one end of her bones to the other. "You have this kind of love inside you. It's wounded now, at least on the outside, but still strong. Don't hold it back. Let it heal with him....not apart." For a full twenty seconds, Scully could not speak, surprise and emotion choking all words. "How...do you-" "Empathy." She said.. "It's my trait. Che's is healing, as you know. Mine is an extreme sensitivity to emotions. I guess you could call it healing too, only a different kind." "I see." The words were of necessity brief, for there was still a fight to keep the tears back. Scully was half-angry at the girl for brushing uninvited against wounds still raw, but at the same time, something on a deeper level told her that the words were true. More so than she would like to admit. /But how do you find the balance? If I open myself totally to him, what is to keep me from being swept away?/ A second, harsher voice inside her mind answered her own doubts. /Is it really that? Or do you just want to make sure he's good enough for your love?/ Ouch. That hurt. "I've upset you." Aida frowned, her hands fluttering about her mouth in butterfly concern. "I’m sorry." "Don't apologize." /When in doubt, change the subject./ "Tell me how long you've known Che." The question had a calming effect on the girl, restoring tiny slivers of the smile that seemed to come and go across her face with the carelessness of spring breezes. Either Che really had succeeded in sheltering her from the outside, or she had met the dangers and chose to ignore them all. No one smiled like that in this world. No one who knew what was going on. "Two years, ten months, and twenty-seven days." She laughed. "Crazy, but I still remember every detail of the first time I saw him. I never lived in a laboratory, you see, although I was created in one. The scientist who created me got tired of doing dirty work for the Colonists, so he split and took me with him. We had a little store about fifteen miles from the Rio Grande. He made great coffee...." She must have realized she was wandering, because she shook the far-away look from her eyes and continued. "To make the story short, I caught Che trying to steal food one evening. He was bleeding from his side-- that's how I knew he was one of us-- and looked three steps away from total exhaustion. He'll laugh if you told him this, but I fell in love with him right then. We took care of him, and found out what the Colonists had done to his village. Has he told you?" "Yes." "Horrible." A brief shudder skipped across her shoulders but she seemed to put it quickly from her mind. "Anyway, he stayed on to help us at the store. Two months later we were married. I know, it sounds like we rushed in, but we just knew, right?" "You two are married?" She couldn't help the surprise. There certainly wasn't much of that going on now. Maybe it was the uncertainty of life that made people hesitate to commit to anything so binding as "‘til death do us part." "Yes." Aida blushed again, a deep rose glow underneath her skin. "We're both Catholic, and even if we weren't....it was still important to us. I can't explain why exactly. We just knew that we would be together forever and we wanted everyone to know. It certainly wasn't anything fancy.... The only priest we could find was half-drunk during the ceremony, and the "chapel" was the back room of a bar. It smelled of cigarettes and stale tequila but none of that mattered. It was perfect for us. I wore a pink sundress and-" She stopped, as if it had just hit her that she was talking to another person. "I'm boring you to death, aren't I?" "Not at all." Actually, Scully found herself the slightest bit envious. When she was eight, she had a secret box under her dresser filled with cutouts of wedding dresses and handsome men from magazines. Even when she was old enough to pretend she was independent, there had always been that bit of a dream. Then came Mulder, and the X-files, and the end of the world... But maybe that wasn't the reason he'd never asked her to take that final step. She had thought of it before, briefly; only now she wondered if he had wanted to leave himself an out. An escape from her. "Is this your first child?" Another subject change; now was not the time to deal with her doubts or her fears. "Two years ago, our first was born. A baby girl." The laughter in her eyes ebbed away for a scattering of moments. "She was two weeks old when we woke to find she had died in the night. We still don't know why. Poor Che....he never forgave himself for not being able to save her. As if he could have known." "I'm sorry." The words sounded trite, but Scully hoped the girl felt her sincerity. She had her own sort of empathy towards the death of a child, the kind that came from the core of sacred memory. "She was not a healthy child to begin with, I think. My link to her was weak. Not strong, like this one here." Her gaze dropped to her womb with a warmth Scully could only imagine. "He's a fighter. Already he tells me he wants to be just like his father--" "He communicates with you?" "Telepathy isn't uncommon among those like us. Che and I share it to some degree, but not like I do with my little one. I think it's because of my empathy. I don't question too much, though. A gift from God is not made to be questioned." She might not have believed it three years ago, but now she found the concept not so far beyond thought. "What does Che think?" "Oh, he's a regular skeptic. He laughed, at first, until he felt it too, when we were sharing thoughts. He hasn't said a word about it since. I think it scares him." /Can't imagine why./ "Because he's not used to it?" "He's never let go of our daughter's death. I can feel the fear inside him, a constant thorn, that it will happen again. I don't think it will. Our son has a strong soul. He'll have a strong body too, thanks to his father. In between missions, Che volunteers in the maternity wing so he'll have access to vitamins and other things like that." There was a tremolo of pride in her voice, not in herself but in her husband. She believed so readily that he could keep her safe. Scully hoped that faith would be enough. "You are lucky to have someone like that." Aida responded with a sideways glance and an elfin smile. "You're lucky too, Dana Scully, and don't you forget." The words had no sooner left her mouth when she gave a start, her hand flying to her forehead. "Oh, dear!" "What???" Scully sprang forward, searching the girl's face for any indication of pain that might reveal a complication with the pregnancy. "Is it the baby?" "Yes and no." She said, the wrinkles in her forehead easing back into placidity. "Nothing's wrong with him....he just reminded me we haven't said our prayers yet today. We burn a candle every evening, just to make sure heaven knows we're here....tonight the meeting distracted me. Would you excuse me, a moment?" "Actually, I'd like to come with you, if that's all right." In Chile, she had resumed her old habits under the shadow of the small crucifix Skinner had salvaged from an old mission. Since she had entered the city, she had fallen away. It was as if a hideous monster sat upon her shoulders, his leathery wings blinding her eyes and his weight pressing his talons deep into her soul until it bent. Evil-- she knew that's what it was-- lived in this town, and it haunted her dreams. "I have a few prayers to catch up on myself." "Of course." There was that smile again, the flash of sunlight that stirred up dust mites of emotion in places Scully had considered sealed for years. Apart from Skinner and Mulder, she couldn't remember the last time she had called anyone friend, even before the Invasion. Too long, that was certain. "It's this way." Aida walked across the room to a small enclave in the wall, where a small statue of the Virgin Mary sat in front of an intricately carved crucifix. A rosary was draped around it, the beads golden brown in the soft light. "Che's father made them for his mother. When the Imperials came, they were all he could save." She kissed her fingers and placed them reverently on the head of Christ as she dropped to her knees, her voice fading to a whisper of satin. "He gave them to me on our wedding night." Scully followed suite, kissing a blessing onto the Christ and then kneeling in rituals as familiar as communion yet alien in a way that should not have been. The girl began to pray, her lips moving in recitation that reminded Scully of Melissa at Easter Mass. It had always been Missy's favorite prayer.... "Hail Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope. To thee do we come, poor banished children of Eve. To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning, and weeping in this valley of tears...." Scully echoed the words; they throbbed through her veins with resonance deeper than blood and more ancient than pulse. Fragility was not a crime, here. It was beauty, breaking out from her fingers. She knew that sometimes even a tiny beam could pierce darkness. The prayer continued. "Turn then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy towards us. And after this our exile, show unto us The Blessed Fruit of thy womb, Jesus. O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary. Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God. That we made be made worthy. Amen." "Amen." Scully's eyes closed, and for the first time in weeks, she opened her soul. /Beatus Maria, forgive me for I have sinned. Speak to the Father and to your Holy Son on my behalf tonight. I know I have strayed from the path many times. Moments come now, when I am barely sure of who I am, of what I believe. May I never lose faith in You. May I never forget. Beatus Maria, forgive him for he has sinned. Speak to the Father and to your Holy Son on behalf of the man I love. He has spilled blood for me, but do not judge him alone. It is my sin as well. He did it because of me. (He shall come to judge the living and the dead.) Tell the Father, Maria, that I would walk to Jerusalem on my hands and knees if it would but serve as just penance for us both. But that wouldn't be enough. He must forgive himself. Oh, make me his reason to forgive...not his condemnation. May I never lose faith in him. May I never forget. Speak to my daughter, and tell her not a day goes by when I do not ache to see her. Tell her it will be soon, but not yet. Not with so much left to do. Kyrie, elison God have mercy on us. Amen./ When her soul returned to her body, and her mind glided on reluctant wings back into its cage, Scully opened her eyes too see Aida looking back at her. "You pray with all your soul, like I have never seen before." That was all the girl said before standing again and walking back to the main room. Scully remained still, the paralysis of the moment not quite yet wearing off her bones, her gaze resting on the statue of Mary, at the serene peace in the woman's face. A rare thing, peace. She prayed with all her soul? Simple....it was the only way she knew how. Would it be blasphemy, though, if she asked God for one sign--just one-- that he was listening? The meeting had dissipated by the time she rejoined Skinner in the main room. It was nearly two-thirty, but Scully suspected that the lateness of the hour was not the only reason for the hollows smudging his eyes. "How'd it go?" "I don't blame you for leaving." He said. "We argued for three hours over the correct methods and procedures of bribery. Like children." He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I've been away too long. That's all there is to it." "You're still their leader." Scully told him, her hand brushing his arm. "When you spoke, they listened. Even Strauss." "Maybe they did listen, but how can I know I am still able to tell them what they need to hear?" "You will tell them the truth. What else is there?" A breath of silence preceded his next words. "It's time you left. It's too late at night for you to stick around listening to the problems of a tired old man." "Tired, maybe." She bounced a smile toward him. "But never old." He barely grunted a response as he turned away, though somewhere underneath it she suspected she saw a bit of a grin mixed with the worry-wrinkles. It was no easy matter to pick up leadership of a group after so long an absence. If anyone could, it was this man. He had his work cut out for him, however, and faster and faster the days seemed to fall. Time was of an essence. Scully exchanged farewells with Che and Aida, promising to visit again as soon as she had the chance, then followed her escort back through the cement and the darkness to the officer's barracks. They left her at the gate. Once she was alone, the chill in the air bit at the back of her neck with sharper teeth, and the walls around her cast uglier grimaces in her direction. Already she missed the warmth of the place she had left only moments ago. Already she wished to return. /You've been standing here too long, Dana./ Her mind-voice gently shoved her away from the wistfulness. /Go inside, where you belong./ Or did she belong anywhere? The stairs and hallways were deserted, save for a loose dream or two that chilled her skin as she passed by doorways. She remained alert, one eye trained over her shoulder for any sign of a more corporeal observer. Caution cost nothing, and it had saved her life on more than one occasion. A quick survey of the apartment from bed to bathroom ensured that it too was empty; by chance or a small miracle, Mulder had not yet returned. Just how long did a "simple patrol" take? Strauss' comments reverberated in the silence of her mind, hollow and cold. /No doubt, up to his elbows in blood./ She shivered, and this time it was not from the night air. With mild hurry, in case he should return and catch her off-guard, Scully slid out of her clothes and into the over-sized flannel shirt she wore as pajamas. The fabric lay downy soft against her skin, warming quickly from the heat of her body. If only it warmed souls as well. She carefully folded her clothes back in their proper places, and began to tuck her gun into the folds of cloth but impulse-- or instinct, depending on which view you chose-- changed her mind. Desperate men, Strauss had said, in a desperate world. No one had followed her that she could see....although there was much, in the middle of the night in a strange city, that might slip between vision's cracks. Tonight she would sleep with the hardness of her gun cutting into her skull from underneath her pillow, and with the sharp corners of an extra clip jutting through the mattress. Just like all those old nights. Just like the nights that Mulder promised her were over forever. The sheets had barely grown warm over her body when the door opened, and the sound of his breathing, as native to her by now as her own, encroached upon the silence. The cadence of breath had a ragged quality to it that she had never heard before. It mixed with a sudden bile of liquor in the air to form a disconcerting cloud of suspicion from the loose vapors of her thoughts. Was he.... No. Impossible. In all of her time with him, only once had she seen him even close to drunkenness. After the Invasion, he had not so much as touched a drop of anything harder than a soft drink for fear it would ruin their survival odds. No, he could not be drunk. Maybe his patrol had stopped by a bar after shift, and he had carried the scent back with him. It explained his late return as well. A nice, satisfying, logical explanation. It crossed her mind to ask him, but instead Scully decided to watch. And wait. - - - - - - - - - - - - - Resurrection (17/32) by darkstar - - - - - - - - - - - - - He unbuckled his gun and his ammunition belt, dropping both on the floor with an unceremonious clunk. The noise of it must have surprised him, for his eyes darted toward her as if fearing he had disturbed her "sleep". She closed her eyes in an instant, and counted a long fifteen seconds before chancing to open them again.By that time, he'd turned on a small lamp that divided him and the kitchen area between tawny light and shadow. Mulder knelt on the floor before the sink, reaching far back into the cabinet until he withdrew two items-- a shot glass, and a tall bottle of something that glowed dark amber in the lamp light. Tequila, she thought, with horseradish bitterness. His brand of choice. Again he seemed concerned, nearly afraid, that she was awake. His eyes turned back to her, glazed over with a guilty man's sheen. Scully eased her eyes shut again, thankful her half of the room was still swathed in darkness. A moment passed, then she heard the tinkling of the bottle against the glass, loud as the shattering of windows in her ears. The soft slash of the liquor in the bottle rippled in waves across her ears, chilling her to the bone. Should she interrupt ? Intervene? No, not tonight. Not tonight. No matter how much she wanted to stop him, it would be more beneficial to both of them if she held her tongue and waited out the silent storm. The demons within him must be strong, if they drove him to this. She had to know what she was up against. And beyond all that, she knew from experience the impossibility of reasoning with a man while liquor possessed him. Bill Jr. had come home more than once in that state, and her attempts to calm him inevitably resulted in a screaming match as temper vied with temper. /But Mulder would never act that way to you..../ Then, she did not know that. She had never had the chance to find out. Now she watched him again, her gaze creeping around him with cat feet that avoided even passing contact with his eyes. The magnetism between them was too strong-- even when dulled on his end by his forget-the-world juice-- and she was afraid he would find her staring. He was writing something, between drinks, and it was no small surprise his hands did not shake more than they did. He was either one of those men who naturally held their booze well, or he had been at it a lot longer than she had thought. That thought quickly dampened hope, and her fingers moved just enough to pull the covers closer to her chin. Now, exactly at this moment, it would be easy to be repulsed. To condemn. Instead she ached. Deeper than bones she ached, because she saw through the haze clouding his features to recognize the pain in the tightness of his jaw and the quivering of his lips. She was the monster here. She had turned him into this; she had been weak and he had killed because of it. Scully wanted to tell him this, to pour it out as water to heal the thirst between them, but she could not. First she must find a way to heal herself; broken vessels made poor gifts. The thoughts had spun her into their web so completely that she only now realized he was staring at her again. Purposefully. And now moving, in her direction.... She pressed her eyes shut as if she could squeeze a prayer from them as his breathing neared her. The pungent odor of the tequila stung her nostrils until she held her breath for fear of coughing and betraying the charade. The floor creaked as he fell rather clumsily to his knees beside her bed. She could sense the electricity of him through the rice-paper thin barrier of her eyelids. She could feel the heat. He sat perfectly still at first, and she could sense his eyes dancing a slow waltz across her face. Searching for something she wished she knew how to help him find. Then his fingers touched her skin, a light homage against her hair and trailed down to her cheekbones. Across her lips. He burned her alive, and it took all the ice she had inside her to remain motionless. She hardly dared allow her heart to beat, for the slightest release might send all walls tumbling to the earth. She would rise, Sleeping Beauty awakened to claim her kiss, and pull him to her and they would forget everything.... When he leaned forward, the fairytale soured from the liquor on his breath, a taint so strong she could taste it. Taste the guilt. For a brief tug-of-war between fear and desire, she thought he would kiss her anyway. Instead he pulled back abruptly, leaving only a breath mark in her ear. "Forgive me...." Then he fell into his bed, and into the lullaby of a drunken man's oblivion. Sleep did not come so easily for her. The tears that had hardened under the pressure of her self-control melted now, soaking her cheekbones and her lips where he had touched but not kissed. The skin remained moist until exhaustion, the savior of all troubled minds and beleaguered souls, came to tuck her gently into slumber. Morning smiled over the east with the slow warmth of dawn, and in the first minutes after she opened her eyes, Scully swore she had dreamed the night. The windows of the apartment were open to the morning sunlight and a soft breeze. The same breeze diffused the fragrance of fresh coffee through every fiber of her sleepy muscles. "I see someone finally decided to rejoin the living." Mulder's voice-- firm and strong and clean of even the hint of alcohol-- greeted her and she looked up to see him standing already dressed in the kitchen. His hands were steady as he poured coffee into two black mugs, not a sign of a hangover about him. No circles darkened his eyes. No headache sharpened his words. Well, they did have drugs for that now. They had drugs for everything. "I made breakfast." he said, his smiling as warm upon her face as the morning sun and in its own way just as blinding. "To make up for skipping dinner last night. Let's see if I can still get it right...Coffee, medium black, with exactly two teaspoons of sugar, and toast, lightly browned, with butter?" "Impressive, Mulder." She returned the smile. "Of course, you have an unfair advantage. Photographic memory and all." She slid out of bed, legs tingling in adjustment to the lingering remnants of night's chill as she headed for the dresser. Mulder tried not to choke on his next breath as he watched her cross the room, bare legs white and satin soft against the huge shirt she had worn to bed. Her hair framed her face in lazy curls and sleep-tangles, giving her the same girl-child innocence she had last night.... His grip tightened on the coffeepot, and he dropped his eyes to hide the disgust on his face. Fourteen days he had been sober. Fourteen days, he'd told himself it was over. That he no longer wanted the poison to eat his brain because Scully was here and she was enough. Only now that she was close enough to touch-- close enough to break-- he could not find the courage to confess. Last night's patrol had thrown him right back into the gutter. What else can you do when you carry back from the desert the screams of the woman and children you killed? A mother and two innocent little boys, humans that bled as she did and as Sam did. Their crime? The father had been caught selling weapons to Imperials in exchange for food rations to ensure his family didn't starve when winter hit. The law demanded that the entire family die, innocents with the guilty. Arms dealing was a capital crime. But he might havefound a way to save the children....if only he'd had the chance.... /"You said to burn the house," his men had told him as flames roared over the screams. "So we did. We figured it'd be easier to torch them along with it....save the bullets."/ He had cursed them and he cursed himself but it was too late. The dry wood burned quickly; he could not even get the door open. The burns on his hands proved only that he had tried.... Mulder realized the cup was about to overflow, and set the coffeepot down, forcing himself to relax. In thirty minutes, he had a post-mission briefing with Nicolas. Nicolas knew how to take the pain away. Between now and then, he would smile for Scully and laugh for Scully and enjoy her beauty. It was the oxygen in his world, the life. At least she had not seen him last night. "How was patrol?" she called over her shoulder as she finished buttoning the jeans she had pulled on under the shirt. He swallowed back the lump in his throat. "Uneventful." It was a necessary lie. This would be over soon. Soon. "Just a few stray skirmishes here and there. Routine rodent-hunting." He laughed, knowing it would sound real, thanks to the hangover pills he had swallowed when he woke up. They were not normally his first choice--he figured that if he was man enough to drink, he was man enough to pay for it-- but things were not "normal" anymore. He had to make her happy. At any cost. She was walking in his direction. He reminded himself for the third time to smile. "Is that how you did this? Rodent-hunting?" Scully took the coffee he handed her, but set it down immediately, reaching for his hands. The palms were wrapped in white gauze, and the skin around the edges of the bandage red and puffy. Burns? Why hadn't she seen this last night? It was dark....but.... She should never have pretended to sleep. He must have been in pain, and she should have been there to soothe and to heal. But why, then, hadn't he woken her? "Yeah...umm....one of my flash grenades went off early." He flinched at her contact, even though she hadn't touched the wounds. "Fortunately I dropped it in time to save my arms, but as you can see I got a bit of a souvenir for my carelessness." He forced nonchalance into the words. As if it happened every day. /Oh, but doesn't it?/ His demons hissed the words throughout his mind. /Go ahead, tell her how you set the children on fire./ "Mmm-hmm. I've heard that before. You'd better just be glad you've got a lucky streak to match." Scully smiled, even though the story she had just heard in no way explained last night. For now she had to let him believe she believed it did. "And that I keep you out of trouble." "Always." His fingers encircled her wrists, capturing her hands against his just a second longer than accident. She knew it had to irritate the burn, but his eyes showed no pain. They rarely did, anymore. Once she could have looked at him and in one glance read his entire soul. Now the view was...clouded. She pulled away, back to her seat to test her coffee. The liquid heat seared the tastebuds on the tip of her tongue, but the flavor was full and deep. Pleasure and pain at the same time. Her fingers traced idle circles around the lip of the cup. /Time to fish for an answer or two./ "Why didn't you have them healed?" "A bit much for a mere surface burn, don't you think?" He took a sip of coffee, and his face curled in a mock grimace. "Now I know why you always made the coffee.." "Be serious, Mulder." "Seriously, Scully, it's not that bad. Healers are reserved for critical cases, anyway. Their talent is too dangerous for liberal use." "Don't tell me you believe that too." "What?" "Never mind." Mulder's little diversions could be cute-- sometimes-- but here there were annoying. It meant he was trying to distract her from the real issue, not a good sign at all. "Why didn't you wake me?" "You were in deep sleep, and I didn't have the heart." /And you had other business./ "I wouldn't have cared. I'm your doctor, remember? I bandage all scraped knees and bruised elbows." Scully abandoned the information gathering as a lost cause, tuning the cadence of her voice to match the lightness of his tone.If he wanted to play games, let him. There were always two solutions to every problem. If he kept the front door locked, she would climb through a window. "Better hurry and finish your toast." he said, the smile never wavering. Crocodiles smiled like that. "Trying to get rid of me, Mulder?" /So you can toss back your coffee with a little drink?/ "Never, but your first shift starts in one hour. Dr Field gets a bit crabby if new doctors show up late." "One hour??" "More like forty-seven minutes, but I rounded up..." Scully did not wait to hear anymore, scooting back from the table and moving with light speed to the dresser. /Now I remember why I hated med school./ She yanked the drawer open, grabbing underwear and a towel in one motion. /He did this on purpose, just to see me run around like a chicken on LSD./ "What do I wear?" she called out of the bathroom, kicking the door shut with one foot and reaching for the shower with her free hand. "Your uniform." "I don't *have* a uniform." "It's in the closet." He was laughing. She could hear it. "I picked it up yesterday." She might have laughed too, but from where she stood, the sound struck a different chord than it had only moments ago. Something strange and in a minor key.... Maybe it was just the water in her ears. She knew better than that. Just as she knew last night was no dream. She was gone. A heavy breath deflated his lungs as his shoulders slumped, and the spandex-taut lines of his smile snapped back into mere creases around his mouth. He had always hated charades. Why didn't he just tell her everything, every detail, and hope she would understand? /Yeah, that's great, G-man./ The same imp inside his brain chuckled, refusing to leave him even a moment's peace. /While she finishes her toast you can tell her what the air smelled like after the fire died away, how the bone ash felt between your fingers. Tell her about your drinking habits too. You can talk about it when you walk her to her first day of work./ Mulder slammed his hand palm-down against the table, sending the toast jumping and creating miniature waterspouts in the middle of his coffee. Yes, it hurt. The pain swarmed like a hoard of fire ants throughout his arm and shoulder until he closed his eyes to hide sudden tears. He embraced it. /Tell her the truth./ This time his soul spoke, a still small voice in the middle of a whirlwind. /When has she turned you away?/ Never. But that was...before... /Love doesn't change just because the rest of the universe does./ He had no qualms about telling her everything. Everything except these secret sins, the leper spots on his conscience. Would she purify it or be infected by it? The fear burned icy cold that the latter would triumph. That he would....decay....her and disfigure that tiny portion of her that remained untouched by evil. There was another place he had failed, but that was a different penance reserved for a different time. Despite the fear, or perhaps because of it, he wanted to reach out to her. She would never imagine how brightly she shone in his eyes. Yet his doubt persisted, an eclipse over that sun. Mulder lifted his coffee to his lips, savoring the bitterness against his tongue. He would take the matter to Nicolas. Nicolas had the answers, and if not, the man kept enough whiskey under his desk to more than make up for the lack. /Is that really the kind of escape you want? Don't you want to be free of it all?/ Free. Hah. That word didn't apply to him. He had killed for the Colonists to keep Scully alive. He had killed for Nicolas to bring her back to his side. Now what good reason did he have? What justification was left him? Atonement, Nicolas said. You buy your salvation in the blood of the enemy. But that blood wasn't supposed to be from children, now was it? Guess he'd find out. * * * * * * * * * * * * * Before any words broke the silence, a star birthed inside his mind, a great glowing ball of red and black fire that blossomed from his subconscious the moment he heard the footsteps outside the door. The raw emotion of it chafed along the inside of his veins, rubbing the tissue until it tingled with the heat of pleasure. He knew these emotions, and he knew well the images they brought to his mindscape. Only one man possessed such passion kept under such bare restraint. The door opened. "I can't do this anymore." Nicolas looked up, a smile already on his face, as Mulder burst into the room, his brow crinkled in the usual frustration. What was it this time, he wondered. More complaints about undue mission risk? Perhaps another petty quibble over the unnecessary violence. If Mulder was so concerned now, he must have been a real boy scout back in his idealistic days. It was sickening. Yet, the death of that idealism, disgusting as it was, had left wounds on the man's emotional skin that were simply delicious. He had seen them, with his inner eyes, and he had painted them. Long jagged scars, and short but deep gashes, some partly healed but most open and exposed to any prying finger. How they throbbed today! Nicolas could feel the guilt, warm and sticky across his mind as freshly squeezed blood. Blood was a beautiful thing. He shifted in his chair to calm the raging heat in his veins. "Is something wrong?" Nicolas leaned forward, molding his face into a perfect mask of concern. If he did not keep control, his enjoyment might very well bleed into Mulder's emotions. The man was a tricky subject, harder to control than most due to the fiery and volatile nature of his subconscious. The key, Nicolas had learned, was to use that heat against the mind itself. To cultivate it, temper it until it burned just hot enough to keep the torment in place. If he released too much sympathy, the guilt would dissipate. If he allowed the pain to scorch the mind too much, the entire consciousness would melt. A broken tool was not useful. One day, there would be a time for breaking. He would relish that day. Today, it was time to be a friend. "Look at this." Mulder held out his hands, bandages stark white against the leathered skin. The ball of his emotions boiled with red-black geysers of lava that shot high against the blackness then fell back into the heart of the sun. Ah, anger flares. These were only mild, but they never failed to impress. Nicolas decided to wait before moving into manipulation, allowing the connection he had so carefully built into the man's mind to strengthen before testing it again. "You're injured? How? I'll call my personal healer right away and he'll take care of it immediate-" "You don't understand!" The man interrupted him, taking a step forward until he stood directly before the desk. His voice raised a half-step in pitch, but Mulder was doing an admirable job of keeping his outward restraint. Then again, that was expected of an Enforcer. Rumors whispered they were more kin to stone than men. Or, in Mulder's case, stone outside and black hole suns underneath. "I don't want a healer and I don't want sympathy. These are burns. Burns I got from a house where two little boys and their mother died because your men were too quick to kill." Not this argument again. They had been over it all before, but not since the very earliest days of their agreement. He had hoped to build within Mulder a tolerance for violence. Obviously, things had not developed as he had hoped. Nicolas took a moment before answering, pretending to contemplate Mulder's words as he decided which emotion to press to his advantage. Some sort of calming effect would be desired. He focused his energy over that emotion, watching the blue-white waves of peace flow from his mind into Mulder. The burning mass of pain and guilt absorbed the first few rays without so much as a flicker of change, but slowly Nicolas began to see a tinge of blue to the very tip of the flames. Not as much as he had hoped for, but that would do for now. "You would have spared the life of weapons dealers." "I would have killed the man responsible for the weapons. I would have saved the woman and the children. The Corps has a reputation for vigilance, but isn't there some call for a reputation as well for mercy?" "Mercy." An iron cord of anger tightened his jaw into a strained smile. /Oh, but who does that little Boy Scout think he is? He sits there with blood on his hands and he dares to talk of *mercy* ? And even more, it is to be extended to the traitors who refuse to support the Cause! To the apathetic!/ This time he had to apply the calming trick to his own mind. Rage would ruin the facade of empathetic mentor that he had worked so carefully to erect. So Mulder wanted to know about mercy, did he? Then he would learn of it until he was sick. - - - - - - - - - - - - - Resurrection (18/32) by darkstar - - - - - - - - - - - - - "Let me tell you a story, Mulder. It's about mercy. About those poor innocent bystanders who you seem to place such a high value on." Yes, this proved a most fortunate opportunity indeed. He felt the eagerness in Mulder, the desire for some sort of answer to assuage his torment, and would use that hunger as a portal for his next manipulation. As he began to talk, he opened up every channel of his own mind. He knew what sort of emotions the past brought spinning to the surface of his blood. He wanted Mulder to feel it, pulse for pulse. "Once upon a time, as all good stories start, a man and woman wanted a baby girl. They had been married for four years without children, and now it was time to bring one into the world that they could call their very own. They would give her the very best of everything, of course. It back in the days when America was the land of the best. So they waited and hoped and in the spring, a child was born. She had golden hair, just like a little angel, and eyes so much like her mother that to look into them was to see her mother's soul. And the man loved her, just as he loved his wife. Maybe even more. She was his bright cherub. His firstborn." Nicolas paused a moment, trying to cut through the storms of his own emotions to gain some sense of Mulder's. There was still that eagerness, mixing now with an anticipation of sorts. Morbid curiosity, perhaps? He wouldn't want to be a disappointment. He continued. "She was three when the aliens came. The man knew he had to protect her and her mother from the monsters. That he had to fight for them and for his country. Some of his friends felt the same way about their wives, about their nation. They began to organize a resistance, ready to fight until the death. But t hey never got that chance. Do you know why? The rest of the townspeople were afraid. They were bystanders, Mulder. Just like the woman and children you wish you could have saved. They had no notions of honor, or of love, or of courage. All they knew was the stench of their own fear and it poisoned them." Nicolas watched Mulder flinch as the black shockwave of anger slammed full force into him. He made no attempt to soften the emotion. It was time for Mulder to hate....as he himself hated. Time for it to hurt. "They told the man and his friends that they would fight, but in secret they surrendered to the Imperials. Just like sheep. As a token of their good faith, they turned over the names of each of the 'dissidents'. Early one morning, the man found himself pulled from his bed by a group of Imperial soldiers. His wife and daughter were torn from his arms, still in their nightgowns, and dragged into the street. The whole town was there. All of them, staring like vultures waiting for their breakfast. The man looked around and saw his friends there as well, with their wives and their children and their lovers. He thought he was going to die." The next words were difficult, even after so many years. Nicolas blinked twice to hide the sheen of tears that would have been embarrassing to the exalted position of The Leader. "He didn't die. None of his men did. Instead, the soldiers tied their hands behind their backs and placed guns against their heads and made them watch as their wives and children were nailed to the walls of their houses. It was a demonstration of power, you see. Just in case anyone else tried to rebel. Mercy? The man begged for it. He had never begged for anything before, but he pleaded with the soldiers to put him on the wall and let his daughter live. They laughed at him when they set the houses on fire." His jaw tightened but he forced the words out between clenched teeth. "And my wife and daughter burned to death while I sat and watched. Tell me, Mulder, how innocent those bystanders are now. They claim to have no interest in the war, but they are ready to betray any who stand up for the truth. I was taken by the Imperials, to the experimentation camps. I watched helplessly as my men were tortured day after day in the labs, and I was just as powerless to save myself. You can't imagine how much pain a man can stand before he dies. Believe me, it lasts a lot longer than your will to live. They meant to break me but instead they taught me that the only way to win is to match evil for evil. Blow for blow, no matter how extreme. We must control them as they would control us, or else we will be defeated. I carried this knowledge with me once I escaped. I swore to defend Humanity from the alien monsters and from the spineless weaklings who submit to them. All of them are guilty, Commander. Even their women. Even their children. They are taught the same treachery as their men. You must realize this. Look at the people you claim were so innocent-- the man was a weapons dealer. He sold guns to the creatures who kill our brothers. His entire family knew, yet they did nothing to oppose him. You say he only wanted to survive. That is the excuse they gave me when they nailed my wife and daughter to the walls. They are all the same, Mulder. They appear innocent, but they scheme and they lie and I will not allow them to kill any of our children, anymore." "But to burn alive-" "Judgment meet for their crimes. A painful realization, I know, but one that is true nonetheless." Nicolas pressed his words deep into Mulder's mind, slashing the emotions across the man's subconscious with the quickness of a razor blade. He pried apart the wounds with his fingers and forced his hate into the blood that welled up. /Hate them, Mulder. Hate them as I hate them. Become what I know you can become./ It was so close..... He could feel the tremble of Mulder's mind, the delicate balance on the verge of collapse into submission. The man's eyes shook. His fingers quivered. Any moment he would surrender and fall into the beautiful abyss. Any minute now.... Wait. Something was wrong. Something resisted him, a golden shaft of light that sprung from the core of Mulder's mind. It pushed the hate back, not entirely, but with enough force to keep it from overwhelming as it should have done. When he reached out to draw it into his own mind, hoping to identify it, he could not believe his senses. It was love. Love that was weakened yet just strong enough to preserve hope and prevent the sway of total darkness. Repulsive, yes, but potentially deadly. The woman....Scully....she was responsible for this. The light had never appeared before her arrival. Now it took all of his concentration to smother it before it completely drove him from Mulder's mind. At least a little of the hate had seeped through the defenses, and Nicolas pushed against those seeds of darkness until he felt his temples swell to bursting point. /Feel the guilt. Feel your pain. Feel your anguish. If you will not hate, then you will suffer. You will suffer and you will bleed for me before you leave today./ Mulder's eyes already showed that blood as he faced Nicolas again. "I am sorry for your loss, Nicolas. Truly, I am, but....there has to be some other way." He sounded uncertain....it was about time. At last, Nicolas saw the light waning, burning low in fear when faced by the all-powerful black hole of the man's self-hatred. Nicolas wiped away the sweat on his face with a firm and confident swipe of his hand. He was again the master of Mulder's emotions. The connection was restored. "If we do not protect our own people, who will?" Now that the pain began to bite, it was time to play savior. He would, as always, take all the nasty burdens of reality from Mulder's shoulders and tell him what a good man he really was. "But I see your point of view." He began to wrap tiny silken threads of sympathy around Mulder's emotions, spinning them lightly as a spider across a windowsill. "If you would prefer not to take part on missions that deal with civilians, it can be arranged. The Corps is not blind to the needs of her soldiers. All I have to do is sign a paper and you will be transferred to an anti-Enforcer unit." Nicolas dangled hope before Mulder's eyes and watched him devour it whole. "You can do that?" "I'm the Leader." Nicolas smiled warmly. "I know you, Mulder. You came to me searching for a way to atone for your past crimes, and when have I turned you away? I gave you one method of redemption and if that is not good enough, I have many more. But you have to keep the faith. The Cause will demand a sacrifice of her sons and of her daughters. Sometimes it is our blood. Sometimes it is the blood of others." Mulder seemed to digest the words before speaking again, his question an abrupt change of subject that Nicolas didn't even feel coming. "I want to tell her that. Should I?" Here was a new danger. When Mulder was alone, he had been easy enough to manipulate. Nicolas could keep the man coming back to him because he was simply the only one available to listen. But now there was the matter of this woman Scully. She was the light inside his mind, the force that could heal his every wound. Even if Mulder didn't realize it yet, if he regained his relationship with her, he would see it soon enough. The web of emotional control that had taken so long to weave would be broken. Although Nicolas had already determined he would not allow that to happen. Mulder was his tool. His reluctant, yet deadly weapon. No mere woman would steal that away. "That depends." He said. "How do you think she would accept it?" "I wish I knew." "Men like you and I have to be careful with our secrets, Mulder. We are often forced to do things that would shock someone who is less devoted to the Cause. Your Scully is new here. She hasn't had time yet to adjust herself to our way of life. I think that if you reveal yourself too soon, you risk driving her away. Wait, instead, for a month. Maybe two. Let her become one of us, and then you can tell her anything and be unafraid." Mulder said nothing at first, but his eyes agreed. It had been a simple persuasion, really. Mulder had known before he ever walked through the door that he wasn't going to tell his woman the truth. He had simply wanted a validation of it. And validation, Nicolas thought warmly, was always easy enough to provide. "A month." "Maybe less, maybe more. You will know yourself when you are ready to talk. Until that time comes, forget about your doubts. We all experience them. I think that the change to anti-Enforcer work will be good for you. There is no better reminder of the complete evil we are battling. I do warn you, though, the workload will be more demanding. You will run difficult missions, and often they will be in enemy territory. This means prolonged time in the field as well. Just be aware of that before you decide." Nicolas ran his finger along the edge of the desk. Mulder's absence would give him an opportunity to investigate Scully. If she influenced Mulder's mind with such power, one could only imagine the strength of her own mind. Perhaps she was the one he waited for. The perfect painting. Would she be sweet, he wondered, when he broke her down or would it be more fire and spice? He could taste it on his lips, on the sides of his tongue. What a blow it would be to the people's beloved Hero when he returned from a field mission to find his woman belonged to another man. That her love lived in another's mind. In the time it took him to indulge in the fantasies, Mulder seemed to have come to a decision. "Tell me when I start." "Tomorrow." Nicolas smiled, the flush of victory warm under his skin. "You'll receive mission details at the normal briefing time. I wish you the best of luck in your new field." "Thank you, sir." Mulder rose to his feet, his eyes a little less wounded. "Don't mention it." Nicolas was glad some of the man's spirit was back. After all, a field operative needed all his wits if he was going to survive. Mulder had those wits. He made a fine killer, and had proven it time and time again. "Take the rest of the day off. Sleep. Relax. Take your woman to the officer's club and buy her a beer. That's an order." He grinned, all laughter and good ol' boy humor. "I'll keep it in mind." "You're dismissed." As Mulder walked away, Nicolas slowly withdrew himself from the connection between their minds, leaning back in his chair as a deep satisfaction warmed his gut like expensive wine. He would spend the rest of the morning painting. He would capture Mulder's mind, a burning red star in an empty universe and he would steal from it the strange and beautiful light. He would possess that light. And watch it bleed from his brushes to drip slowly down the canvas. He would watch it die. Mulder's steps took him at a brisk march down the hallway, past offices and desks and secretaries to someplace where the air was clear and the sun shone and there was no fog inside his mind. He barely knew if he had breathed from the time that he set foot inside the office to the moment when the doors to H eadquarters shut behind him. He sucked the pure air into his lungs, letting it drift through his mind and blow away all cobwebs. Something was not right. Nicolas did not hand out such favors to just anyone. The man wanted something; if it wasn't clear before, it was crystalline now. All that remained was the five million dollar question of "what". A thousand suspicions itched at his mind like burrs stuck under a saddle. The answers seemed so close, yet shrouded in a mist. Something whispered to him that the mist would always cloud his judgment when he was around Nicolas. That the air would never be pure when he was near the man. The only question remained how did he proceed? From the start he had accepted the fact that Nicolas would try to use him. He had planned to use the Corps right back. And wasn't he? He knew how to walk the line, when to listen to Nicolas and when to only pretend to listen. And now he had been given exactly what he had longed for. No more civilian life would be taken in front of him. Instead he would get the chance to strike back at the very enemy who had taken his dignity and his pride from him. It would seem he was winning the game. But there was that glint in Nicolas' eye, the rattle snake smile on his lips whenever they talked. It made Mulder wonder exactly what price Nicolas would demand in return for his generosity. Every snake had a lair. He would discover the Leader's secret soon enough. In the mean time, he would do nothing to arouse suspicion. He would be every bit the son of Humanity he had been before; maybe even better. It would be enjoyable duty, if he got to kill Enforcers. They were like rats. The more of them that died, the less chance of disease. It would be just like in the old days, when he used to hunt Imperials with Scully and kill them in their sleep. That thought brought a smile to his lips as he walked down the street. The fresh air indeed had cleared his mind, and in place of the mist, there was a clarity of purpose he welcomed. Though Nicolas had been right about one thing, at least. Scully was not to hear any murderer's confession. Not yet. Not until he was worthy enough to confess. If that was the requirement, then he would push for that atonement, more and more every day. He would dream of it at night and bask in the hope of it when morning came. One day, perhaps he would wake up to find himself ready. And then it would be beautiful again. * * * * * * * * * * * * * From eight o'clock to noon, Scully's world was consumed by a relentless flurry of charts, patients, and babies, babies, everywhere. Morning was spent in post-natal care, checking the littlest members of the Corps for sickness or deformity, as well as ensuring the health of their mothers. Che assisted her in this, via her special request, applying his talents as needed under her watchful eye. She knew Mulder would shield her from the penalties if they were caught healing without authorization, but Che had no such cushion. It did not take the two of them long to work out a system. He would note the girls in need of special care, and she would make sure to take a moment or two longer in her "check up". Just enough time to allow Che to work his magic. When Mulder had dropped her off at the door of the infirmary, Scully had promised herself before she entered that she would maintain her detachment at all times. That she would be kind, but always professional. It was a resolution broken the first time she held a new baby in her arms, and watched the mother smile. After lunch would come the real test : her first shift in the delivery rooms. The very sight of the straps and the tables brought such a rush of memories as to make her queasy. Che seemed to understand though he did not ask her to explain. "You'll go in there for two reasons, Dana. To bring new life into the world and to protect existing life. Focus on that, and nothing else, and you will be fine. You will be more than fine. I'll light a candle for you when I go home for lunch. " He had placed his hand on her shoulder long enough to complete the reassurance, then left to finish teaching a group of giggling thirteen year-olds how to change a diaper. These thoughts preoccupied her until she had nearly forgotten the unfinished business between her and Mulder. Now, sitting alone at the kitchen table before a half-eaten sandwich, that preoccupation melted away. He was keeping something from her,that was obvious. The drinking was only a part of it. The exact identity of this demon remained an enigma So she would go to the last place she had seen it manifest itself. Scully pushed her plate away and knelt before the sink, opening the cabinet as she had seen him. At first, all that met her eyes was a clutter of pots, pans, and miscellaneous detergents. After her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, her attention lit on a telltale gleam of glass in the farthest shadows of the back corner. There'd better not be anything living back there. She tried not to think about that possibility as she reached into the bowels of the cabinet. Her fingers tripped over a thick pile of folded papers, which she placed carefully on the floor beside her. After that encounter, she met the coolness of the glass quickly, and withdrew a half-full bottle of tequila. A little exploring led her to discover quite a few other bottles. Temptation itched in her finger to pour the contents of all of them down the sink. Before the urge could strengthen, she placed the bottle carefully back into place, eyes drawn to the papers before her. The front of each was marked with a date, the time indicated spanning what seemed to be at least six months. Whatever they were, Mulder had started writing them when he was still an Enforcer.... The dates led right up to last night. Her hand smoothed the surface of the most recent paper; for some reason the act felt almost profane, as if she were the violator of some holy secret. She could pray for forgiveness later. This was the only way she could hope to find out how to help him. The only way... The sensation of intrusion remained, cloying to her senses as she opened the paper. It was his handwriting, all right. A bit messy, but still legible. /Dear Sam,/ It was a wrench in the cogs of the world, the hitch that froze the universe for a moment before it continued to plod on its way, leaving her running to catch up. She read on, entranced. It wasn't hard to hear his voice in the words, as real as if he was beside her. /Sorry if my writing is a little harder to read tonight. No, I'm not any more drunk than...usual. I burned my hands tonight during patrol, but only the outer skin. Not nearly deep enough. We killed four more tonight. Would you believe I tried to save them? I didn't want them to die, especially the two children. Innocent children. I told the men to burn the house, but I forgot to tell them to let the family go. I thought they knew, or maybe I didn't even think at all. I left to report our "victory" and five minutes later, I heard the screams..../ Her eyes jerked away from the paper, flying up to the ceiling in attempt to escape the words, but inevitably, they were called back to face the awful truth. She had asked for it, and she had received a double portion. /The family burned with their house. I tried to get the door open. As you can see, all I got for my trouble was smoke in my lungs and burns on my hands. Have you ever listened to a child scream? It wasn't the first time I'd heard it, but let me assure you it never gets easier. Never. And did it have to be fire? My old enemy, laughing in my face at my helplessness./ Her hands shook, and the paper with them, forcing her to strain to make out the words. She did not want to continue. She wanted to throw the letters back into their crypt and run. It did not matter where.....just away. But she read on. /They called me their savior, once. I pretended not to hear it, but I did. I honestly tried, Sam, to live up to the name. I hear what they call me now. Deserter. Traitor. Judas. I can't even protect their children. The irony of it is, we were upholding the Corps idea of law and justice. That was how they justified the skeletons smoking behind us when we left. The men accepted it easily enough. I don't know if I can anymore. The answers can't be that simple....that brutal.... They drank to celebrate, I drank to forget. I hold my liquor too well. I can still see the flames./ "Oh Mulder....no...." Scully closed her eyes, gathering the will and the strength to finish the letter through the blur of tears. /But I can see something else, too. She is sleeping in her bed, no more than six feet from me. Sam, she is beautiful. None of this has defiled her, yet. I won't allow it. Not even if the corruption is mine. Tomorrow I have to give my mission report to Nicolas. It is strange how my doubts concerning the man and the Corps diminish with every meeting. He says it's because I'm freeing my mind, although I only allow my belief of that to go so far. Sometimes the urge to trust is so overpowering that it awakens other suspicions. Time will prove or deny those. For now, he is the only one, besides you, that I can talk to of these things. I have to tell someone... I know, you'd say to talk to her. But how can I give her the truth when it stinks of soot and charred flesh? She knows what uniform I wore, and she thinks she knows all that it meant, but she can't imagine the evil of it. Should I confess? Throw it all before her and wait for judgment? There is more than one kind of fire, you know. I fear hers most of all. Perhaps, though, perhaps she won't push me away. I look into her face, and love still lingers. At least for now. At least for now. Love always, Fox Mulder./ Time streamed around her in velvet ribbons, all about her but not touching her. Her heart packed too full for speech or even for tears. Her fingers still quivered as she folded the letter back and laid it back with the others into their darkened shrine. The words tumbled over one another in her mind, the off-kilter picture of a broken kaleidoscope. Burnt children and burnt hands and love still lingering. /I will always love you, Mulder. As long as you will let me./ to be continued