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Resurrection (28/32)
by darkstar
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     The world was blood.
     Tiny droplets in the air, inhaled with his every breath, 
collecting like dew inside his throat to mingle with the leftover 
tequila to form a taste like scorched copper. He could taste the 
hate above all else. 
     The world was blood.
     Slick and wet across his knuckles, splattered across his uniform,
across his face. It oozed in tear-like streams down the face of the 
boy-- no, the killer, he would not think of him as a boy-- bound
to the chair in front of him. Some of it blended with real tears to
drip from the killer's chin, down onto his neck.... It wasn't enough.
Scully had bled more than that when the freak had shot her. Well,
the night was young. His fists clenched into a tighter ball and the
muscles in his arms tensed in preparation for the next blow.
     "You shot her!" A voice, raw and bent until it was not as man's
voice, tore through the air. "I want to hear you admit to it!"
     More blood, flying from the freak's nose as his fist drove 
straight into it. He thought he heard the bone crack. He hoped. 
He hoped it hurt, real bad.
     "Did you enjoy it, huh?"
     A blow to the gut, sharp and fast and hard. 
     "Did you like seeing her bleed?"
     Another one to the stomach, finishing the job. The boy 
doubled over, gasping for breath through swollen lips, but 
Mulder grabbed him by the hair and yanked his face up until
they were eye to eye. His voice dropped to little more than 
a growl.
     "Did it make you feel like a man?"
     The boy's lips were moving, trying to form words through 
the blood. 
     "What is it, son? I can't hear you?"
     "Didn't....shoot....her....please....didn't..."
     Rage, boiling up inside his stomach, scalding every nerve inside
his body until it erupted again through his fist. Let the Colonist
scum lie all night. He knew the truth. The patrol had shown 
him the boy's mission log, shown him proof that he had a credited 
sniper kill the same night Scully had been shot. Had the freak 
watched through his scope as she doubled over in pain from the 
bullet? Had he gotten off on her scream, on the sudden flow 
of blood? Had he laughed?
     He wouldn't be laughing much longer. Before the night was
over, he would confess all or he would die in the chair. Slowly
and painfully, just like he wanted Scully to die. 
     The world was blood.
     Most of all, it was inside his mind. It soaked his brain, coating 
his every thought with hate and anger and kill-lust. It soaked his 
eyes, turning everything he saw a sickly shade of red. Never had 
he hated so much. Never had it burned so deep. At first he had 
tried to keep control. He had tried to reign in the emotion, the 
disgust. But then they'd offered him the liquor, and he had 
thought it would drown the voices in his head, but it had only 
broken down the restraints....Something in him had torn free, 
seized his mind and his body and twisted it until all he wanted 
was to kill. To destroy. The urge grew with every punch, every 
scream of the prisoner. /More,/ the voice inside his head sang 
out. More. He tried to take the one you love. He tried to take 
her from you, and you couldn't protect her then, but you 
can now. So make him pay. C'mon, make him scream again./
     He obeyed. With relish.
     It was Nicolas' voice inside his mind, but he did not realize it. 
It was Nicolas' hate, Nicolas' anger, Nicolas' lust that drove 
him so, stirring his own emotions into a frenzy, but he did not 
feel the invasion of his mind. Nor did he see the smile on the 
Leader's face every time his fist smashed into the boy. 
     He felt only the fire and never stopped to think that it was not
totally his own. It was like he dreamed and watched himself
from outside his mind. In the dream he marveled at his ruthlessness,
at his brutality, but he could do nothing to stop it. Only sit and 
wait for the dream to end. And in the back of his mind, in a far 
away corner so remote he could barely hear it, another voice called 
for him to wake up. A soft voice, almost totally buried under the 
chaos of hate and pain and guilt. Pleading with him. Begging.
     /Don't do this, Fox. Open your eyes. Don't do this..../
     It was Samantha's voice.
     Every time he heard it, every time he began to listen in the
smallest way, the Nicolas voice hissed a reason to keep on hating.
     /People like that scum are the reason your sister is dead./
     /He's one of the ones who shoot children in the streets. You
remember that, don't you, the blood in the morning mist and the
screaming mothers and the little tiny bodies..../
    /You let him live, he's just gonna shoot another woman./
    The world was blood.
    It was in the eyes of those around him, a crowd of fellow 
soldiers pressed in a large circle and cheering every time a new 
splatter of blood hit the floor. They were a blur before his eyes, a  
jumble of faces he did not recognize and voices he did not 
know, but it was easy enough to recognize the common 
bond of hatred. 
     "That's right! Hit him again!" 
     "Give the freak a taste of his own medicine!"
     "How do you like that, boy? Look at him, crying for his
momma. I shot your momma, kid. I shot her and listened to 
her scream!"
     "Show him what happens when he shoots one of our women!"
     And then there was Nicolas' voice, an audible one this time, 
low and intense. "That's right, Mulder. Listen to them. Listen to
yourself. Make sure justice is done."
     And then there was the sobbing of the prisoner, barely heard
beneath the shouts and jeers and obscenities. But Mulder was close
enough to hear it. 
     /God, he's crying like a child. He might as well be a child. 
How old can he be? Sixteen? Seventeen?/ Samantha's voice 
again. /How can you do this to a boy?/
     /So he's young./ Nicolas' voice, dark and ugly. /You don't
have to be an old man to kill. And that's what he tried to do to
Scully. Do you remember how it felt when her blood flowed
from her body underneath your hands, and you couldn't stop it?
Remember how she shook with pain each time the jeep hit a
rough patch, but you couldn't stop or slow down because every
second she was growing paler?/
     Justice had to be done, no matter the age.
     Something in his soul twitched at that, asking him if this really
was justice. If it was anything more than a lust for revenge.
     He did not stop to answer because he could not answer.
     After he broke the kid's nose in a second place, his hands began
to ache and he reached for his pistol, turning it to use the blunt end
of the handle as a bludgeon. He paused for a moment to catch
his breath. The Nicolas voice inside his head swarmed around his 
thoughts, an angry cloud of hornets.
     /Don't stop now. You're so close. You can really hurt him 
now. I'll bet you can break all of his ribs. And then we'll start to 
work on his hands....do you know how many bones you can 
break in a man's hands? Let's see him try to hold a gun after that..../
     /Fox!/ Samantha again, sharper than before. Angry. /Don't
listen to him! Listen to me, now! This is not what you are!/
     The hatred in his mind rose up and pushed her voice aside.
He raised the gun, already focused on the spot where he would 
break the rib. The muscles in his shoulders bunched together. 
The voice in his head laughed, and as it did, so did the burning 
within him. It pushed him forward, pushed him into action. He 
was not so sure he could stop now if he wanted to. 
    The prisoner screamed for mercy....
    He poised to deliver the blow.
    The Samantha voice sharpened, demanding his attention.

    /Look at me when I'm talking to you, brother!/
     He froze.
     His eyes moved slowly from the soldier to scan the crowd, 
his heart slowing within him. It echoed in his ears. Thud-thud-thud.
Monster-monster-monster. Killer-killer-killer. Thud-thud-thud.
     And he saw her.
     She stood directly across from him, side by side with Nicolas
although Mulder knew the man did not see her. No one saw her,
except for him. She was his angel, after all. Of light or of judgment.
She wore the same white dress he had seen on her that day in
Washington, when the children had been shot. Her hair hung down
to her shoulders in the same way, loose and carefree. Again, her
eyes burned his, with a silent flame. Her face showed no anger, 
none of the scorn or condemnation he expected, but instead 
only sadness. And such a sadness, like the tears of God, because 
they held every kind of grief and every kind of pain there was in 
the world. It was all focused on him. Asking him why. Begging 
him to stop. Crying for his soul.
     The hatred swirled and churned around his mind, vying 
to regain its control. His hand began to move forward but it
jerked to a dead stop as her voice sounded again. Only this time
it was real. It carried above the crowd and above the static of his
mind.
    "Mulder, stop!"
    His lungs became dry in the middle of his breath. How could
it be? The dead could not speak....how then....
    Then he realized it was not Samantha's voice at all, but Scully's.
He turned to see her striding through the crowd, her eyes 
burning and her lips set in a thin line of determination and anger.
Behind her, Skinner hovered protectively, his massive bulk and
stony glare warning away all who would stop her.
     /Get her out of here!/ The voice hissed, and Mulder detected
an odd note of fear. /She doesn't belong....don't make her see 
what you are..../
     She stopped inside the circle of soldiers, less than three
feet away from him. Her eyes moved from his face to the face of
the boy. He saw the anger flicker in the back of her eyes, the shock,
the disappointment. It took him aback for a moment. How could
it be that she was disappointed in him? Didn't she realize he was 
doing this for her? 
     Then the hate swelled, a wave of fire, and he didn't care 
whether she realized it or not. He'd make her understand later. 
After vengeance was taken and justice was satisfied.
     "Skinner," He spoke to Skinner without taking his eyes off
Scully's face. He was vaguely surprised at the snarl in his words 
and the way his lips curled back when he spoke. "Take her back 
to her room. She doesn't belong here."
     Skinner said nothing.
     She moved closer and reached out for his arm. He shrank 
back instinctively, as if her hand was a red hot iron. The voices 
inside his head were wailing, shrieking for her to get away. To 
leave him. When her eyes met his again, there was no anger. No 
shock. Only pain. 
     "What are you doing, Mulder?" She spoke softly, as if she was
asking him why he was combing his hair a certain way or wearing
a certain shirt instead of asking him why he was beating a man to
death.
     He wanted to tell her that he didn't know, but different words
came from his mouth. The words the voice in his mind placed in
his throat. "Making sure he doesn't shoot anyone else."
     "That's ridiculous. He's not the sniper. They lied to you. They
want you to kill him. And even if he is guilty, he deserves a fair 
trial and a fair execution.'
     "This is all the trial a Colonist deserves."
     "Listen to yourself!" Her tone was sharper now, grating across
his mind and scraping back the numbness coating his senses, 
forcing him to hear her every word. "Just listen to how you're 
talking! You have no idea what you're saying or what you're 
doing. You're angry and you're drunk and Nicolas is controlling 
you. I can feel it. He's inside your head and he's making you 
do what he wants you to do. Are you going to let that happen?'
     "She's lying!" Nicolas spoke quickly, the veins in his foreheads 
bulging underneath skin turned a stranger shade of white. "She is
trying to manipulate you into weakness!"
     Mulder watched as Scully's eyes left him and traveled over to
Nicolas. Her face froze instantly in a way he had not seen in 
quite a long while. When she spoke, her voice was steel. "You are 
the one who is trying to manipulate. It might work on frightened
girls and adoring subjects, but it will not work on me and I will
not allow you to use it on Mulder. Get out of his head. Now."
     She turned back to him. "You can fight it, Mulder. Whatever
he's making you feel, whatever you think you are feeling, you
can fight it. You can--"
     He tried, but the hatred inside his mind intensified as it were a
living creature trying to keep its foothold on a slippery mountain.
It burned him, seared him, raged within him, until all logic was 
pushed away and he broke Scully off with a snarl.
     "No one is doing anything to me! This is what I want!"
     "No! It's not! I know you!"
     The rage sharpened, sharpened, pushed.....it forced words he
did not mean out of his mouth and threw them in her face.
     "You know what I was!"
     He backhanded the prisoner across the mouth as if to prove
his words to her. The boy's head slung back, sending a spray of
blood and sweat into the air. Some of that blood splattered across
her face. He watched it stain her skin, her perfect flawless skin that
should never know blood, and it shocked him. Through the
anger, through the hate, through the blinding emotions, it cut deep
into his mind. He stood looking at her and said nothing. Staring
at her face, at the smears of blood across her cheek.
     She sensed his confusion and moved forward, wiping the 
blood away with her sleeve as she walked. He wanted to shrink 
away again, to hide from her eyes and from her touch that 
certainly would break him, but he could not move. She did not 
stop until she was face to face with him. He knew she could smell 
the blood on his clothes and the tequila on his breath. He begin 
to sense the first glimmerings of shame.
     He waited for her to strike him, to judge him.
     Instead she reached out and traced the line of his cheek with
her fingertips, ignoring the smears of blood left on her hands.
     "I know what you are, Mulder. Let me tell you what I know."
     All eyes waited on them in a strange fascination. He knew she
felt the stares just as he did, but that did not stop her. She 
continued, her voice firm and clear.
    "You are a soldier, one of the best. You are strong. You're
difficult sometimes and stubborn sometimes, and maybe your 
high ideals are a little cracked, but underneath it all, you're still a 
believer. You were the only one of us who believed, before. You
gave us hope. You gave us someone we could believe in. I still
believe in you. I believe you are something better than this. You
are something better than him." Her finger jabbed toward Nicolas.
"Don't throw yourself away for a cheap shot at revenge. Don't
throw us away. He can only control you if you let him. It's time to
break that control. Break it now. And let's go home. It's late. I'm
tired. Aren't you, Mulder?" Her hand rested around his, nudging
his fingers away from the gun. "Aren't you tired of this too?"
   The hatred-voice inside his mind faded, faded as he pushed
it back, screaming its rage at him and clawing at his mind, but it 
was not strong enough to stop him. She pushed it back too,
with her eyes. With her soul. He awoke slowly from the nightmare.
One by one his senses returned to him. For the first time he
discovered there was blood on his hands. And on his face. And
on his clothes.....and everywhere. A knot of nausea began to knit
together in the pit of his stomach. For the first time he saw the 
face of the boy-soldier he had been beating. He saw the fear.
He saw the pain. He saw the humanity. 
     The gun dropped from his fingers to the floor and his eyes
fell with it. He could not look her in the face, knowing what he
had just done before her eyes. He could not stand to see her light
touch his darkness. "Yes." He whispered. "Very tired."
    "C'mon-" She pulled him towards the door, but Nicolas' voice 
cut them off, cold and deadly.
     "You were not dismissed, *soldier*. Pick up the gun and finish
interrogating the prisoner."
     Mulder lifted his eyes to meet those of the man who had 
been inside his mind. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would hate. Not
tonight. Tonight he'd had his fill of hate. He felt only disgust, and
a bit of pity, for if the dark fire had truly been Nicolas' emotion, 
the man was torn inside. He spoke in even tone, but firmly. "No."
     Nicolas' voice increased in pitch and volume. "You will do
as you are ordered. And I am giving you a direct order to finish
the job. I don't care what your whore says, you are a member of
the Humanity Corps and you are under my command, and you
will obey."
     Mulder's hands clenched on reflex to fists. /How dare that little
*pig* talk about her that way...in front of these men...../
     No, focus. He had to focus.
     He took a deep breath and forced his hands to relax.
     "I won't kill him for you. If you want him to die, you're 
going to have to do it yourself."
     "Very well then." Nicolas waved to the two of the men 
standing behind him. "He is guilty of insubordination. You
all are witnesses. Arrest him."
     Scully's hand tightened around his, her eyes wide and flaring 
with fear for him. "Run." She whispered, just low enough for
him to here. "I'll keep them back...."
     "It's all right, Scully." He pulled her hand from his arm and 
held out his wrists for the soldiers to cuff. "Just stay with Skinner 
and promise me you'll be careful--" He would rather be in jail 
and have her think of him as human than go free and have her 
think of him as a monster. She had said she believed in him. That 
made it worth it all.
     But Nicolas wasn't through yet. Mulder watched the man's 
mouth crease into a smile as he waved out two more guards. A 
feeling of dread begin to mix with the nausea in his stomach until 
he tasted it as bile in the back of his throat. "The woman instigated 
it. Arrest her as well."
     "No!" He strained against the two men holding him, pulling 
to break free of the handcuffs. He lunged forward, using his 
entire body to push himself between her and the soldiers. "She
is still sick....she hasn't recovered yet.....you can't arrest her...."
He drew his leg back and let it fly in a fast kick to the stomach of
the first man who tried to drag him away. Another soldier kicked
back, a close-range blow to his ribs. He gasped for breath.
Strong hands clamped around his arms, lifting him off the ground
and hauling him back. He made them fight for every inch. They
could take him, yes, but not her. She was still weak.....even now
she swayed a bit as she stood. He was guilty, yes, but she had
done nothing but stop him from killing an innocent boy.
     "Contain him." Nicolas ordered, his voice dripping disgust. 
"If she is well enough to stir up treason then she is well enough to
pay for it."
     For Scully, the world spun at a thousand miles an hour,
and she tried desperately to hold on. She stiffened her legs so that
she might remain on her feet, tall and straight, that she might look
them in the eye as they came toward her. She had not been out
of bed for more than five minutes since the shooting, and from 
the moment she entered the room she had been fighting off the 
dizziness. Now it washed over her in waves, contorting the world 
before her eyes, bending it into strange shapes and colors.
     She had to stand up....had to be strong for Mulder....had to...
stand...
     Her knees trembled and shook.
     When they grabbed her, rough hands locking her wrists tightly
into handcuffs, she couldn't hide the flinch. Skinner saw it and
stiffened, his hand edging toward his sidearm with murder in his
eyes.
     "No." She pinned his gaze with hers, forcing him to see the
caution in her eyes. "We need someone outside."
     He nodded, but she saw the barely restrained fury in the 
tightness of his jaw. He would have killed if she asked him to. 
But she would not, no matter how much the handcuffs hurt or 
how much she felt ready to collapse. Nicolas already hated Skinner. 
All he needed was a reason to act, and she wasn't about to 
provide that.
     They pulled her toward the door and she moved to obey, but
suddenly her legs refused to work. The bones and muscles turned
to rubber and she fell....fell.....the floor rushing up to meet her but 
never quite reaching her as the guards caught her. Out of the 
corner of her eye she saw Mulder struggle to get free, cursing 
the hands that held him back, screaming her name. Scully, I'm
sorry. I'm sorry. Screaming over and over again, Let me go to 
her. Let me help her. Let me touch her.
     And he even begged.
     Please....
     She tried to open her mouth to tell him she was fine, but 
whirlpool around her sucked the words from her mind.
     She saw Skinner, standing stone still, his face expressionless but
his eyes burning. She saw the resolve, the promise that passed 
between them without words. I will get you out. I will find a way, 
no matter what I have to do. No matter what.
     She saw Nicolas, his whole body quivering with rage and 
hatred as he looked at her, but also with desire, a secret lust 
burning in his eyes. More terrifying than the hate. Darker than 
the anger. He said nothing to her in words, but the stare told her
enough. I will own you. I will possess you. I will make you pay 
for taking him back from me.
     And then the darkness came and she saw nothing.
     /I have saved him..../
     A last thought.
     Yes, but what would it cost him?
     But it was too much to think, right now, and she surrendered 
to the imploding universe around her before finding the answer.

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

    Drying blood and sweat plastered his clothes to his skin, but 
Mulder felt naked. It was as if all his outer defenses, all his 
protections and carefully constructed fortifications, were 
stripped away between the blinding glare of white lights on 
glossy white walls, leaving him bare before the never-blinking 
red eye of the camera.
     That was the danger of this room, he knew, the same danger 
of every other room like it in the world. It existed not to 
terrify you so much as to break you down. To lock you in a 
world without relief from the burning exposure of lights and 
video cameras, and the brutal, relentless interrogator of your 
own thoughts.
     Nicolas would have known that this was the only torture that
could break him. He could give them the finger through beatings 
and blood-lettings of any sort, but lock him in a room away 
from Scully and imply that she is being hurt......that quickly 
became a different sort of battle. It was your own imagination that 
killed. She had been so small in the middle of that room, 
surrounded by hate yet somehow untainted by it. So fragile. The 
handcuffs had seemed so ugly on her wrists, the faces of the 
guards so hard....
     Had they taken her to Nicolas?
     Was she....
     /No. Don't think it. God, don't think it./
     He swallowed back the fear that turned the muscles of his
throat dry and tight. His hands shook within the handcuffs in a 
mix of instinctive rage and a greater sense of helplessness. /Please 
let them leave her alone./ They could have him, if they wanted. 
They could strap him to the table under the bright, bright lights 
and they could send pain through his body until they were sick 
of it. They could cut through his flesh just to see him bleed 
(wouldn't Nicolas like that) but she had to be kept safe. But 
that would require mercy, and mercy was too human for this 
place. She had known that right away. She had tried to warn him, 
but he had been blind, so preoccupied with what he thought 
was the way back to light and redemption. And the very man 
whose guidance he had relied on turned out to be a darker 
monster than even himself. If she had not come back, who knows 
how worse it would have been? What would he have become?
     The door opened and he knew the answer, for Nicolas was
standing in the doorway, an indolent smile on his face although the
expression was betrayed by the hard glint behind his eyes.
     What Mulder saw was not entirely human, but purely evil. He
did not know how he could have missed it before. He hardened 
his face into a mask of blank granite, determined not to be blinded 
again.
     "Well, well, you seem to be quite the man of the hour." Nicolas
stepped into the room, flanked by two of his personal 
bodyguards-- each holding a long metal billy club. Their faces 
begged Mulder to give them an excuse to play with his ribs. 
     It seemed that the overwhelming urge to attack the Leader 
and rip the smile off his face would have to be postponed. 
For now.
     Nicolas leaned back against the hall, his body loose in deceptive
casualness. Mulder saw, however, the way the muscles in his hands
were bunched, waiting to form fists at any moment. The smile
never faltered as the Leader continued to speak. "Word of 
your little game has spread all over the city. The common rabble 
are so fascinated, as peasants will be, and you can be assured that
Skinner and his idiot followers are making the best of it. Some
are even calling you a hero. The new Leader." The smile hardened,
glinting in the light as a shard of glass. "That does not bode well
for you, my friend."
     "So is this the part when I get the sense beat back into me?" 
Mulder held his voice in the flat cadence he used when dealing 
with the Smoking Man. "I'll have to say that I thought the great 
and terrible Leader of the Resistance could have come up with
something a little more creative. Electroshock therapy, perhaps? 
Or at the very least, the rack."
     Nicolas laughed, a sound like the scratch of snake scales across
the desert floor. Mulder was just waiting for the fangs to come 
out, for the true poison to be revealed. Something was hiding 
behind that smile, something dark and black and evil....
     "Mulder, you know better than that. I am not going to 
insult you by attempting to break you physically. It would be a 
waste of our time. I have a better use for you. One that is far more 
productive to the Cause and, might I add, mutually beneficial to 
your health."
     "Imagine my relief." 
     Perhaps it was the light, but the more he looked at Nicolas, the 
less human the man seemed. The voice became slurred, a hissing 
obscenity of sound that echoed Pavlov's voice. The eyes burned a 
blue unnaturally bright, while his pupils dilated into an almost 
reptilian slant. Mulder shook his head to chase away the 
hallucination. He had been under the lights too long. "I suppose 
that now you're going to tell me what you want me to do."
     "We only ask that you use your strengthened influence over
 the people to expose a threat to our stability and effectiveness."
     "Cut the noble crap and tell me who's trying to take your toys." 
     "Very well. I shall lay it out for you. Your friend Walter 
Skinner has always been an nuisance, caught up in womanish 
concern for humane warfare and minimizing the loss of life. 
We have suffered his whining because of his tactical skills, but
now it is clear that he is a threat to the Leadership. His following 
has increased since your return, even to the point where he 
has began to turn the ear of some of the other generals. You 
see that this cannot be allowed."
     "I see that the people are beginning to see you as the freak you
are and that they want a change. I see that you're running scared, 
like a whipped mutt with your tail between your legs, but I don't 
see what I am supposed to do. If you're expecting me to kill him, 
the answer is no. You'll have to kill me instead and then 
you'll be making a martyr for Skinner's cause. I don't think 
you want that."
     Nicolas' eyes flashed sparks of blue-black fire for a moment as
he stared at Mulder. "Do not overestimate the importance of your
life, my friend. I doubt they would call you martyr if your 
somewhat un-hero like past was exposed. But all this is beside 
the point. No one is asking you to kill. All we want is for you to 
reveal him as the threat he is. Go before the Committee and 
denounce him before the other generals as a Colonist 
sympathizer and a traitor. We have three witnesses ready to 
back your suspicions with their own reports and hard evidence 
has been arranged. Not that it will be needed. I am confident 
the others will listen to you. Your word is highly valued, even 
in your....fallen....state."
     There was the slightest emphasis on the word "fallen", but 
Mulder refused to entertain the notion of guilt. He would not let 
the monster back into his head. The revulsion that had been 
growing within his stomach swelled into a climax. That....freak...
.was asking him to betray the man who had saved his life, the man 
who had saved Scully's life.....just to save his own skin? Did the 
Leader think he had learned nothing all this time? That he would 
fall so easily back into the Judas mold? It was beyond insult. It 
disgusted him, so much that he would not dignify it with anger. 
He merely allowed his repulsion to frost over his eyes, to drip 
through his voice as he spoke. He leaned forward until he held 
Nicolas' eyes.
     "You think you're so powerful, don't you. You think you've 
got them all terrified. I have seen ten times the evil you are, and 
I am not awed by your darkness. I am not cowed by your 
threats. Listen to me, Nicolas, and listen well. There is nothing 
you can do to make me betray Walter Skinner. He is worth a 
hundred of you. Feel free to do with me what you will, but I
will not be your traitor. If I die because of it, at least I will 
die a human. Which is something you will never be."
    Seconds dragged by, bitter with a palpable tension and rage. 
He watched Nicolas' face, saw the hatred and resentment pool 
in thick black swirls across the man's eyes before the emotions 
disappeared behind a smile which was now as cold as ice. The 
smile twisted as a viper twists to reach his prey, gloating, mocking. 
For all his resolve, Mulder felt his spine twitch against his nerves.
     "A fine sentiment." Now the voice was indeed a hiss, low and
inhuman but at the same time holding delight. "Yes, you
will make a fine spectacle on the scaffolding, your flesh hanging 
in ribbons from your bones and your naked wounds baking 
in the sun. They call for you to save them now, but they will just 
as  eagerly watch you die. That is how they are....they smell blood 
and they are drawn to it. They will accept yours as readily as 
they will any other Colonist dog. I really do admire your nerve. 
Really--"
     Nicolas leaned closer. "But indulge me with one small 
question, if you will. Merely to gratify my own curiosity."His 
eyes gleamed and their electricity danced in his words, a barely
audible hum. Mulder could feel the man's breath on his face. 
Smell the hatred.
     "How do you think it will feel to her?" The demon smile 
curled up at the ends, reminding Mulder so much of Pavlov 
that he had to fight the urge to cross himself, to shrink away. A 
sheet of ice began to move slowly up his spine, toward his heart....
     And then, beneath the ice, a rage. A pure, white hot, hatred. 
The more he sat and listened the more it built. An explosion 
was imminent, but Nicolas did not know how close it was.
     The man was too busy talking in a sort of ecstasy, as if 
the act of describing pain gave him a deep pleasure. "She has such 
soft skin, so delicate and pure.....how do you think it will feel 
when it is exposed to the sky and the hungry eyes of a mob? Do 
you think it will be cold to her? Do you think she will blush in 
shame? Or will it burn her, when the whip falls? Again, and 
again, and again, until she is screaming with that soft voice. Until 
she's cursing your pretty little truth and her pretty little faith, but 
most of all cursing you for letting her die like that. Do you think 
she'll be strong until the very end, or will she beg for mercy? Ah, 
you'd like that, wouldn't you. Your whore's last words will be 
to me, begging me to spare her life. Promising to give me 
anything I want. Who knows, I might grant the wish. I'll make 
her work for it though....she might wish she was dead before it 
was ov-"
     His last word turned into a choked gurgle of sound as Mulder's
fists clenched around his throat in a mix of iron grip and steel
handcuffs.


                                          
- - - - - - - - - - - - - 
Resurrection (29/32)
by darkstar
- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

    The force of Mulder's attack knocked Nicolas back into the
wall, cracking the plaster behind him. The guards moved in 
immediately, plowing their clubs into Mulder's back and sides 
but the rage, for the moment, blocked out the pain.
     And Nicolas-- as the air began to leave his throat, as he was 
thrown to the floor, pinned beneath the weight of a very angry 
man-- felt the first glimmerings of something he would later 
admit to be fear. He had never seen eyes like the eyes that 
stared down at him. It was not senseless hatred, not mad 
rage, not even disgust. It was something entirely different, 
something glowing white and searing like the point
of a finely honed sword.
     The words were cold and emotionless, spoken in a low 
rumble meant for only Nicolas to hear.
     "You touch her, I will kill you. Make no mistake. Whatever 
you need to satisfy your sick little game with, you get it 
from my mind. You take it from me but you leave her alone."
      Just as his fear began to blossom into something real
instead of imaginary, his men managed to pry Mulder away. He
remained on the floor a moment, gasping for breath and taking
satisfaction from the dull thud of the clubs into Mulder's body. 
>From the not-quite-concealed gasps of pain that followed 
each blow.
     He let the beating continue a full minute more, then waved at 
the guards. "Let him go. We want him well so he can testify. 
And he will testify." He placed his boot on the small of 
Mulder's back as the man tried to rise, shoving him back 
onto the floor. "He knows I don't make idle promises." One
last kick to the gut, to make clear the point. "Take him to 
the woman's cell. Our two lovers will no doubt want to make 
the best of their last moments together."
     He smiled as they half-led, half-dragged Mulder from the
room, but as the door shut behind them, that smile faded 
imperceptibly. He remembered the blade in Mulder's eyes, the 
marble gravity in his voice. That was not a man to make idle 
promises either.
     Then he reminded himself that he was the Leader, and he was
the one who made the rules, and with this thought to calm his 
nerves, he returned to his quarters. 
     He knew Mulder well. The man did not have the stomach 
to let his woman die slowly and painfully. It was only a matter 
of time before he came crawling back, ready to deal. Begging 
for mercy. Then they would see who was the whipped dog.
     And if he chose to play the hero, that was all good and well. 
     Let them die for their honor and their love. Let them both 
find out how futile such delusions really were. 

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

     Why did the lights have to be so bright? Why did they have 
to grate along the ragged edges of his nerves, burning his brain 
and the lining of his eyes? He watched the cold white fire 
as it danced along the surface of the metal bars opening before 
him, and then all he could see was cement rushing towards him 
as the guards shoved him into the cell. His hands shot out, palms 
flat, seeking to spare his ribs the added punishment, wincing in 
advance at the thought of peeled skin and fresh pain, but he 
never hit the ground. Someone caught him first. Someone 
small and soft, whose arms kept him from the pavement 
then wrapped in a crushing circle around his neck. His senses 
still reeled from the lights and from the fall, so he could not 
yet see her, although this did not matter. He felt every part of 
her-- the warmth of her face pressed into his neck, the  
needle-prick sensation of her fingernails digging into the top 
of his spine, the heat of her breath against his skin. Mulder 
moved his arms automatically to return the embrace, and 
through her back, his fingers could sense the frenzy of the pulse.
     For those first few moments, the lights did not matter and
his ribs did not ache. All he could think was "she is alive. She is 
safe. He hasn't taken her from me yet." And all he could do 
was hold on to her, try to pull her so close that they blended 
into one person, because then no one could separate them again. 
No one could force him to kill just to keep her safe.
     That thought brought him back to the unremitting glare 
of white and the dull thudding pain in his side. Over her 
shoulder he could see the splatters of blood still on his hands. 
Still on his clothes.
     The irrational fear that he would stain her with it struck him
suddenly and nearly overwhelmed him. He remembered what he
had almost done, what she had watched him do.
     "Don't touch me, Scully." His whisper disappeared into her 
hair. "Please."
     The muscles in her shoulders tensed beneath his hands into 
tight, angry bunches. "They did something to you." Her hands 
slid over his face, down his shoulders, along his sides, seeking out 
the injury. "They hurt you."  She spit out halfway between a 
question and a curse.
     "It's not that." He broke the embrace, sliding away from 
her to lean against the wall. Trying to hide his hands beneath his 
legs, behind his back. Blinking to wash the dry ache from his 
eyes and wishing ten times to heaven that it was dark, a 
deep oil dark, so she could not see his hands or his clothes. 
Or his guilt. /So easily do you forget. She stopped you from 
killing one man and now you're considering killing another 
just to keep her alive. You'll never admit that you're 
thinking about it, but you are. You've already betrayed
your sister, the human race, your faith.....what's an old friend?/
     /Stop it./ His lips moved in a words that held no sound. 
He closed his eyes, forced the lids shut to escape the fluorescent
nightmare. The light pounded through his defenses in a violent
wash of red. Why did his world always have to look like blood? 
He almost remembered a time when it was another color, 
the shining white of distant spaceships and his sister's nightgown 
and a truth he had somehow lost along the way.
     "Mulder...what...." Her voice jerked him back to awareness of
reality--- though it was becoming harder to stay focused on the
present and not slip into the dark waters of his mind-- and he
realized she sounded confused. Maybe even scared. He had to 
find a way to re-connect. Had to be strong now, for her. Had 
to let her know it was all going to be okay.
     Even if it wasn't. 
     Mulder began to search his mind for an excuse, a diversion, 
but suddenly his thoughts froze in the attempt. No, he would 
not lie to her this time. It was time, at last, to tell the truth. To 
lay all the cards on the table and turn them over one by one to 
read his fortune.
     "I'm afraid." His throat was sandpaper; each word a harsh 
and  strained sound. 
     "Of what?" Tiny wrinkles appeared at the corner of her eyes.
She edged closer but made no attempt to touch him again. 
     He swallowed hard. "You."
     He counted fourteen seconds of silence. 
     Her voice trembled when she spoke again. A very thin, very
tiny voice that did not quite believe itself.
     "Me?" 
     He nodded. His eyes fled upward, to the lights, preferring 
their sting to the hurt in her eyes. No one said this was going 
to be easy. Only that it had to be done. 
     "Why?"
     A deep breath. A struggle for words. Then--
   "You are the only thing I have left to lose. The only thing
about my life that is worth anything. It was that way long before
the invasion ever hit. Because of this I have done....things...." His
eyes thickened but he told himself it was the brightness of the 
room and forced himself to continue. "I have betrayed my 
people. I have given my gun and my allegiance to the killers of 
innocence. I....myself....have become such a monster. Men, 
women. Friends. My sister...."
     Here his voice broke. Thin lines of moisture leaked from
his eyes and he ran his hands over his face to brush them away. 
The momentary shadow of his hands over his eyes was like 
heaven.
     "Mulder." Her voice hung heavy with the effort to restrain 
her own tears.  "Mulder, you don't have to do this--"
     "Let me finish, Scully." He spoke through his hands, the 
words muffled as he dragged his fingers across his eyelids. 
Rubbing away the pain. "For once, let me finish." 
     Mulder let his hands fall to his lap, slowly bringing his eyes to
meet hers. This was the key moment. His soul hung or fell 
depending on her reaction to his next words.
     "I became something ugly and dark. Something I could barely
recognize as myself, even as a human. Scully, it was hell every day.
My sanity was so close to breaking. You'll never know how close.
That's why I had to run. I had to find you again, be with you 
again, because I knew that you were the only thing that could 
save me." His voice dropped even lower, stretched by the 
crushing weight inside his chest. 
      "I only wanted to be forgiven. By her. By you. By myself.
I came here looking for redemption but when I saw you, I 
couldn't tell you the truth. You were too beautiful for that. I 
couldn't bear the thought of infecting you with my ugliness. I 
tried to think of a way to tell you. I would lay awake at night 
and try to piece together the words, but nothing ever seemed to 
be enough. So even though I was with you, I was still living the 
lie. I tried to pretend it didn't matter.But I knew, inside, that the 
darkness was still there. Nicolas knew that too. He fed on it. I 
made it strong with denial. And I almost killed a boy because 
I would not tell you the truth. So I am going to tell you. Now. 
This moment."
     He paused, moving close to her until his hands rested over
hers. /Blood against ivory,/ he thought. /Beauty and chaos and 
will she still love me when it's all over?/ He brought his eyes to 
meet hers until the core of his soul was dead level with the center
of hers. He saw the tremble in her jaw, the glistening rim of tears
in her eyes. He suspected she saw the same in his face. 
     "I ask you to forgive me, Dana Scully. Knowing everything 
I have done-- that I have killed for you, that I have lied and 
destroyed--I ask you to forgive. I can't justify what I have 
done except to say that I have loved you through all of it. If
you asked it of me, I would do it all again. I hate that truth, but 
I believe it. Anything you ask of me. Anything." He barely heard 
his words, barely knew whether she heard them or not but he 
kept talking through the pain. It always hurt to bare the soul 
but this was a good, clean ache. The ache of healing. He 
dropped his head onto her lap, pressing his face against their
hands. His eyes squeezed tightly shut, his breath frozen. He 
pressed a kiss into her open palms. A prayer.
     "Please....find something inside me that can be saved. That
can be loved. Walk with me. Stay with me. Please."
     A wetness filled the space between his face and their hands and 
realized he cried onto her skin. But there was no shame. Not 
here.
     The silence was short but it seemed to Mulder so very long....
an endless agony of waiting measured in fragments of seconds 
and pieces of heartbeats. Her hands remained limp under his 
face. Her body tensed.
     Then slowly, with infinite gentleness, her fingers moved up 
the side of his face to smooth back his hair. Their warmth 
spread through his whole body. She folded her hands on top 
of his head as to give him a blessing, and lowered her forehead 
to rest on her hands. A sensation of rain falling onto his hair let 
him know that she cried as well. "I will always walk with you. I 
will always stay." The words so soft, echoing through every 
level of his being. Shattering the darkness. Creating new light. 
She pulled his head up so their eyes could meet, and again 
he thought of her as an ocean. Wide, deep, all-compassing. He 
never wanted to return to land.
     "And though I have doubted myself, though I have doubted
why you would do this for me, there has never been a time 
when I have had to search for a reason to love you. That has 
always been a natural part of me. Nothing can take that away."
     She kissed his forehead, smoothing the wrinkles under her 
lips until his skin was smooth and untroubled. His arms moved
up her arms to cradle her face between his hands. He brushed 
his thumb across her eyelashes to remove a stray tear. She 
smiled at him and he leaned forward to taste it by placing a kiss 
gently across the curve of her lower lip.
     "What took us so long to say it?"
     "You weren't the only one was afraid."
     "So how 'bout we run to Vegas and get married? I'm sure I
could find us a slot at the Elvis Presley Wedding Chapel. Only 
$19.95 plus tax....but five dollars extra if you want the King to
serenade you as you walk the aisle."
     She laughed. "Only if we get to honeymoon in Cancun."
     "Deal."
    And he smiled.
     Yet even at that moment, even in the midst of rebirth, one 
thought played in the farthest back corner of his mind. 
     /Tomorrow she will die. Unless you choose to fall all 
over again. Unless you turn this into a lie as well. Unless you 
betray./
     No, no, he would not. There had to be another way.
     Please, he begged in silence, let there be another way.








                                 Restons immobile
                                 rien ne nous attend
                                 rien qui ne soit plus futile
                                 que ce doux moment....

                                 (Let's stay still
                                 nothing awaits us
                                 nothing more futile    
                                 than this sweet moment...)

                                 Restons encore un instant
                                 un instant comme s'ils étaient cent
                                 rien ne nous attend...

                                 (Let's stay for one more moment
                                 a moment like there was an hundred one.
                                 Nothing awaits us...)

                                                             - Immobile
                                                               Autour de 
Lucie 
                          

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

    The waiting was hardest on both of them.
    It would have been an easier thing to walk directly from the
embrace to the scaffolding, from the kiss to the flame, but Scully
knew the real valley of shadow would not be then but now. It 
was always harder to wait for death than to merely die. The true 
test of courage came in a harsh white silence broken only by the 
faint buzzing of the lights and the fainter, stiller whispers of 
seconds as they passed. Each minute told a different story... of 
the wedding night she would never see, the names of children 
she would never hold. She and Mulder lived out a thousand 
lifetimes in her mind before even one hour had passed. The 
images rose clear and sparkling inches from her fingertips only 
to shimmer into vapor when she tried to touch them. The false 
memories seemed at times more real than her past itself. Oh, 
she remembered that too. Those pictures surfaced every so 
often amid her day-dreaming, appearing suddenly on the 
forefront of her mind as an old black and white photograph
falling out of a pile of color snapshots.
    Sometimes she saw her mother, her brothers, her first 
catechism teacher, her high school boyfriend. These were happy 
memories, to be taken out one at a time and savored. Sometimes 
she saw barbed wire and mass graves and chains around her 
wrist as a fat man sold her to the highest bidder. She saw the  
look on Mulder's face when she found his Enforcer badge, 
remembering the horror that had flashboiled her inside. For the 
only three seconds of her life, she had entertained the idea that 
he had been working for them all along...
    Scully shoved these memories away quickly and tried not to 
even acknowledge them. They took time which was not theirs to
waste.
    Sometimes she drifted back to the present. This came over 
her as a diffuse awareness of pain, of discomfort, of the 
contrasting warmth spread over her eyes as his hands shielded 
her from the lights. She could almost hear his blood flow. He 
was that close. Yet she felt the separation between them stretch 
with each new moment of the horrible silence. It was as if the 
absence of sound devoured them piece by piece, and if she did 
not speak soon, they would be quickly nibbled to the bone.
    She spoke because in the end it was the silence, not the death,
that drove men mad.
    "Skinner came, while you were gone."
    "What did he say?" He had been hungry for sound as well. 
    "Nicolas is calling for blood. He has legal grounds for an 
execution and plans to drive it through. Skinner has taken it 
before the generals, though. He used your status as Commander 
to provide reasonable merit for an appeal."
    "They'll never listen. Nicolas has them all under his thumb, 
one way or another."
    "Skinner seemed to indicate we had allies, though not enough
to overturn Nicolas in a vote. But he did mention another factor 
that could play in our favor."
    "What?"
    "The people, for the majority, side with you. Nicolas has to
call on them for our death....all part of the glorious brotherhood 
of humanity we have here. Everyone shares judgment and 
responsibility. Only he knows exactly how to control the mob. 
They've all heard rumors of what you've done, of what you can 
do, but it's going to take a lot more than hearsay to get the mob 
on our side."
    "So I'm supposed to do what....walk on water?"
    She smiled. "Maybe just call down an angel or two to help us
out."
    "Nah, I already caught one." Her skin sensed his gaze on her
even though his hands still covered her eyes. "And she's more 
than earned her wings."
    Part of her laughed at that, singing out that this was what it 
felt like when love was restored after so many months of doubt.
This made you fly. Yet just as soon as the impulse left the 
ground, remembrance of reality sent her crashing back into the 
rocks. They would die tomorrow. Both of them, unless it 
started raining miracles, and the sky had been dry for very long. 
It was at that moment that she struggled with the fate of it, 
trying to reason the justice of a universe that would let love die 
so soon after it  had been realized. That would take him from 
her despite the long struggle to save him...
    There had to be something she could do. And then she 
knew what it was. The idea crawled from the pit of her stomach, 
repulsive as it coalesced into a thought. She swallowed back 
the bitterness and spoke with deliberate detachment. If she even 
listened to her voice speak the words, she would shrink from 
them. But she had to say it.
    "Wings won't save us tomorrow, Mulder. I know what will.
I am going to go before Nicolas and appeal myself."
    "No." The answer came hard, fast, plated in iron resolve.
    "I don't see a choice." Scully pushed herself up into a sitting
position so she could stare him eye to eye. The light stung her
after the darkness under his hands. She blinked twice and tried to
focus. "He won't listen to Skinner and he certainly won't listen to
you, but I...I have something he wants."
    The renewed horror in his eyes cut her off. "No. Just...no. I 
know exactly what he wants from you and....how can you even
say it? Not for one moment do you dare think that I would send
you back to another Pavlov just to spare myself a little pain. I 
thought you knew me so much better than that. So much better."
    "I'm sorry-- I mean, I do. I just thought--"
    "I know." His thumb brushed the corners of her mouth,
smoothing away the frown. "But it'd never be worth it. Even if
it was, he can't be trusted to keep his word. The man is evil. I
am convinced of it."
    She shivered on instinct, though she had not meant to let it
show, and she tried to pretend the chill was from the cell and not
the temperature of her thoughts. "He reminds me of Pavlov. The way
his eyes kill the light, the sound of his voice. The tingle in my skin 
above the implant when he walks into the room...like something 
is always hovering just outside my mind, just waiting for me to 
let my guard down."
    His hands moved up the back of her neck to trace slow 
circles on the skin above the hated metal, massaging the warmth 
of his fingers into her body. She never feared becoming frozen
inside, of losing her humanity, when she sat beside him. He 
could always thaw her. He could always keep her warm, no
matter what. Yet in this touch, there was a stiffness, a knot 
around his joints as if they held back a question he wanted to 
ask but feared. 
    She counted to twenty twice and his hands had stopped 
moving. He'd found the nerve to speak.
    "Did he approach you....like Pavlov did...."
    "No." She shook her head. "Not directly, at least. I'm not 
sure what held him back. He used different methods of getting 
to me. Through Aida, through Che. Through you. And--and I 
think he was in my dreams, sometimes." The entire length of 
his body tensed. Scully hastily continued in attempt to put his 
mind at ease. "But never like Pavlov. Nowhere near that deep."
    "Lucky for him."
    The words floated into a moment of quiet thought, and then
another, before he dragged another question to the surface of 
their minds. One from a far deeper past.
    "It was bad for you with him, wasn't it. With Pavlov."
    Bad. She almost laughed. "Bad" didn't describe it at all. She 
let him continue, though, because each of the thousand words 
springing to life inside her mind was either an admission of 
weakness or a lie.
    "I had already suspected Nicolas was influencing me," he 
said. "But that didn't help much when I realized he had been 
manipulating my emotions the whole time, twisting me for his 
own gain. There was a kind of shock, at first, and I didn't want 
to believe you because it made me feel so hollow. Like 
something had been taken from me, something integral and 
sacred, and I had no idea how to get it back. That was all I 
thought of at first. How to regain what had  been stolen. But 
he was only on the barest rim of my mind....I can't even begin 
to imagine what it must have been to have something inside
your thoughts themselves. I can't even begin to fathom how it
would feel."
    "Filthy." The word shattered in harsh fragments on the floor.
Scully stared straight up into the lights as she spoke, until
she saw and felt nothing but a thick white that separated her 
fromwhat she was saying. Not that she could stop herself now, 
even if she wanted to. The gates had been unlocked. "Naked. 
Burned. You don't know how to make it stop, so for a month 
of midnights you wake up hearing the same voices, feeling the 
same sensations, and worst of all the same fear. There are 
nightmares, of course, but you are never entirely sure whether 
they are your dreams or his. That's because part of him is 
forever wrapped around a part of you, just waiting in the 
dark corners of your soul. It never goes away. You just learn 
to lock it out of reach and move on...."
    He kissed her again, then, and she did not know he was 
shaking with as much hatred as a man could feel. All he could 
do to keep it inside was remind himself over and over again.... 
/I killed him. I killed the monster. And I am glad of it./
    Instead, he said---
    "I should have been there, after it happened. Me, not Skinner,
though I'm sure he did all he could. But I should have been 
the one...if you had asked, I would have found some way....
    "Don't apologize, Mulder." She hushed his regrets by placing 
one finger over his lips. To touch him was a craving, just to feel 
the solidness of his flesh against hers as if even her hands realized
on instinct that these moments were their last. She set aside the 
thought, for now. "What is in the past is in the past and it will 
stay there. Until tonight, I wasn't so sure about that. Not until I 
stood in the room and stared down Nicolas. I felt nothing. No 
fear. No memory. Not even hate. What Pavlov did will always 
be a scar across my mind, that much I know. Nothing I can 
do will change that, but I won't be controlled
by a dead man. Not anymore."
    He only needed to nod for her to know he understood. It 
went far deeper than a mere understanding of her words, but it 
came from intimate knowledge of the experience behind them. 
They had taken the same journey-- though on different paths-- 
fought the same war--though on different battlefields-- and 
slain the same demons-- though under different names-- and 
tonight they had won the same victory. Freedom.
    The cost, however, had been high. Even now, the final 
casualty report was not in. One...final...sacrifice was required of 
them both. The thought struck her as if for the first time. In the 
space of a blink, the light seemed to invert into darkness. The 
chill of the room became a hot wind against her face, driving
her further away from Mulder, into the final void...
    A desperate grab for his hand, afraid she would not feel it. 
A momentary quiver of faith.
    /I can't believe. It's too dark./
    /What if I fall apart? What if I fail him?/
    /....that we may be made worthy./
    /I still believe. Mulder, kiss me just one more time, to make 
sure.../     But she did not ask for a kiss. And when her eyes 
opened again, the vision disappeared.
    Suddenly she was very tired with the weariness of an old 
woman who had lived through too many dry summers and 
now only wanted to sleep and dream of thunderstorms. She 
leaned back against his chest-- where she could feel pulse by 
pulse the life pounding through him, where he could feel it in 
her-- as her fingertips threaded through his, easing them back 
across her eyes. To hide her from the light once more. Or 
maybe just to hide.
    /Close my eyes, love./ His fingertips sealed her eyelids shut, 
his whisper telling her to rest. /Close my eyes and tell me of 
the rain. Tell me it will fall soon, so very soon, and we will 
never be thirsty again./
"It feels like its day now." She whispered. "Or very close to it."
    "Pretend its midnight."
    "That won't make the sun go away."
    A slight pause. "No, it won't."
    They were falling again, into the pale silent chasm, and she 
had to stop it.
    "Talk to me, Mulder." 
    "What do you want me to say?"
    "Anything." 
    She let her mind wander. Her thoughts snagged on a stray 
piece of  a memory. Their first night on the run.
    /The green neon glow of the cheap motel sign outside the
window. The stiff ache along the sides of my jaw as I tried to
hold back the tears, the screams. We were never supposed to be
right. And it was the first time he held me like this, his arms so
tight with something made of desperation and need and 
something more beautiful. Only we didn't speak of that. We 
didn't dare./
    That night, he had not talked to her of the falling sky or 
of the breaking world. He had placed his mouth next to her ear 
and told her of a dream. She wanted to hear it again. She 
wanted to pretend.
    "Tell me about the house."
    He grinned. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"
    "I've never forgotten."
    "Neither have I."
    Mulder paused momentarily, shifting her into a more 
comfortable position against him as he began to speak. He 
blamed the sudden watery sheen over his vision on the light 
rays bouncing off the walls and tiles. The lie was scientifically 
accurate and technically perfect. But it did not take away the 
ache in him as he spoke.
    "It's on the western coast of Canada, not too far north but 
far enough to make sure no one ever finds us again. It sits on a 
bluff above a rocky beach that drops straight into the ocean. 
This ocean is bluer than anything you've ever seen. From our 
bedroom window we can trace the path of the sun straight 
back to the horizon. The first thing we hear in the morning is 
the tide breaking against the rocks, and the wind over the waves 
is the last thing we hear before we go to sleep. Well--" He was 
grinning again; she could almost hear it. "Almost the last thing."
    "Where does the baby sleep?" The question cut an odd ache 
through her chest.
    "In the nursery, of course. That's next door. You wanted to
paint it lavender and I wanted to paint it blue, but after much 
deliberation and two pillow fights, we decided on yellow. So 
nice and cheery, you'd tell me. Just like hope--"
    "Is that her name?"
    "Whose name?"
    "Our daughter's."
    "And who said it was a girl, pray tell?"
    "Call it maternal instinct."
    "Who am I to argue with that? Our daughter sleeps in the
nursery, and you're right....Hope is the perfect name for her. 
She's our new start in the world, our new beginning."
    "She'll be beautiful. Just like her father."
    "Let's hope she's not cursed with his nose. Though even that
could be forgiven if she has her mother's eyes."
    "What does the house look like?"
    "It's built to face the sea, made of pine that shines like gold 
when the afternoon sun hits it. There is a front porch with a 
cedar swing--we broke it on the first night of our honeymoon, 
by the way-- and there is a garden out back. We grow some 
herbs, some vegetables,some flowers."
    "Roses." She said. "Wild roses that no wind or storm can kill.
They grow just underneath our window, and in the summer we 
sleep with it open until the whole house smells like salt breeze 
and rose petals. It's so strong I can even taste it when you kiss 
me...."
    The moment came then when neither of them could go on; 
it hurt. 
    "Scully, I-" His voice formed a heavy cloud across her mind 
as a thunderstorm brewing over their ocean. 
    He didn't say anything else, not with words.
    He just kissed her.  Nothing remained to distinguish the ache on 
one side of her soul from the love flooding the other. This was where love 
really
existed, she realized, on the razor wire line between pain and 
beauty. You found yourself in the middle and you did not 
know what to do other than call it love.
   "Mulder," she spoke the words with her lips still against his. 
"You remember this." Another kiss, deeper, stronger. "No 
matter what happens tomorrow, no matter what they do or 
how bad it gets, you have to remember this." Tears in the 
corners of her eyes, though she tried to keep them back. "You 
hold onto this, Mulder. You put it somewhere deep inside you 
and don't let go. When they start...the beatings....you disappear 
into your soul because you'll find me there and you'll know I'll 
love you forever, and then you won't feel a thing. 
Then they can't hurt you."
Her hand smoothed his forehead, tangled in his hair.
    "Then they can't hurt me. Because I am only as alive as you
are. You are only as alive as I am. Remember that for both of us."
    "You, Scully," He breathed hard and fast, his words broken
by the heaving of his lungs. "You remember this."
     He pulled her closer and pushed his mouth to hers like he 
wanted to pour his breath and life and soul into her body. It 
was thunder and lightning and rain all at once, washing over 
them and soaking them to the bones with all the things she had 
never thought she would feel alone. And between these things, it 
smelled like roses, and likethe salt breeze coming on over the 
cliffs. She knew, beyond any doubt, he smelled it too. Because 
he smiled just that way.
     Then it was over, and she realized it had also been goodbye.
     "Do you think," Shadow words. A hush. "do you think that
somewhere in the world there is a house just like ours, and two 
people living in it with just that kind of happiness?"
     "I have to believe it." His eyes burned hers. "If not, then 
what kind of world have we been fighting to save?"
      
     She closed her eyes.

     Exactly one hour later, the guards came.



to be continued