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Resurrection (25/32)
by darkstar
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     "His name was Che." she said. "Hers was Aida."
     And so for the next thirty minutes, she told him of the beauty.
She told of a healer with warm eyes and ideals of a better
world who saved her life once but saved her humanity a good
many more times, reminded her that not everyone had sold 
out. Not everyone had given up. She whispered of a girl who
absorbed emotions, who radiated innocence in a day when
no one was innocent, and then her voice dropped to a hushed
awe as she described the child that spoke from within the womb
to its mother. Scully felt the tears eating away at her restraints,
but she smiled anyway as she remembered details of a back
room wedding and a pink sun dress, and all the other nuances
of color and life that filled in her memories of them. She 
wanted to speak of them now, while they burned vibrant 
and fresh in her mind. She did not want them to fade away into 
just another stack of yellowed photographs in her albums of
dead memories and nearly forgotten lives.
     Then she wiped away the tears that had escaped, pressed
her fingers against her palms to remind herself who she was
fighting, and told him about the ugliness. She heard her voice
turn to acid as she recounted the arrest and the beating and the
forced abortion she had been unable to prevent. It felt like
steel had replaced the blood in her veins when she told Mulder
of a husband's last, desperate attempt to save his wife. She
relied on clinical detachment to sustain her through descriptions
of the execution. Even without details, she still recalled the
horror, still tasted it like bile in her throat.
     (Mulder, she noticed, did not look shocked. She resented it
until she realized that he had seen much worse. She did not
allow herself to think that he had been responsible for much
worse.)
     Then, suddenly, she was at the end of the story. Could
two lives be summed up so briefly? She wondered how long it
would take to retell the story of her own life, and of Mulder's.
If anyone would even remember the battles and the quest and
the heroes they used to be.
     "He killed them." she said. "Nicolas did. He stood there
and watched while she screamed and I swear he smiled through
it, right from the beginning to the last drop of the stilettos. He
enjoyed it."
     Mulder let her finish, taking a moment to sort through the
jumble of emotions and facts he had just heard. Obviously the
two hybrids had effected her deeply, even though she had only
known them for a while. He was, in a way that he regretted but
could not help, jealous that she had so easily given them the
trust and friendship that it had taken him years to cultivate. 
But the bottom line was, they were dead now and she was out
for blood. Scully was not one to leave a friend's death 
unavenged. She'd proven that time and time before in the field.
If he supported her claim that Nicolas had acted unjustly, it 
would only add to her resolve to act against the man. And that
was dangerous. She had no idea what she was up against. No
idea at all. There was something about Nicolas even more 
chilling than Pavlov had been. He wasn't about to let her 
expose herself to that sort of darkness.
     And besides, a strange and stubborn emotion in the back 
of his mind that refused to believe the Leader would act so 
unjustly. After all, the hybrids had broken the law. Execution 
was the price. Perhaps Scully's ready closeness to the couple 
had impaired her judgment.....
     Either way, she could not be allowed to follow their
footesteps. It was for this reason he chose his words carefully to
persuade her not to fight.
     "Nicolas is a hard man." he said. "He may even be a cruel
man, in some aspects. But I do not see him as a cold-blooded
murderer. A soldier, yes. But not murder for sake of sheer
pettiness."      He did not realize that the voice whispering the 
words into his mind was very much like Nicolas himself. By 
now, the voice had been inside him for too long.  
     "You defend him." Her hand stiffened in his and she very
nearly pulled away. He closed his hands tighter around hers to
prevent it. He could not lose touch with her, not now. Not
when the doors were just beginning to open. "You defend him
and yet you did not see his eyes when he looked at them. It
was murder. And the blood was colder than any I have seen."
     "He is responsible for the protection of thousands, for
hundreds of thousands, of lives. I don't defend his methods or
the unnecessary brutality of the execution, but I can at least
empathize with his reasoning. The rule of law is the only thing
that prevents us from turning into a bunch of animals with
guns. Sometimes that law is something we can support. Other
times it's something a little harder to accept. I know they
were your friends, and I'm sorry that it had to happen to them,
but Nicolas is not the man to gun for. He's just doing his job.
Maybe he does it too eagerly sometimes. No one's perfect
and right now he's the one in charge."
     This time she did pull away. "Congratulations, Mulder. You
sound like quite the company man." It stung, in a way far worse
than the cuts on her skin, to hear him defend Nicolas. What 
could he possibly see in the man? She had heard how quickly
he had been taken into Nicolas' confidence, even that the two
men were considered friends, but she had not believed it until
now. Could Mulder not see the evil in the creature's very eyes?
Just like Pavlov.
     The thought sent her mind spiraling back to the dreams and
the eyes and the blood red flowers. /Deepest sympathy for
the loss of your friends./ Monster. She would tell Mulder 
what kind of monster he defended.
     "It's not just the execution." She spoke calmly, attempting to
keep the rage to a simmer so he could not fault her logic. "He
had personal interest. Why do you think Aida was arrested?
He wanted her for the same reasons those fat Colonist generals 
buy their pretty young slaves. She caught his fancy. When he
found out she wouldn't give him what he wanted, he beat her. 
Then he killed her for it, and her husband for trying to stop it.
If Che hadn't tried to escape with her, she would have gone
right back to Nicolas' bedroom and I don't think you can
tell me that that would be in the best interest of the state."
     "You are certain he was the one to beat her. You can prove
it."
     "She told Che that Nicolas did...things....to her mind." She 
shivered on instinct, resisting the urge to grab Mulder's hand
again. She imagined Nicolas had looked at Aida the same
way the man looked at her. An intrusion deeper than flesh. 
     For a long space he did not say anything. 
     "He's not Pavlov, Scully. Pavlov is dead. I killed him for
you, and he's not coming back."
     /Yes, but would you kill the man you think saved your soul 
if I told you he wants to do the same things to my mind? And
Pavlov is alive, for as long as Nicolas' eyes burn in my dreams./
For a fleeting moment she contemplated telling him this. The
words were on her lips.
     But she could not bring herself to speak them. Pavlov was
her demon, not his. The nightmares, the memories.....she must
fight them alone. She would not throw herself weak and 
cowering into Mulder's arms and beg him to save her from the
monsters under her bed. She could drag them into the light
herself, sooner or later. No matter what he said, he counted on 
her being strong. One of them had to be made of steel and it 
certainly wasn't him, no matter how hard he thought he'd 
become. They had broken him because of her once and she 
would never, never see it happen again.
     So she smiled, and reached for his hand again, and because 
she craved the warmth more than the truth, she agreed with 
Mulder. "He's not coming back. I know."
     He must have felt her tremble, revealing the secrets
without words, but she knew he would not understand the
tremor. He would think it was the cold, or perhaps the grief, or
perhaps a distant memory of Pavlov and the camps. For any 
of these reasons or maybe all of them, he pulled her close to
him again, wrapping his arms around her like he wanted to
keep out the world.
     It was strange, how even after falling stars and dead planets,
she had never stopped believing she was safe every time he
held her.
     "Do you ever wonder why they say ignorance is bliss?" she
whispered, tracing circles on the back of his palm as she spoke.
The scars on his hands were rough to touch. She tried to pretend
they were not there, but her fingertips betrayed the illusion
every time.
     "Why?"
     "Because whenever there is a moment of happiness...I
mean true, complete happiness...it is spoiled by the knowledge
that something will inevitably spoil it. Flowers wither in the 
winter. Sunsets melt into black. But sometimes I think the
knowledge is a choice. Some people live their whole lives
without it. They just go from day to day in the ignorance that
they can perfectly happy...that they can be in love...and not
have it hurt."
     /Does it hurt so much to love me?/ He wanted to ask,
but he dared not push so far. He did not want to hurt her.
Only hold her, like this, forever and ever. Without winter or
blackness. He spoke to remind himself that it was temptation
he could not indulge. Someone had to fight. He was that
someone. "Reality hits everyone sooner or later. Even the
ignorant."
     "Sometimes," she stared intently into the waning darkness.
"I envy them. Just because they smile. Do you know, Mulder,
that every touch between us is like it's the last? We wait for
disaster to strike because we think we have to have an excuse
to be close. But sometimes don't you just want closeness for the
sheer sake of it? The world doesn't have to fall apart in order
for you to put your arms around me. I don't have to be 
crying or bleeding for you to hold my hand. We can laugh
and smile and be ignorantly happy too, sometimes. Right?
Haven't we earned that? We tell each other we'd die for each
other, but we're so scared to live."
     "We live."
     "Think back and tell me if you remember the last time we've
spent a day together doing anything besides running or fighting
or killing?" 
     There was a time when he could have remembered, when
he could have told her exactly what she wanted to hear. But that
time was gone. All that filled his mind were images of blood on
hands and dust on skin and never sleeping the whole night for
fear of being caught. Of hands and fingers and arms tangled
around each other but always in desperation. Always in fear. They held
onto each other until the skin bore fingerprints because they
were afraid it would the last time. Yet never because it simply
felt right.
     He had no answer to give her. No answer for himself, 
other than a fierce resolve that it would change. He had wasted
enough time in fear, in darkness. She deserved some light 
and he would find a way to give it to her. Even if he could not
find it in himself. He'd shine her own reflection back at her so
she could see how pure and beautiful she really was.
     /Scully, you're the sunrise./ His mind reached out for hers,
imagining she could hear. /All lit up like heaven and soft as
butterfly wings but don't you tell the secret. Don't you tell a
soul./
     These were not his spoken words. They ran too deep for
that. He found other words, less close to the heart, to share
with her. "And what would you do if you were ignorant? If
the world was ours for a day, and there was no war or 
death or broken flowers to worry about? What would you
do?" She could ask the moon from him now, and he'd give it
to her. She could ask for his heart, and he'd smile while he
cut it out because the wound would never hurt. She'd sweeten
it to pleasure with just one kiss.
     For several moments he was afraid he had said the wrong
thing. Perhaps the wish was too intimate, too private to be
shared with him. He began to fear he had pushed her into a 
place where all she saw was the burnt out world and could not
look up to see the stars that remained in the sky.
     But no, Scully would never lose hope. She was stronger than
he ever would be. He knew it to be true when she spoke.
Slowly. Carefully. As if she was unveiling something precious
to him, peeling back the covering layer by layer. This is my 
dream, she was telling him. Please don't hurt it. 
     Never, he would say.
     "I think I would dance."
     "Dance?" Funny, he never thought of her that way. He
knew her grace, her quickness, but ever since the invasion, he
had viewed those attributes in terms of skill in defense
maneuvers and quickness on the battle field. Now Mulder felt
he had missed some integral part of her personality, the part
that had wings and flew over even the tallest barbed wire. Her
spirit.
     "When you dance, you're free. No one's holding you back
from anything. No one's stopping you. There's just the music,
flowing through you from every part of you, and there's
the warmth of the song, and you just fly. We danced once and
it felt like that. It was so long ago but I'll never forget. And if
I was ignorant, and if I did not care, that is what I would do."
     He remembered the dance she spoke of, every detail from 
way  the light of the disco ball glittered in her eyes to the 
softness of her body in his arms. It was intoxicating. He could 
become drunk off the memory. 
     "What would you do?"  
     She waited for him to reply, to open up his soul as she had
revealed hers.
     "I would make it like it was."
     Then neither of them could speak.

     Three days passed, then a week. The cuts on her hands healed
quickly, as did the pain in her eyes. Mulder knew her skin was 
used  to the blood and her soul was used to death. It was as 
simple as survival, yet there were still mornings when he woke 
up bitter with the hatred of it. But then she had never been one 
to wear her grief on her shoulder like so much sackcloth and 
ashes. She preferred to combat death by living life, so he stood 
aside and let her heal herself in her own way. She worked long 
hours in the delivery rooms, as if each baby born was her 
private victory. She would come home late, her eyes crinkled 
with weariness, but always she smiled for him and laughed at 
his lame jokes and thanked him for waiting to eat dinner with 
her, even if it was cold. Always she did everything in her 
power to hide the glimmers of sadness in the corners of her eyes. 
He let her believe he did not see, even though he noticed 
every time. 
     Something had to give. Something had to change or else
they would rush right back into life and the war and forget all
that had once been whispered in darkness.
     On the morning on the seventh day since she let him hold
her and told him her dream, he decided he couldn't let that
happen. He couldn't let it slip away.

     "Do you still want to dance?"
     She put down her paperwork and stared at him, her eyes
sliding into a deeper shade of blue. "What?" 
     "You told me you'd dance if you had a day of ignorance.
Did you mean it? Is it really what you want?"
     "I suppose so, but it's not like we can just-"
     "Be ready in an hour."
     "Doesn't leave have to be approved at least a month in
advance?"
     "Don't worry about that. Just pull that dress of yours out of
the closet and be ready in an hour."
     Her voice caught him at the door, and he turned to see her
smiling. He knew it was real because it was so very pale, as if it
were something that had not seen the sun in years and was just
now stepping forth into the light. "Mulder, why?"
     "You said it, not me. Everyone deserves a day of happiness, 
right? Even us."
     "Especially us." 
     He grinned and the colors of her smile grew deeper. Already 
it was something like happiness. It was something like love. 
     This was going to be a beautiful day.
  
     
                         * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  
     Ten hours later-- after the sticky heat of a three hour car ride,
the contained chaos of the city streets, the cool revival of dusty
skin in a hotel shower, and the waiting for dark to fall and the
magic to be right-- they arrived at the gateway to what
seemed an entirely different world.
     The Nebula, the biggest of the local underground nightclubs,
advertised a taste of the Old World and delivered on all accounts.
The other guarantee of business was the club was the only
of its kind with two hundred miles of Freedom City. That was
the reason people paid a hundred dollars hard currency a head 
at the door and didn't complain.
     One hundred dollars was nothing. He'd pay five hundred to 
give her tonight. She was going to dance and she was going to 
do it in the best place he could give her, and the Nebula was it. 
Mulder had heard the other men in his patrol talking about it, 
how there was something about it that sucked you in like a 
time warp and threw you back to a place without dried out 
land and empty seas. How you could forget, there. 
     Tonight, that was what he wanted. Ignorance. Bliss.
     They stepped through the door, and despite himself, his 
breath caught in his lungs. 
     The darkness hit him first, thick and smelling of margaritas 
and rosewood incense, a potent combination that dulled the 
mind and awakened the deeper senses. For a moment, it was so 
dark he could barely see. Then a thousand stars exploded above 
their heads, the sparks falling down to their faces in a 
thunderstorm of silver light as the disco ball rotated toward them.
     The light dripped from her hair, down across her skin like 
rain, and he imagined he saw it turn to steam by the heat of 
her bare shoulders. She was always beautiful, but tonight she 
was beyond that. The dress flowed around her like it had been 
fused into one with her skin by some act of magic. Yes, there 
must be magic here tonight.... He did not remember the color 
being so bright of a blue before, or her skin being kissed by so 
soft a blush as it was tonight. 
     He felt a need to have her close, her warmth clinging to 
him like the incense in the air, thick and sweet and blood-boiling. 
He had been cold far too long without her, but not for tonight. 
Tonight they would dance and nothing else in the world 
mattered.
     Mulder kept one hand around her arm, just above her 
elbow, to ensure they were not separated in the crush. His 
other hand hovered at the curve of her back, the tips of fingers 
barely touching her. The material of her dress was thinner than 
the light itself, and she burned his fingertips through the cloth.
     It made him feel alive. It made him want to press his lips 
against hers and absorb the heat until his soul was consumed 
and born again like a ghost of the phoenix. He would transform 
back into the man with the soul of a child. The warrior with the 
eyes of a prophet.
     A human.
     She made him all of these things.
     The darkness washed over them again, ebbing and flowing
like the tide upon some otherworldly shore, and he became 
increasingly aware of the strange universe around them. The
room was packed with flesh, a sea of faces most of whom were
under twenty-five, the majority paired into couples moving on 
the dance floor or hovering at the bar. One minute he would see
them, the next minute the darkness returned and they disappeared.
It was as if a constant battle was being waged between darkness  
and light. Inherent darkness pierced the air but every minute a 
new variation of color and brilliance tore through the blackness. 
Strobe lights passed over  the crowd on  the dance floor, racing 
fast as firework explosions inside the brain. Colored spotlights 
hollowed out islands of crimson or violet or tangerine radiance 
in the sea of black. The patches of light drifted across the crowd 
in time to no rhythm but their own. Lasers cut through the air 
in daggers of deepest green. Above all, the disco ball hung like a 
false moon, the silver patterns of light changing shape and 
definition to fit the melancholy sweetness of the song that 
filled every corner of the room. 

      *I dream of rain. I dream of gardens in the desert sand.*

      The others were right. It was a place not of earth. Nebula,
the name said. The burning soul of a dead star. He believed it.

      *I wake in pain. I dream of love as time runs through my 
hand.*

      But he was not the one who needed to be swept away. She 
had not yet spoken. Not yet given affirmation or condemnation 
to this dream.

     *I dream of fire. These dreams are tied to a horse that will
never tire.*

     "If you don't like it," he whispered, his lips close to her ear 
so she could hear him under the pulse of the music. "We can 
leave."
     What if he had been mistaken? What if this could not make 
her happy, make her forget?

     *And in the flames, her shadows play in the shape of a man's
desire.*

     She turned around, just as another burst of the strobe lights
sent trickles of light running down her arms and skimming the
surface of her dress. Her eyes stared straight into him, darker
than the shadows between the spotlights but burning with some
strange passion he could not name. 
     She leaned forward until her cheek rested against his, her 
words breathing into his ear. Close. Intimate. Words for only 
him to hear. 

     *No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this.*
  
   "Shhhh," she whispered. That voice did things to a man. "Don't 
talk, Mulder. Don't talk.  Let's pretend that we know nothing. 
Nothing but music and flying and dreams. Dance with me. Just 
dance."

     *And as she turns, this way she moves in the logic of all my 
dreams. This fear burns. I realize that nothing's as it seems.*

     "And what if my feet are too heavy?" He murmured back.
What if he had born the burdens too long and had lost the wings?
     "Then I'll carry you."

     *I dream of rain....I lift my gaze to empty skies above.*

     But the skies were not empty. It poured, rained stars, and he 
felt it soak him to the soul as she pulled him onto the dance floor, 
a hunger in her fingers as they wrapped around his. Palm to 
palm. Skin to skin. Pulse to pulse.
     /Let us pretend, you and I. But don't you talk. Don't you 
say a word. It will shatter the secret. Break the spell./
     Oh, but he was afraid to break the spell.

    *I close my eyes, this rare perfume is the sweet intoxication of
her love.*

     He eased his eyes shut and let the moment carry him away,
away from reality and the still vivid memories of broken flowers
and torn hands. Of her torn eyes. When the moment passed, 
another came, then another, and yet another still. They were in 
an ocean of moments, warm and calm and shoreless. Swimming 
together, hand in hand. Passion to passion. No one else existed. 
No other world existed outside this stolen sweetness.

     *Sweet desert rose, the memory of Eden haunts us all...*

    An electric violin took over when the voice died away, leaving 
a lingering sense of yearning in the air and in the back of his 
mind. He moved closer to her, fingers hovering inches above 
the slope of her shoulders as she swam the ocean with him. She 
flowed around him like liquid, one moment a fingertip out 
of reach and the next close enough to press a kiss upon his 
eyelids. Her eyes were wide open, but sightless, staring up 
into the explosions of light as if  they spoke to her soul. 
     When you dance, you're free, she had said. She was finding 
her way back to freedom, and her every move was desperate 
with the search for it. She danced like she was afraid she'd lost the 
way. Like she was afraid to slow for a moment because if she 
did, the dream might leave her.
     His hands moved around her waist, capturing her so that her
head rested on his chest as her arms wrapped around his neck. 
     "Slow down," he whispered, feeling the butterfly race of her 
heart above his. "It's not going anywhere."
     Her voice, breathless and half-trembling. "Promise me."
     He bent forward to press shadow kisses on the back of 
both her hands, then on the side of her jaw. "I promise."
     Her arms tightened around him and they spun to meet the 
next wave of silver together. Minutes passed, or maybe it was 
hours, but he didn't know, and didn't care. There was only the 
ocean, the invisible sea surrounding them and carrying them 
toward something  beautiful. They raced from light to light, 
laughing as they captured a  speck of crimson here, then an 
emerald shower of lasers there. Always in the light, always one 
step ahead of the darkness. 
     A half-forgotten passage of Eliot floated to the surface of his
mind. 
     /We have lingered in the chambers of the sea, by sea-girls
wreathed with sea-weed red and brown. Till human voices wake
us and we drown./
     But he would not let them drown. He would not listen to 
the voices. He would cover her ears with his hands. They would 
swim forever. The only question in his mind was whether she 
was human, an intruder on paradise as he was, or if she really 
was one of the sea-girls, a thing as beautiful and alien as the 
ocean itself.
     Her eyes flashed up at him again, wild and breathless and free.
     No, she was not human, he decided. She was light.
     Three hours passed before they paused, breaking from the
current of the dance floor to a nearby table. He was slightly out
of breath, not so much from the exertion as from the dizzying 
closeness of her, and he noticed her breath was just as shallow.
     He called a waiter and let Scully choose the drinks. Margaritas,
she said. Make them sweet.
     
     Perhaps now it would not be deadly to speak.  
     
     "How long as it been since you danced?" he said, his hands
tracing circles into the table. Eternity, etched into the dark 
mahogany wood. He wanted this to last forever.
     "Too long." Her chest still heaved in leftover exertion as
she spoke. Her eyes remained fixed on the dance floor for a 
moment, tracing the path of a stray spotlight before moving 
back to him. "I had forgotten how it feels. I had forgotten 
to feel anything at all."
     "You're not the only one."
     "I was afraid. Of what it would take. Afraid to be with you
again because you demand me to feel."
     "Are you still afraid?" That made him ache, made him
fear her next words.
     "At times, yes. But I've found I"m more afraid not to." 
     His fingers found hers in the darkness. Relief. 
     "I'll never let you go. You know that."
     He saw her smile light up the darkness, brighter than the
color around them, purer than the silver. "I know."


                                          
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Resurrection (26/32)
by darkstar
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     The rest of the evening flew by in heartbeats until the 
realization struck him that by now the midnight would be 
fading into the twilight of morning. They had danced away 
the darkness, and now there would be no more time to forget. 
Now they must go back. They must return to the knowledge, 
and the distance between them, and the self-imposed restraint 
necessary for survival. But they would not go yet. There were 
a few moments left in the dance, a few, and he would not 
give them up quickly.
     She was no longer desperate in her search for wings. The 
music itself no longer pushed itself frantically through the mind, 
but floated around them as a slow, soft blanket. Her forehead 
rested against his, so close he fancied he could absorb her 
thoughts through her skin. He felt her warmth. Her peace. That 
was all he wanted right now-- the simplicity of her breathing, 
thick with the half-drowsiness of spent passion, the softness of 
her fingers against his backbone, the beautiful illusion that 
ignorance and bliss could last forever, and no one needed 
fear the dawn. It took so much to push the world from the 
mind, and in these moments he knew they had succeeded.

     /She does not care what I am. Not here. She doesn't have to
know anything. See, it isn't hurting anyone. In fact, she's happy.
I've finally made her happy..../

     The thought closed off his doubts, and he allowed himself
to totally relax for the first time since they entered the world of 
light and music. He did not think of morning or sustained illusions
or anything other than her touch. He surrendered, as she had
done hours before, to the dance. It was so easy to feel the music,
so easy to be swept away.

     *Waltz with me, my love. Tell me what you're dreaming of.*

     "You want to know what I'm dreaming of?" He whispered.
     She smiled, and he felt the glow melt the icecaps over his soul.
"What?"
     "Nothing. I've got it all right here."
     "You dream of nightclubs?" The smile turned teasing. "Who 
knew?"
     "I dream of this--"
     And he kissed her then. It was neither fire nor ice nor burning
light, but something sweet and gentle and perfect, like violets after
rain or moonlight spread over lace. He would never forget the
taste, a mix of margaritas and strawberry lip gloss and the softest
skin. He could not get enough of it.

     *Hold me now, we can share our love.*

     No, they were parting too soon. Much too soon. Had he 
done something wrong? Had he rushed the moment? But she 
wasn't moving away after all. She followed him into the next 
spin of the music, her eyes capturing the light and refracting it 
into glittering desire.
     "Show me the dream again." Her lips against his temples, 
across his eyelids. Begging. Demanding. Seducing.
     Breathe, a little voice inside his head reminded him. What if
he didn't want to breathe? Not unless it was with her....
     He spun her out to arms length then caught her to him again, 
backwards, so that his hands splayed across her stomach. Another
kiss, touching the curve of her neck at the base of her hair.


     *Waltz with me, my love.*

     "Do you dream too?" he asked her.
     She turned to face him again. He could barely hear her 
underneath the music, but he heard enough. "Oh, believe me, 
I dream."
     Now she kissed him and this time it was fire. This time 
the heat scalded him inside out, leaving him seared and breathless 
but alive. So alive.
     "This is real, isn't it?" she said, after the kiss was over and 
her head rested on his shoulder. 
     "This is real. No secrets. Nothing held back." He knew, on 
one level, that it was a lie, but on every other level he could 
not bear for her to slip away once she was this close. I am not 
going to lose you, he had said. He'd meant every word. 
     "I am afraid, sometimes, that what I see and what I feel are
shadows. Hallucinations, or myths or...."
     "Did it feel like a shadow?"
     "No."
     "You have your answer."
     "Then promise me something, Mulder." 
     "Anything."
     "Promise me this will never change."

     *Tell me something...will we be broken down? Tell me
something...will we be broken down?*

     "I promise."
     And he sealed it with a kiss.  

                        * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Freedom City
One hour later

     Nicolas sensed the brewing storm before the call ever came 
over his com link. 
     He felt it the air, an electric buzz across his skin like the 
tension of lightning right before it struck. He heard it rumble in 
the distant corners of his mind like thunder over a desert horizon. 
Whispers of anger. Passion. Pain. Fear. All the dark things, all the 
thunderstorm emotions, and this was how he painted it. Black
paint splattered across white canvas, a fury of yellow and silver, 
a sky without stars or moon only  roars of thunder and 
dagger-slashes of lightning. Where was it coming from? Certainly 
not the whimpering girl-child he had brought in for the evening. 
Only one probe of her emotions had proven her incapable of 
such depth. Mulder's woman, the one with the red hair and 
passionate eyes, would have had such depth. But not this 
runny-nosed brat. This one had merely cried and asked
if she could go home, and cowered in the corner after he 
slapped her and told her to shut up. Had it been any other night, 
he might have taken the trouble to twist her mind just to teach 
her how to keep quiet, but tonight he had more important 
visions to chase. The thunder called to him. The lightning danced 
inside his veins, running out his fingers through his paintbrush.
     And if he felt this much from a distance, how would it feel
to stand in the center of the storm, at the nexus of the rage? 
Where was it coming from?
     After he picked up his com-link he knew.
     "Sir, you might want to come down to the infirmary. There's 
been an incident."
     "An incident?" The rumble of thunder in the back of his mind 
increased.
     "Yes sir. Commander Mulder and Dr. Scully were ambushed
on their way back from leave. A sniper caught them on the way
out of town."
     "Were there any injuries?" 
     "Affirmative, sir."
     "To what extent?"
     "Dr. Scully was shot twice. Once in the shoulder and 
once in the stomach. We have healers working on her but she 
is still in highly critical condition."
     Nicolas felt his heart rate edge up a notch. So the stone 
woman wasn't so invincible after all. Could it have been her 
pain he was sensing all evening? No...no...he could only have sensed 
those things in someone whom he had previously established 
a link with...
     Then it hit him. Mulder.      
     "And Commander Mulder?"
     "Flesh wound in his upper arm. Light bleeding, but he will 
injure himself further unless he calms down. That is why I called 
you, sir. We're having trouble restraining him."
     /I'll bet you are./ He half-smiled to himself at the thought. 
     "I'm on my way."
     He switched the com link to neutral and moved quickly to 
wash the paint from his hands. It was all very clear to him now. 
Mulder's woman had been injured and now the man was ready 
to tear earth, heaven, and hell apart. How very useful. In fact, 
tonight might be the perfect opportunity for him to regain 
control of his puppet.  Mulder had become increasingly harder 
to manage since the lovely Dr. Scully had arrived. Well, now 
that Scully was bleeding to death in the infirmary, he was sure 
that he could convince his wayward protege to return to 
the fold.
     Nicolas keyed up his com-link again and spoke to the guard
outside his room. "Captain, send for my personal healer and 
bring him to the infirmary immediately. No, I'm not hurt. This 
is a favor for a friend."
     He glanced back over to the girl in the corner, almost as 
if she was an afterthought. "Oh yes, and you can come clean 
the trash out of my room now. She was....disappointing....I'll
expect your men to send me something better next time." 
     The lightning-buzz increased inside his brain as he headed 
for the infirmary. Time for the Leader to save the day again. 
It would work out very nicely, really. His people would be 
reassured of his never-ending compassion. Mulder's unchecked 
emotions would only open him to further control. And with 
more and more discontent in the streets and talk of new leaders 
in the underground meetings, a little control was most needed.
     He would save her life and then he would make Mulder 
pay for it. With interest.

     He opened the door to the infirmary and for the first time
in his life was pushed back by the sheer power of a man's 
emotions. The storm raged inside his mind, out of control, as 
giant thunderclaps of rage and jagged spears of electric agony 
pierced his subconscious. He was forced to grab the doorpost 
before he could even stay on his feet. The anger was frightening. 
The pain was raw, relentless like a driving rain.
     The whole effect heightened the senses better than any drug.
     But every drug must be taken in small quantities, so Nicolas 
took the opportunity to raise a few shields against the onslaught 
of emotion before he continued into the room. He heard 
Mulder before he saw the man.
     "I want to see her! It's been too long... something should have
happened by now."
     "Sit down, sir." A woman's voice, most likely a nurse. "Dr. 
Scully's injuries are critical. Only the medical staff and the healer 
are allowed to be in the room. If you will please sit down and 
let us treat your wounds..."
     "She's still in pain. I can hear her. Start doing something 
for that pain now or I'm going to do it for myself!"
     "We told you, sir, medication will hamper the healing 
process."
     "What healing process?!? Has she opened her eyes? Has she
stopped bleeding??? Maybe your healer isn't working hard 
enough. Maybe he's holding back!"
     "Sir-"
     "NO! You listen to me!! She is going to wake up! She is 
going to be fine! I don't care how many healers you have to us, or 
how much it sucks them to the bone, she is going to be okay! 
Or else I'll turn that hybrid freak into a puddle of green Jell-O.
I don't care what he is to Nicolas."
     A new voice, the deep military growl of General Skinner,
cutting through Mulder's shouting with surprising calm. "You 
will do no such thing, Mulder, and you know it. Now sit down 
and let them look at your arm. You can't help her by threatening 
them."
     For ten seconds there was dead silence.
     Then Nicolas heard Mulder speak again, in a very small 
voice.You could have heard the tears from three miles away.  
"Just keep her warm, please...if you can. She hates to be cold."
      The nurse's voice. "I'll tell them to put a blanket on, sir."
      "Tell her I'm here. Right outside. Tell her I'm waiting. Tell
her I love..."
     The words fell away into silence again because no one, not 
Skinner or the nurse or the doctors, knew what to say to that.
     Nicolas rounded the corner.
     Even though he had shed blood, even though he had taken
life and enjoyed it, even though he had fought many battles and 
seen many wounds, at the fragment of a second that Mulder's
eyes locked with his own, he was stunned.
     He'd found the heart of that thunderstorm.
     Naked fear that screamed lightning. Naked pain deeper 
than thunder. Naked love that cried so softly in the seconds 
between both. There were tears in the man's eyes and 
fingerprint-shaped smears of crimson on his cheeks where he 
had tried to wipe away tears with bloody fingers. No doubt it 
was her blood, covering his hands and his clothes from attempts 
to hold the pieces of her together until help had arrived.
     Then Mulder blinked, once, and looked away, and Nicolas
found himself for once relieved. The pain had been too tangible
there. It would have hurt just too much to probe the man's mind 
tonight. And not just the mental ache of emotional pain either. It
would have been physical too, like trying to walk on fire.
     Skinner saluted, a stiff and formal gesture. "Sir. You honor 
us with your presence." His eyes left the distinct impression that 
it was an honor he would rather not have received.
     "The Leader is never too busy to see to the needs of his
people." Nicolas chose to ignore the general's hostility, for now.
He allowed his face to meld into a perfect mask of sympathy. "I 
heard that the doctor was injured and sent my personal healer to 
attend to her. Robert is very good. I have no doubts she will 
recover."
     "Thank you for your concern, sir." Skinner nodded again, 
though his eyes remained suspicious. Walter Skinner was smart 
man, Nicolas knew, and one day he would have to die. Sooner
than later.
     He walked to the door of the healing unit- a room in the 
hospital designed especially for the treatment of critical patients 
using hybrid therapy-- and peered through the small window.
     Scully lay on a hospital table, her hair spilled out around her 
in stark contrast to the sheets as her body twisted and writhed in 
restless agony. Velcro straps around her wrists and ankles kept 
her on the table. A dark blue blanket was pulled up to her chest, 
concealing the wounds, but the amount of bloody bandages on the 
tray beside her and the death-white pallor of her face told him it 
would be a miracle if she lived. Even under the best of
medical care.
     But she was one of the few privileged enough to receive
something better than traditional medicine. Robert, the hybrid 
who attended her, was well known as one of the most powerful 
healers to come through the resistance. Nicolas had recruited 
him as his own personal miracle worker, and tonight he would 
earn his keep well. He would eventually heal the woman; of that 
Nicolas was certain.  Though judging from the strain on the 
hybrid's face and the pain-wrinkles around his eyes, the battle 
would not be easy.
     When Nicolas turned back to Mulder, the man's eyes had 
gone vacant. One of his hands held a tiny golden cross, and his 
lips moved endlessly in something that did not look like a prayer 
but might have been a secret for his woman's soul alone. A 
nurse worked on his arm, but he acted as if he did not even feel 
the antiseptic or the bandaging. It was as if his body alone 
remained alive while his soul traveled wherever his lover's was, 
searching her out. Bringing her back.
     Touching, really. Rather pathetic too. Such blatant weakness 
and dependence on another...
     He would give Mulder a while to wallow in his grief before
he called him into his office for "debrief". It would give the
emotions a chance to subdue, at least to the point where 
penetration of the subconscious would not be so painful. And it 
would also give him time to think how exactly to use Mulder's 
newly volatile emotional state to his own benefit.
     That answer came sooner than expected.
     "Alert me as soon as she regains consciousness." He 
instructed the nurse. "I regret that I must leave so soon, but I 
have several items to attend to before I retire for the evening. 
A leader's work is never done."
     "Of course not." Skinner's words were hardly sarcastic, 
though his eyes sang with mockery. "Again, thank you for 
your help."
     Nicolas was half-way past Mulder, on his way down the
hall, when the man's voice caught him. Suddenly. Desperately.
     "Sir, will you do me a favor?"
     "Anything."
     "I sent the patrol that picked us up back into the city to find
the sniper who shot her. Let me know if they pick him up."
     "Of...course. I'll let you know immediately." He hid his surprise 
with a grave nod. Mulder had sent the patrol out sniper-hunting? 
It was like looking for a rat in a sewer system. There was no 
guarantee you'd find the right one. Obviously he wanted blood 
bad enough not to care. An idea sprang into Nicolas' mind, the 
perfect idea. If Mulder wanted to kill, then he could 
accommodate. "I will have him delivered into your custody."
     For three seconds, a terrible coldness took over Mulder's 
eyes, and Nicolas knew he had hit exactly the right spot. "Thank 
you, sir."
     "Anything to ensure that justice is done."
     He nodded once more to Skinner, who made no attempt to
mask his disapproval, then left the infirmary. An old passage 
from his war textbooks crossed his mind as he headed for his 
room. He quoted it aloud.
     "Therefore when you want to do battle, even if the opponent
is deeply entrenched in a defensive position, he will be unable to
avoid fighting if you attack where he will surely go to the rescue."
     That place for Mulder was Scully. She had been attacked, 
wounded. He wore her blood on his clothes and on his hands and 
underneath it he wore layer after layer of guilt. So it was only 
natural he would want vengeance. At heart, Mulder was still an 
Enforcer. Nicolas believed that beyond doubt. The man would 
never turn from the chance to take blood for blood. The 
opportunity would have to be presented quickly, while 
his logic was still weakened....
     With a little of the right emotional stimulation, he wouldn't 
even bother to ask whether the "criminal" they brought back 
to him was actually the one that shot her. He would simply 
remember how easy it was to pull the trigger and shoot the 
young boys in the head. 
     He would simply kill. 
     And then he would be controlled again, just that easily. 

     Nicolas smiled. 




        Don't fall away and leave me to myself.
        Leave love bleeding in my hands,
        in my hands again,
        Leave love bleeding in my hands,
        in my hands again,
        Love lies bleeding.

            - Hemorrhage    
              Fuel


                                          
- - - - - - - - - - - - - 
Resurrection (27/32)
by darkstar
- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

                    And I will never leave you
                    'Til we can say, "This world was just a dream
                    We were sleepin' now we are awake"
                    'Til we can say
                    In a moment we lost our minds here
                    And dreamt the world was round
                    A million mile fall from grace
                    Thank God we missed the ground...
                    Burnt to the core but not broken
                    We'll cut through the madness
                    With a nuclear fire of love in our hearts....
                    Rest easy, baby, rest easy.
                    and recognize it all as light and rainbows
                    Smashed to smithereens.
                  Run to the water; find me there. 

                            -- Run to the Water 
                               Live



     The first time she opened her eyes, he was there. His head 
rested on her stomach, positioned over the ghost of the wound, 
and he was crying. Not in sobs or in gasps but in silent, hot tears 
that soaked through the thin fabric of her hospital gown to burn 
her skin. A flash within her mind, a memory that seemed like a 
dream, of lead burning her skin. Of pain so hot she couldn't 
breathe, didn't want to breathe, only someone forced her to. 
     /Scully, look at me. Keep on breathing and look at me. Don't...
God...don't look at it. Just at me. Help is on the way. C'mon, 
now, look at me. I want to see those baby blue eyes./
     It was Mulder's voice. Try to hide the fear but failing...
     /No, Scully, don't close your.....look at....please....try....I'm 
gonna kill him. He's already a dead man. Dead and rotting. I'll 
find him for you, and I'll take blood for blood and please, open 
your eyes.../
     She remembered trying but something had held her back. 
A dark, heavy cloak of fire that made each second seem like an 
eternity of hell. Each time she tried to cling to consciousness, to l
ife, to his voice, the fire burned hotter. Deeper. She just wanted 
to let go, but something inside her had whispered for her to 
hold on.
     /You can't let go yet, Dana. You haven't saved him yet./
     She remembered it had been Samantha's voice. 
     And she held on, until Mulder's hands were pried from hers--
she still felt his palm against hers, holding on until the last possible
heartbeat-- and strange hands closed around her forehead and 
pushed the life back into her. She did not want that. The fire 
fought against it, causing pain. So much pain. So easy to die.
     But she hadn't saved him yet so she opened her mind to the 
agony until, gradually, the burning subsided. It faded from 
blinding to moderate pain to a dull aching weariness draped 
around her entire body. She waited to feel his arms around her, 
his hands on her back, holding her and protecting her, but the 
nurses would not let him in. The need to sleep at last
overwhelmed.
     Now she was awake. She could tell him she was fine....that he
didn't have to cry anymore...
     Her vocal cords tangled thick and sluggish in the back of her 
throat, refusing any commands for speech; instead her fingers 
reached for him. Slowly. Steadily. Her hands seemed to be made 
of lead, and she gritted her teeth to force them forward. Just a 
few more inches, yes. Centimeters now...
     The barest tip of her finger brushed the bones next to his eyes,
sliding across the tightly closed eyelids to catch a falling tear. He 
jolted as if she had touched him with fire, and his eyes were so 
big when they met hers, wide and amazed, the eyes of a little boy
more than a man. With the rise of an eyebrow, he asked her if it 
was real. With a smile, she reassured him it was most certainly real. 
That she wasn't leaving him any time soon.
     Mulder buried his face in her stomach for another moment, 
pressing his lips over the place where the bullet had entered her. 
He wanted to pretend he kissed away the hurt, that he was the 
one to take the final sting from her body. In a perfect world, he 
could absorb it all into himself. He could take from her even the 
memories of the pain, but not only this one pain. He could take all 
the different hells from her. The torture scars on her back. The 
brand on her wrist. The claw marks on her mind. All of this, he 
would remove with one touch of his lips. One vow of love. In a 
perfect world, that was all it would take. 
     This was no perfect world. There would always be scars, 
deep ones, and kisses could not take them away.
     But he kissed her again anyway. He wrapped his arms around 
her anyway, pulling her against his chest until she was warm and 
safe and protected. Somehow they did not need perfection. Only 
life itself, and life was scars as well as kisses. You could not have 
one without the other.
     For her part, Scully did not think about perfection or love or
the balance of joy and sorrow in life. She did not even think about
the shooting, or her memories of the pain. She closed her eyes 
again and listened to his heart until the weariness became too much
again and she faded into sleep. 

     The second time she opened her eyes, he was there. This time
she could speak but where did she begin? She started with
the easiest words.
     "Good morning."
     "Afternoon, really." He shut the door behind him and opened
the window to let in the golden light. 
     "I slept all day?"
     "Try two days."
     She grimaced. "You should have woke me."
     His mouth widened in a grin. "But you look so cute when 
you're drooling all over my pillows. Besides, you've got doctor's 
orders to stay in bed for three more days minimum. Intensive 
healing procedures do a number on your body, so they tell me. 
Not as bad as a gut wound, you can be sure, but you're still 
going to be a little weak for a while. They don't want you 
running around until your system has pepped up a bit."
     "Give me a gun and a target and I'll show you peppy." She
tried to move into a sitting position, but the sudden motion sent a
blood rush to her head. She leaned back against the pillows and
waited for the room to stop spinning. Good, he hadn't seen that
one.
     "Forget the doctors, Scully. I'm not letting you out of that bed
until I am sure you're back to normal."  He finished fiddling with 
the blinds and walked back towards her. The afternoon light 
framed him like a golden shadow, throwing his face into enough 
darkness to hide the scars on his temple and the worry lines 
around his mouth. All she could see was the glint of his eyes 
and the flash of his smile.
      She pulled the blankets tighter around her chin and smiled.
     "What are you grinning at now?"
     "The view."
     "Out the window? It's just a garden and some buildings-"
     "That wasn't the view I was talking about."
     "Oh." His hand rubbed the stubble across his jaw then moved
up through his hair. Now that he was closer, she could see the 
worry-lines again. He stared at his hands, his feet, the carpet. 
Everything but her. After the silence stretched from seconds to 
minutes, she took the first move.
     "Spit it out, Mulder."
     His shoulders rose and fell in a slow sigh. "There's a deep 
cover mission heading for the field in three days. They'll be doing 
routine surveillance and sabotage runs up near the Canadian 
borderlands for about three months. They need a leader. I'm 
going to volunteer."
     /He's leaving me again./ She took a long breath, chasing the
remains of the dizziness from her mind. /No, wait, take a look at
his eyes. He's not going because he wants to. He's running from
something./
     "Why?" Best to let him put it in his own words first.
     "I promised to take care of you," His eyes remained 
steadfastly fixed on the small plant Skinner had brought her. He 
still refused to look at her. "Above everything else and everyone 
else, I promised to keep you safe. But it seems like my being with 
you now only leads you more and more away from that safety."
     "You're going to run."
     That got his eyes, alright, but she almost wished it hadn't. 
There was hurt in him, deep hurt. "I'm not running, Scully. Believe 
me when I say that there's nothing I want more than to stay. 
When I'm with you, I'm alive. That's the only time I am. But 
I don't care what I want or what I feel. I'm not dragging 
you down with me any further. I refuse. Skinner can take 
good care of you...he's done it before--"
     "I don't want to be with Skinner.." She heard the bite in her 
tone and hoped it could cut through this thick stubbornness. 
"And if I had wanted something easy and safe and pretty, I 
would have walked away before my first year on the X-files was 
over. I've looked at the choices, Mulder, and I've picked you. 
Your truth, your quest, your life. It's hard sometimes. We get 
hurt sometimes. But if the alternative means living apart, then I 
don't want it. I won't accept  it. I want all of this....not just the 
happy things." Oh dear, now she felt the tears begin to build. 
Curse the pain relievers and their idiotic emotional side effects. 
"But if this is not enough and if you still feel the need to go 
out and kill again, I'm not stopping you. I'll just go with you."
     "Scully, no, absolutely-"
     "Then stay. Don't run again."
     He stared at her for a moment, a strange shadow over his 
eyes. Then he moved forward, trapping her hand between
his. She could barely hear him speak even though he stood right
beside her. "You win. I won't go anywhere."
     "Say it as a promise. Say 'I promise to stay'."
     "I promise to stay." He kissed the back of her hand.
     "I'll hold you to it." She managed to work up a grin and was
relieved to see him mirror the expression.
     "I'll bet you will." He glanced at his watch. "Um, I have to go.
It's time for ration distribution in the Quarter and there has been
a rash of riots lately. Nicolas wants us to ensure the order is
kept."
     "It's awful hard to be orderly when you're starving." 
     "I think more and more people are finding that out. Not just
in the Quarter....it's everywhere these days. Something's going to
have to change."
     "We could kill Nicolas for a start..."
     "Shh." He held a finger to her lips. "No matter how much 
you dislike the man, it would be best not to voice those opinions 
these days. I was serious when I talked about the unrest. Everyone 
is paranoid and careless words can easily be misconstrued as a 
threat."
     "Don't trust him, Mulder."
     "I don't."
     "Don't let him control you. He will try."
     "He doesn't control me."
     "Are you sure of it?"
     "Yes." His hand disentangled from hers as he headed for the
door. "Now stop worrying. The resistance can survive for a while
without the express concern of Dana Scully."
     "Ha." She smirked at him, giving up on any hope of serious
conversation. She could win nothing against his denials. "You just
don't know..."
     He laughed one more time, and then he was gone.
     She did not want to worry about the riots or the fact that 
Skinner was no doubt in the middle of it, or the idea that he 
and Mulder might end up on different sides. She did not want 
to think that Nicolas would use her weakness as an advantage 
to gain more control over Mulder. (Some existed already, she 
knew. It was only a question of how much and how deep.)
     But she worried anyway. And she hated most of all the 
cloying sense of the inevitability of loss, and of her complete 
helplessness to stop it.

     The third day, she opened her eyes and he was not there. 
Skinner came, bearing water for the plant and coffee for her, but
he would not answer her questions. He spoke of the food riots,
the unrest, the growing ripeness of the time for action, but he 
said nothing of Mulder. Not until the very end, when she had 
grown tired of begging and pleading and demanding and finally 
told him that if he did not answer her, she would get up and find 
out herself.
     He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his 
fingers. "He left early this morning to oversee a prisoner transfer.
One of our patrols caught a Colonist soldier last night and they are
bringing him here for questioning."
     "Just a soldier? But why would they send an escort for
questioning--"
     "It's the sniper who shot you."
     A sharp hitch in her lungs cut off her next breath.
     "Nicolas gave him full custody of the prisoner." He guided 
a thin stream of water over the dark green leaves. "In the full 
interest of justice, of course." There was no attempt to hide 
the sneer.
     "You think there was another reason."
    He set down the water pot and locked eyes with her, his eyes
dark but frank. "I think Mulder will kill him. I think that is what
Nicolas wants."
     "Mulder has killed many times for the Cause. Why is this one
important?" She did not want to admit she took satisfaction from 
the thought of the soldier's death. The man, whoever he was, 
had caused the fire to burn inside her, had caused the pain. For 
that she would almost be willing to kill him herself. She knew 
she should forgive. Seven times seven, just like all good Catholic 
girls, only it was so much easier to take an eye for an eye. It wasn't
a feeling she asked for or cultivated. It was just there.
     "Remember what he is, Scully." A bit of warning shadowed his
words, and she felt an odd resentment for it. Of course she knew
what Mulder was. She of all people...
    "I know what Mulder is."
    "Do you, now? Have you forgotten what he's been doing 
for the past two years? He hasn't just killed men for our Cause. 
He's murdered for the other side too. He's killed innocent 
men and women, and probably children too. It was his way 
of life."
     "What are you saying?" The resentment began to change to
anger. "That he's a murderer? That he enjoys it? He's not like that.
He's changed back into the same man he was--"
     "No, Scully, not the same. Violence doesn't just leave a man
when he changes sides. You get a taste of blood and power and it
becomes easy to solve all your problems that way. With your gun.
It's easy to excuse it as your duty, or your job, or...." His voice
trailed slowly away. She realized he was not talking about Mulder
anymore.
     "A cause?" 
     His eyes flicked back to her, his gaze pained. "Yes. A cause.
Even if it's a just one." 
     "You were like Mulder is." She had not seen it before, but she
saw it now. 
      "In the beginning, I was addicted too. I hated the Colonists so
much. I hated what they had done to my country, to my friends, to
me, and I hated the ignorant people who stood by and laughed at
us-- the same people now begging our help. It was so easy not to 
think, just kill. For a while, that's what I did, but even after I 
realized what I was becoming, it was so hard to resist that urge. 
By the time I came to my senses, Nicolas was already in office, 
and I had lost my chance to stop him. I do believe we could 
have stopped him, then, if someone had spoken up. Mulder w
asn't there to do it. You weren't there to do it. The people 
looked to me, but I let them down because I was too  caught 
up in my own anger to see the need. I didn't want to the one 
responsible for building a better future. I failed and we've all 
paid for it."
     "It couldn't have been all your fault." Scully leaned forward to
touch his hand. "Nothing like this can be traced back 
to one person. Everyone made mistakes. We still make them. You've 
more than paid yours back."
     "I've done nothing." He looked away abruptly, the lines of
his jaw taut with frustration. "Nicolas still leads. He's destroying 
this city. He's destroying his own people. The longer I stay here, 
the longer I am sure of it. When I've done something to stop him, and 
succeeded, then perhaps we can speak of paid debts."
     "You can't save them all, Walter." She placed her hand on his
forearm, feeling the strength in his muscles but also the weariness.
"Believe me, I've tried." That had been a hard lesson to learn, 
when she discovered that the she couldn't protect the children 
or the innocent, that she could only survive and fight and kill and 
hope in the end it balanced out. Someday, they would all have a 
lot of penance to do. "It's hard enough to save one man....let 
alone...."
     This time it was her voice that failed. 
     He covered her hands with his, brushing his fingers clumsily 
across her knuckles as he used to do in Chile, when she woke 
from nightmares. "You have already saved him, Scully. He just 
has to realize it. He will realize it."
     "Soon, I hope."
     "Soon."
     She smiled at him then, showing him her belief, her assurance. 
Then he left and the door closed and the silence resounded with 
her doubt, not only for Mulder, but for herself. 
     Skinner depended on her to talk Mulder out of his violence.
She knew it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do if she
wanted to keep him from slipping back into the pit. What she did 
not know was if she herself could get past the memories of the
burning, the occasional spasms of residual pain, the simmering 
hatred boiling just beneath her mind. 
     Was this what Mulder had lived with every day? Because of 
her?
     Sleep came only after many restless hours. And even then, she
was not granted peace. She dreamed.

     It was not as before, a wasteland of frozen oceans and burning
skies and eyes in the mist. Nor did she find herself alone. She 
stood in the center of a vast crowd, pressed on all sides by heat 
and sweaty flesh and the smell of hatred cooking under the 
noonday sun. It sizzled on the pavements and on the sidewalks 
and in the eyes of the men and women around her. 
    The air trembled with a sudden thunder, the ground shaking 
beneath her feet. No, not thunder. A scream. A thousand screams
from a thousand throats, forced into one sound and one voice.
     "Kill them!"
     Again....
     "Kill them!"
     Again...
     "Kill them!"
     Then another voice, rising over the crowd in righteous 
exaltation. "The will of humanity has been spoken!" She knew w
ho spoke. She knew well his evil. Nicolas. Protector of humanity. 
Murderer of children. He raised his arms and continued to deliver his 
judgment. "The hybrid infidel must pay for her crimes and heresies. 
Who will accept the shedding of her blood?"
     The sky shook once more under the cry.
     "Her blood be on us and on our children..."
     The thin scream of a terrified girl slid momentarily above the
roar. As soon as Scully recognized the voice, her stomach begin to
churn. Not again...no....it wasn't possible....
     "Aida!" She called out, not expecting an answer, as she began 
to shove her way through the crowd. She would save her this 
time. She would stop it.
     "Where are you running to, Dana?" 
     A man grabbed her arm, his hand reptile cold and his eyes 
snake ugly. It was Nicolas. His fingers bruised her wrists, his eyes 
mocking her.
     She jerked her arms away. There was no time to answer.
     "You can't win, darling." A second man, also Nicolas, blocked
her path. "I am the mob."
     Members of the crowd began to turn towards her.
     "I am the people."
     Their faces shifted, changing shape until all had white-blonde 
hair and pale as ice skin. Until a sea of electric blue eyes stared 
through her, and the faces behind them smiled as a legion of 
demons.
     "I. Am. All."
     Their voices writhed through her brain, a knot of baby vipers.
/Run, run, run, Dana-girl. Save the little weak one, Dana-girl. Stop us
if you can. Now run alone, run, run..../
     She covered her ears with her hands, squeezing her eyes shut.
/Mulder will stop you./ She told them. /He promised never to 
leave me again and he will not let you do this thing./
     /Ohhhh,/ The voices rose again, swelling with delight. /But 
you don't have to search for him, He's already here..../
     Like waves receding from a shore, the crowd parted on either 
side of her, and she was given a clear view straight to the execution 
platform. Her horror shimmered before her with the heat. 
     Aida knelt on the wooden platform, her face streaked with 
tears and sweat and blood. Metal handcuffs bound her hands 
behind her. The tattered remains of a torn pink sun dress (the 
wedding dress, Scully remembered) hung from her shoulders. 
Her back was exposed, the bones jutting out through the skin 
and her head was bowed.
     And before her stood Mulder, his face cold with disgust and
hatred.  In his hand, the gleaming metal cylinder of a stiletto.
     "Mulder!" 
     His eyes, she could see his eyes, as if they were inches from
hers. They screamed. /Stop me. Help me. This is not who I am./

     "Stop, Mulder! No!"
     The Nicolas crowd closed in around her again, even as she ran.
The voices returned.
     /What's wrong, Dana-girl? Is it too far to run? Is the sun too
hot? Go on now. Run to him. Save him if you can./
     /He is not yours. You will not use him to kill for you. He
belongs to no one. You fear him because he can destroy you./
     /And you think he will be the savior of the people? You think
he can save you? Look at him, Dana-girl. He sees nothing but his 
hate. He tastes nothing but blood. Your blood. He'll do anything 
to avenge you, you know. It makes him so easy to control. So 
easy to break./
     "Let him go!" She screamed, aloud. "He's done enough! He's
suffered enough!"
     /He belongs to his own guilt. We merely form the outer cage./
     "Then take me! If you have to take someone, if you have to
use someone, use me! 
     She held out her hands to the crowd of identical monsters, 
turning so all could see her. "Leave him! Let him heal! Take me!"
     The fear in her stomach blended with the heat and soured her
breath like old whiskey. She knew they would kill her. She knew 
they would rip her apart. Just like Pavlov. Worse, perhaps, than 
Pavlov.
     But all she saw was Mulder on the scaffold, ready to take a life,
not knowing what he was doing or how he was being controlled. 
So close to falling back into the darkness....."
     "I am yours if you spare him.  If you spare the girl."
    /Very well, Dana-girl. Very well./
    They smiled, as one, and as one they surged forward to claim
their prize. They spit in her face. They cursed her. They struck at
her with their fists, with their boots, with the palms of their hands,
dragging her to the ground. Their hands ran over her body, tearing
her dress, bruising her skin. And all the time, their laughter. And
all the time, their voices, inside her head.
      A tearing pain in the flesh of her wrist, driving down between 
the bones. A flow of blood into the dust of the courtyard. A nail.
Another pain, more blood, another mark. Pain around her head, as 
thorns, blood running down into her eyes. Such a fire across her 
back....through her feet....
     Yet she did not hate. She loved, more than she had ever before.
She felt ready to split with the love for the man she had saved.
She had finally won him back....just as she had promised....
     /Samantha, forgive him, He never knew what he did..../
     /There is a price to saving the one you love./
     Then they were raising her, lifting her up, and there was no
earth nor sky, but she was in between, and she could not see 
Mulder, and the pain, oh, the pain, and she screamed....
     
     Her body twisted into a convulsion as she woke, shivering 
from her own cold sweat, clenching the blankets between her 
hands as if they were the only thing holding her in the conscious 
world. The room around her was dark, the shadow tinted 
silver by the light of a full moon. Outside the window, the 
sky hung heavy with stars. A clear night. A beautiful night.
     And she did not see any of it. She saw the courtyard at noon,
the crowd in which every man was the man she hated (and 
perhaps feared, if she admitted it truly). She felt the despair 
behind his cold features, the heat of the pavement under her 
bare feet, the metal driving through her skin and bone.
     /There is a price to saving the one you love./
     "You dreamed it." She whispered it slowly, firmly, making
herself hear it. "He can only hurt you inside your head. Only if
you let him. But you are stronger than he is. You have fought 
greater evils than he. So do not worry about the inside of your
head."
     The window were open, and a lazy breeze stirred the curtains. 
It dissolved the goosebumps tightening her skin. She took deep 
breath after deep breath, smelling the thickness of the roses in the 
garden below, the freshness of the dew. Yes, she was certain now 
that it was only a dream. Just to be expected as part of the trauma 
of her wound. Her body had been healed, but her mind still had 
to deal with the aftershocks. All things considered, it would have 
been stranger if she had not had a nightmare or two. 
     Her wrists ached nevertheless. 
     And she remembered that she had also dreamed the day they
took Aida...
     "Logic, Starbuck." She wrapped her robe around her and slid
off the bed, walking toward the window to better enjoy the
night air. "You're getting as superstitious as the old gypsy women
in the Quarter. The ones who try to sell you magic amulets and
call you a saint because you give them bread and who tell you that
your man is the one they've all been waiting for. The one who's
going to set them free. What would I tell them tonight? That their
savior's not available right now because he's gone to kill a man? 
That their saint wants that man to die just as badly? But then how
do they even know it's the right one....snipers are almost impossible
to flush out."
     Maybe the point was not if he was guilty or not. Maybe it was
just a matter of finding someone to die. She wanted to believe
Mulder would ask for verification, but she remembered how hard
his eyes grew, in the old times, before he killed. He might not
care. Even if he did, he'd have to take their word for it...
     That drew the gooseflesh to her skin once more.
     The whole thing felt like a trap. And she would be the bait...
     "No way I'm letting you win this one, Nicolas." She whispered
the words to the breeze. "You won Aida, and you won Che, but
Mulder is another story. Oh, you think you can control him. You
think he's so weak. But you've never seen the way he loves me.
You were not there when he kissed me, so you could never have
seen his eyes."
     At this memory, she let her voice slid into silence. It had been
beautiful, that night. They had been safe, secure between the 
darkness and the threads of light. As she danced, for the first time
since the cities burned down, she had felt alive. She had felt for
the first time that maybe they had a chance at a better future after 
all, if everyone could have one night like this....
     But then they shot her. The bullet might as well have hit 
Mulder, so quickly had he changed. He might have been with her
tonight, holding her hand in the garden and running rose petals
over her fingertips. He might have smiled with her, laughed with
her. Instead he was out in the desert bringing back a man who was
condemned before any trial. 
     It was not fair. There was always a bullet, wasn't there? 
Maybe not one made of lead, but there was always something to 
push them apart. To hold them back.
     She was not permitted to dwell on this thought anymore, for
a sharp and urgent knock at her door demanded her attention.
Skinner's voice carried easily through the wood.
     "Scully, open up. It's me."
     She crossed the room in four steps, unlocking the deadbolt as
she pulled the door open. He stood in the hallway, his chest 
heaving slightly as if he was out of breath. He looked so old in 
the dingy light of the hall, the lines of his face seemed so heavy. 
She wondered, vaguely, how old she herself looked now. How 
many wrinkles she had earned. He was wearing his uniform, she 
noticed, and one sleeve was spotted with tiny red spots. Blood. 
     Her pulse jumped up a notch.
     "What's going on?" Her voice a thin wire coiled around the 
tension in the air. "They're here, aren't they? Mulder and the...
others...." She tried not to think of the fact that he had with him the
man who supposedly tried to kill her. She needed to be human, 
tonight, for Mulder. She could not afford the luxury of hate.
     "They returned around thirty minutes ago."
     "And you didn't tell me?"
     "No." His eyes begged her not to be angry. "I didn't want you
to have to see it. You've seen so much, and I wanted to protect--"
His teeth clenched as he cut off the words. "They brought back
a kid, Scully. A teenager. He can't be more than seventeen,  I swear 
to God, and he certainly is no sniper. I watched his hands when 
they unloaded him. The hands of a sniper never shake. This kid 
shook like an old man. But Mulder won't see it. They showed him a 
doctored mission log and said it was the kid's. They lied to him 
and he doesn't know... "
     A bubble of nausea swelled up inside her gut. She had been
right. It was a trap. "What will they do to the prisoner?" The 
words were slow, deliberate. She wasn't sure she wanted to know. 
Reality seemed to bend and curl around her, leaving her caught 
in a dizzy middle ground. There was too much death....too much 
blood....not enough time to get it all straight....
     "He's being interrogated." 
     So that's where the blood on his sleeve had come from. Had
Skinner taken part? No, he couldn't have. He wouldn't. "By 
whom?" 
     He remained silent just long enough to confirm her fears.
    /Mulder. They've got Mulder killing that boy./
   She leaned back against the doorframe, her hand pressed against
her forehead to relieve a sudden headache. "He wouldn't." The
denial hissed through her teeth.
     Skinner's hand moved to rest on her shoulder, trying to
comfort her in a touch because neither of them knew words that
could help. He did try to find them. She appreciated him for his
effort.
     "He doesn't see a boy, Scully. All he sees is the Colonist who
almost killed the woman he loves. And I smelled liquor on him.
They must have gotten him drunk first. He wouldn't listen to
me....I tried....I came here because you are the only person who 
could make him understand....that's the only reason I'd bring you
into something like this. Forgive me..."
     Forgive. Such a heavy word. "Just give me a moment to get
dressed and I'll be there...." She patted his hand and moved
back inside her apartment. The breeze seemed so much colder
now.
     Now she knew why Skinner looked so tired. Now she felt
the same weariness in her bones. So tired, yes, and remembering 
she was weak and had been shot only three days ago, and what 
could she do to stop anything? What could she say?
     It would come to her. For now she just had to get there in
time.



to be continued