Gossamer: TRA (Action/Adventure, Romance M/S, Angst M/S)
Summary: Scully in jeopardy, Mulder in mourning, and their connection.
Rated: PG with a dash of NC-17 to taste.
Acknowledgments and comments at the end.






"We do not want our world to perish.
But in our quest for knowledge,
century by century,
we have placed all our trust in a cold, impartial intellect
which only brings us nearer to destruction.
We have heeded no wisdom offering guidance.
Only by learning to love one another can our world be saved.
Only love can conquer all."
-Dora Russell (1894-1986),
final words of final volume of her autobiography.




The Rarity of The Human Connection 
And Several Months Missed (1/9)
By MD1016




The first thing Dana Scully was conscious of was the wet earth beneath
her, and then the overwhelming urge to spit out whatever it was that was
crawling around in her mouth.  Spewing ants and dirt, her weak arms lifted
her torso from the mud.  But the dull protest from her biceps and shoulders
were paled by the rage of fire sweeping over her skin.


With groggy eyes, Dana glanced down to find her entire body crawling
with tiny red insects.  In a wild panic her hands swatted over her body and
face, down her wet navy tee-shirt, through the matted strands of her short,
reddish hair.  Her voice escaped in small squeals of distress. Then, all
at once, her eyes bulged in the horror of realization: fingers flew to the
buttons on her fly and she stripped the heavy denim from her legs.


Dotting the normally pale, smooth surface of her thighs and calves were
hundreds of small, red bumps; many of which had already risen with white,
pussy caps.  Their burning stings told her that even in those
impossible-to-see places, the ants had left their marks.


Without a second thought, she pulled her socks and under things off as
well; and, standing naked on the leaf-covered forest floor, she shook all of
the clothing out - carefully inspecting the pockets - before the idea of
modesty bloomed in her head.  In an instant, the jeans were against her
chest in a fruitless attempt to cover herself against possible on-lookers.
But as she scanned the area, she chided herself.  There was no one there.
No eyes boring in to her back.  No peeping Toms in the trees.  And that
thought furrowed her brow.


She was alone.


Looking over the jeans in her hands, Scully sighed.  They were a mess.
Mud, dirt, small rips and tears.  With a deep intake of breath, and a small
wince at the pain she found in her ribs, she reluctantly put them on again.
Wet, muddy denim.  Ugh.


And then the realization hit her.  It took a moment for the thought to gel in
her still-swimming head.  There was *no one* there.  Just her and the
buzzing air around her.  And the ants.  Scully balled her small fists, refusing
to allow herself the pain/pleasure of itching the bites, and looked around.


The density of the forest was consistent as far as she could see in every
direction.  The one clearing - where she'd been laying on the ground -
looked to be the remains of a colony of small red ants.  Everything else was
lush, wet vegetation that went up and up and up.  The sun barely
reached down past the vapory fog in the air.  But what few beams did
penetrate fell on thick moss and ferns and ivy that blanketed the forest
floor.  There was no clear direction to go in; no real distinction to tell her
which way she'd come from.


"Where the hell am I?"  The startling sound of her voice seemed foreign
and unnatural to her ears.  She coughed a little and the exertion made her
head spin.  Without a thought, Scully reached a hand out to brace herself
against a nearby tree, nearly tripping forward in the process.  Why didn't
she know where she was?


But then, she couldn't remember getting there, either.  Car?  Plane?  The
spruce trees did suggest a northern state - if, in fact - she was still in the
United States.  She looked down at the clothes she was wearing as if
seeing them for the first time.  Her heavy hiking boots, her favorite pair of
dark blue jeans, a navy blue tee-shirt, and a red checked flannel shirt lay
some five feet from the mound . . . that was obviously not hers.  Too
big.  And the buttons were on the wrong side.  A man's shirt.  She sighed
and flicked another ant from her shoulder.


She cupped her hands around her mouth, "Hello-o-o-o-o-o-o?"  The odd
tinny sound she made was swallowed up by the thick air.  Her brow
lowered.  It was like someone had taken all of the bass out of her voice.


A practiced hand went to her throat.  But the absence of any pain there
lead her to the conclusion that it must be her ears that were effected.  That
also might account for the nausea and dizziness, she told herself.  Inner ear
infection?  A virus?  Congestion?  And no doubt the pain of the ant bites
wasn't helping, either.  She allowed the simple explanations to take hold in
her mind and focused more on her immediate need to get back to
civilization again.  She would worry about her head cold later.


Scully picked up the over-sized shirt and tied the arms around her waist
and with absolute determination, she stumbled straight ahead in to the
undergrowth. "This direction is as good as any other," she whispered under
her breath.  "But you better watch out, Dana, you've started talking to
yourself."




The sounds of the forest surrounded her: things walking just beyond view,
something flapping over head.  A random rattle of wind through the
branches.  Each was a sensation in pain as it entered the dull throb just
behind her ears and veined out to filter through her entire body.  Both
hands mechanically ran across her head looking for bumps and wounds, but
the only thing she found was filthy, unwashed hair, and more ant bites.
And, of course, the rhythmic throb of blood trying to flow.


For a moment, Scully stopped to once again brace herself against the
rough bark of a tree and inhaled deeply, filling her lungs to capacity.
Attributing the fatigue in her muscles to a lack of blood and oxygen, she
tried to force the liquid in her veins to seep through every inch of her body
by sheer will alone.  "Keep moving," she told herself.  "Keep the muscles
active."


She stepped over a large twisted root and began to analyze her situation.
What was the last thing she remembered?  Her brow twisted in
concentration.  The last thing . . . the last thing . . ..  And then Dana
stopped dead in her tracks.  She couldn't remember anything.  Think back,
she tried to calm herself.  You know your name is Dana.  Work off of that.
Right.  Dana.  And then she remembered her family.  Her mother and
brothers.  And Melissa.  "Oh, Melissa."


Her heart sank down and she stopped trying to remember.  She closed her
mind and just let her feet carry her heavy, achy body over the uneven
terrain.




After walking for some undetermined length of time, Dana felt for her
watch. It was gone, along with her gun and any kind of identification,
money and her cellular.  "Now why would I be in the woods alone without
my gun?"  She slipped a hand to her brow, and itched the collection of
bumps she found there, but couldn't get the memories to come.  At least
she remembered that she *had* a gun, which reminded her that she was in
the FBI, which brought up an image of Mulder sitting with his feet propped
up on his desk with that damned smirk on his face.  Oh, God!  Mulder!  He
would be with her!


And her feet stopped.  Where was Mulder?


She hadn't seen anyone else in the immediate area, but then she hadn't
really looked for him either.  What if he was unconscious under a bush?
Scully turned and ran back in the general direction that she had come from,
uncertain how far she'd traveled.  "The ant bed," she reminded herself,
"Look for the ants."


The foliage was unrelenting, and her run quickly became a jog, which
ultimately returned to a walk.  But even if her path had been cleared she
wouldn't have been able to keep up any kind of pace.  As it was, the
muscles in her thighs were quivering from exhaustion.  But somehow she
kept moving forward - back to where she'd woken up.  There would be no
way she would go in to a forest alone and unarmed without her partner.  It
was against FBI protocol.  He had to be there somewhere.


"Mulder!"  She called out as loud as she possibly could.  "Mulder!  Can
you hear me?"  But the squawk of birds in the blinding white of the canopy
far overhead was the only response she received.  She continued further;
pushing bushes out of the way, and calling out every minute or so:
"Mulder?!"


Soon the energy it took to plow through damp, thick air left her panting,
hair plastered to her face.  She leaned against a tree to catch her breath.
None of it looked familiar.  She had no idea if she was even close to the
path she'd originally taken away from the ants.  The ground was fairly
symmetrical, so she had 360 degrees with every step that could have taken
her in the wrong direction.


With one hand she pulled the soaked cotton tee from her chest.  The bites
stung like hell, and the sweat was aggravating the infections.  But her mind
was filled only with her partner.  Mulder would never have left her, she
reasoned.  Of course, the nagging guilt reminded her that she might
have done just that . . . unknowingly.  No.  If Mulder had been there, she
would have seen him.  If he had woken before her, he would have found
her.  No question.  So the only logical explanation - the only possible
explanation she would allow herself - was that for some inexplicable reason
she and Mulder had been separated.  Undoubtedly, he was looking for her.
He would find her.  He *would* find her.


And then he would chide her for running off without him, and she would
point out that he had done that on more occasions than she wished to
remember, and with worse results.  And he would smile his closed-lipped
smile and blaze his narrow hazel eyes at her and she would have to
look away just to keep from blushing.  And then maybe he would take her
hand in his, and tell her that he'd been worried about her.  Terribly worried.
But nothing more.  Because, as partners, more would be . . . unsightly.


What?  What was she thinking?  Scully closed her eyes in an attempt to
clear her head.  Everything was jumbling up in her mind; emotions and
thoughts and an overwhelming sense of panic.


"Mulder!!  Can anyone hear me!?"  She tried again, the echo dying before it
had a chance to sound.  Her heart was racing a mile a minute, and her
ragged breath gulped down a lung-full of air at a time.  Get control, Dana.
You've been in worse situations.  Mulder will find you.  He's probably on
his way.  Just close your eyes and when you open them, he'll be there.


Her eyes squeezed shut.  Then opened again.  Nothing had changed.
Except the lump rising in her throat and the tears welling in her blue eyes.
Okay, so maybe he wouldn't find her.  With an ache of surprise in her
lungs, Scully found that she hadn't really expected to see him.  Not really.
No one could find her - whereever she was.  It was going to be up to her,
and her alone, to get herself back to civilization.


Scully was exhausted.  Sitting with her back against the strength of a tall
pine, she retraced the memories in her head.  She had remembered Mulder,
and these woods didn't look familiar - not like Virginia woods at all - so,
there was a leap in logic made, and she decided that she  must have
been on some kind of a case that brought her in to the wilderness.


It was possible that she simply tripped and hit her head, knocking herself
unconscious, but she couldn't find any evidence of injury - save the ant
bites. Were they chasing a suspect?  Searching for evidence?  She just
couldn't remember.  And the effort was intensifying the throb behind her
eyes.  Then came the overwhelming wave of nausea.  And the painful dry
heave that convulsed through her body like pounding surf.


Gasping for breath, Scully tried to recover, rolling over on to the
leaf-padded ground next to a fallen trunk.  Must be too much over-exertion
and not enough food and water, she tried to convince herself.  Undoubtedly
her electrolyte imbalance and low blood sugar was playing havoc
on her system.  She needed to find water.  She needed to rest.  And
without really making a conscious decision to, Scully closed her eyes and
sleep won out.


*****


A cool breeze ran across her neck, and she started awake.  Instantly her
round, blue eyes popped open to the blackness of the night.  The moon - if
there was a moon - was completely hidden, as was the entire night sky,
leaving the inkiest dark to surround her.  Scully shivered against the tree.
Everything was wet and cold.  She pulled the shirt from her waist and laced
her arms in to the dampened sleeves.


The sounds were everywhere again: birds flapping overhead, things in the
night moving all around her . . . something walking over to her right.
"Who's there?" she screamed, but whatever it was scampered at the sound
of her voice.  Maybe a deer, she told herself.  Sounded like it had hooves.


She pulled the back of the shirt over her head and wrapped the front
around her curled-up leg, creating a small tent for herself.  There was no
way she'd get anywhere until the sun came out.  So, she decided to rest.
As much as she could, anyway.  Never could Scully remember being so
terrified of the dark.  Or so completely vulnerable.  Or so alone.


*****


Morning came as a diffused light that sifted through the branches to the
huddled Scully.  She lifted her head, moaning that some nightmares never
ended, and she tried to straighten her stiff back and legs.  The effort was
more than should have been necessary.  And this one thought terrified her.


She'd only been in the woods for two days.  And the weather, while not
warm and balmy, was far from life-threatening.  She couldn't possibly be
suffering from exposure.  Her eyes slid with a groggy weariness to the
raised splotches on her arms, and then she forced herself to look away,
trying to keep from acknowledging the bites.  Then, she leaned heavily
against the dead tree and forced herself to stand.


The weakness in her legs startled her.  She had to be able to walk if she
was to have any hope of getting out of the woods alive.  "I'm just stiff,
that's all," she coaxed herself.  But it was becoming increasingly difficult to
believe her own words.  "Walk it off, Dana."  With a quick glance at her
surroundings, Scully picked a direction and began stumbling forward.  Her
legs were shaky, and she had to brace herself against trees as she passed.
Her belly gave off a painful grumble.  But she pushed the thought of food
from her mind and forced herself on.




There came a point after several hours of walking that Scully felt the need
to find a rest room.  She huddled beside a bush, cursing the fact that she
wasn't born a man, with the necessary anatomy to make "relieving au
natural"  a pleasant experience.  Finding balance with her aching legs, and
relaxing enough to accomplish anything, was far from easy.  And by the
time she was done, her chin quivered and her face was drawn tight and
tense.  Though she refused to allow it, Scully wanted to cry.






When night threatened to fall once again, she was not only exhausted and
hungry, but just about at her wit's end.  For the life of her, Scully couldn't
remember anything that might've given her a hint as to where she was and
why she was there.  The forest seemed to go on in every direction
for as far as could be seen; endlessly taunting her original hopes of finding
some kind of civilization.  There hadn't even been any cabins or shacks that
she could seek temporary shelter in. In stories of people lost in the  woods,
weren't there *always* abandoned cabins with several days' worth of
canned food stocked up in the well-equipped kitchens?  Where the hell
were they when she needed them?


And where the hell was Mulder?  Half of her prayed that he was fine, and
not lying unconscious somewhere near where she'd woken up.  Well, more
than half.  But there was a small part that was furious that he wasn't there
with her;  that he hadn't found her yet. He was her partner.  He was
*supposed* to always be there.


The light mist in the air suddenly fell in to large cold drops of rain.  And
then with a crack of thunder, the storm escalated.  Sheets of water beat
down heavily on Scully, and she was forced to finally collapse against the
trunk of a small tree for support.  She couldn't bear the weight of her
body any longer, much less the force of the heavens opening up on top of
her.


The tepid shower washed away much of the collected sweat from off of her
aching face and arms, and the well-itched pin-pricks that the ants had left
behind didn't bother her as much.  But the water that ran over her cheeks
and neck chilled her itchy skin to a point when most of her body
went numb.  True, she felt cleaner, but within minutes her jaw began to
chatter and her weary shoulders were racked with shivers that rippled
down her whole body.


She laid back against the trunk, ignoring the growing pool of freezing mud
that she was seated in, and closed her eyes.  "Just a little rest," she told
herself, "to keep my strength up.  Then I'll look for some berries or
something." Catching a few drops of liquid in her open mouth, she
swallowed away the dry sensation that had been with her for most of the
day.  She knew she couldn't afford to get dehydrated, but she was just too
tired to make any more of an effort.  With the darkening clouds, night crept
in quickly, and  Scully didn't awaken until late the next day.


*****


The sensation of being wet and cold and heavy was very distinct.  But the
desire to move just wasn't in her.  She left her eyes closed against the
soaked flannel on her knees.  After god knows how many hours she'd been
sitting in that position, the pain of moving was something she simply
couldn't endure.  Her arms hung loosely around the bottom of her thighs.
Or perhaps they'd fallen to the mud below her - she couldn't tell.  And she
didn't really care.  Scully felt her stomach rise against the tops of her thighs
and told herself that she was still breathing and therefore still alive.
But the news didn't comfort her as much as she had expected it to.


A chill worked its way up her spine and liquid cold traveled like a spider's
web through her body.  Sweat beaded up on her face and neck, and she
could feel the tiny rivulets as they slowly ran down her pocked skin.
Everything itched and ached and burned.  From the middle of her
shoulders, a constant shiver set up shop, and shook her upper body in
gentle tremors.


In her belly, there was a deep ache that reached all the way up and in to her
throat.  With a doctor's clinical distance she knew she would die from thirst
before starvation and fever, and the morbid fascination that came with that
knowledge consumed her thoughts.  Some day, some hunter or urban
developer was going to come walking along and find her bones in a pile.
Maybe a few would be missing.  Dinner for the woodland creatures.  Or
maybe there wouldn't be enough left of her to make a conclusive
identification.  And her family would never know for sure where her final
resting place would be.  And Mulder.  He'd never know.


The back of her throat constricted around the sob.  "Mulder?  Can you hear
me?"  She heard the sounds come through her trembling lips.  Maybe he
was near, her mind mused.  If he had been looking for her, maybe he was
close to finding her.  "Mulder?  Can you see me?"  But it wasn't her voice. 
It was thin and raspy, and it held no strength at all.  "Please hear me,
Mulder. Find me.  Help me, Mulder."


God, Mulder.  Where are you?  I need you now.  I'm in trouble, Mulder,
and I need you to get me out.  You're so good at that.  Flying in at the last
moment and coming to my rescue.  Well, the last moment is coming,
Mulder.  Hurry.


With the last bit of her strength, Scully forced her head up and opened her
eyes.  The light was much brighter than she had expected and she tried to
blink it away.  The rain had nearly stopped and the sounds of water
dropping from leaves and branches became recognizable to her.
Carefully, one leg was slowly straightened, and then the other.  Both
twitched as the blood began to flow through them again.  And then the
agony of her limbs' small movements hit her.  She released a guttural
scream to help alleviate some of the pain. Startled birds flew from over
head.


"MULDER!"  She called out repeatedly, "MULDER! MULDER! Mulder!
Mulder.  Mulder . . . Mul . . .."


Then she felt it.  The sensation was like nothing she'd ever felt before. Her
body turned off, one section at a time.  First her legs went completely
numb, and then her back went out.  And as she flopped backwards on to
the rough bark of the tree, she could feel herself sliding off to one side -
and then she couldn't. She saw the brown earth, slick with rain water, come
up and meet her face.  And then it was gone.  Everything went black.  Then
silent.  And the last thing Scully thought was: "Oh, Mulder.  So this is
death."


End of 1/9


"Let us go in; the fog is rising."
-Emily Dickinson (1830-86),
Attributed last words.



*****


The Rarity of The Human Connection
And Several Months Missed (2/9)
By MD1016




The nurse and young nurse's aid scurried around the room checking the
various readings as Dana Scully swam up to consciousness.  She was
aware of them  and their voices, but their actual words didn't register in her
clouded head.  Her body felt heavy and thick; her mouth was like the
inside of a cotton ball.  She tried to turn her head, to get a better look at
wherever it was that she'd ended up, but the stiffness in her neck and
shoulders kept her firmly in place.  And at that particular moment she
didn't really care.  The warm smoothness of the sheets was like a cradle
under her body.


Scully let her eyes slip closed and she relaxed back in to sleep.


*****


When she woke again, the room was dark - save for a dim yellow light that
hung off in some distant corner of the room, and the constant red blinking
of the heart monitor just to her right.  The air around her was still.


Scully inhaled deeply, wanting to rouse herself from the misty sleep that
had settled through her. Something in her throat made her gag.  She tried
to sit up as the vomit reflex rocked through her, but the wires and tubes
connected to her body kept her more or less in place.  She flailed against
her restraints, eyes tearing in reflex.  Then wide hands were on her
shoulders, forcing her back against the pillow.  And the low rumble in her
ear . . . vaguely male.


"Relax," the voice whispered, "Everything is going to be okay now."


She tried to focus on the figure, but everything was hazy and shadowed.
"Mulder . . .."


"Just sleep."  There was no arguing with the voice or the hands.  She was
tired.  Sleep came easily.


*****


The hospital was alive with activity when she regained consciousness, and
the dark man in the white coat smiled down at her as her eyes fell on his
prominent cheek bones and deep brown eyes.  "Well, hello."  He was tall,
and had a thin moustache that hung like a brow above his full, dark
lips.  "You finally decided to come back to join us."


Dana blinked and felt his broad, warm hand scoop up her wrist.  When she
reopened her eyes, the  doctor was staring at his leather watch.  "How are
you feeling?" he asked, but didn't wait for an answer.  "I'm Dr. Swaggen.
Do you know where you are?"


The room was minimalistic: mostly white with a row of beds along one
wall,  several of which were occupied.  Directly opposite her, there was a
TV that sat silently on a swivel arm, and just to her right there was a
window.  She could see trees in the distance.  "Where . . ." Scully's voice
was brittle and thin; like a crumpled saltine.  " . . . Mulder . . .."


Swaggen hesitated for a moment and then leaned closer to her.  "You want
your mother?  Do you know her name?  Can you remember your name?"


Closing her eyes, she carefully lolled her head from one side to the other,
"Mulder.  Mull-Derr.  Mulder."  Her mouth was unbelievably dry.  Her
breath caught in her throat and she released a little cough.


The doctor quickly jotted down the name on his chart and re-tucked the
silver pen in his breast pocket.  "Do you know anyone we can get in touch
with?  A next of kin or someone?"


"Mulder," she insisted.  Why wasn't the man paying attention?  "Mulder.
555-2821."


Scully wanted to sit up, but the strong hands of the man standing at her
side forced her back.  "Just relax. Don't worry, you're safe here."


The weight of her head became too much for her and she did, in fact, find
herself relaxing into the warm, dark eyes of the doctor's promise.
"Mulder," she mumbled, and fell asleep again.


*****


Scully was in a pit.  That was all she knew.  Or maybe a cage of some kind.
But everything was black and cold and slick to the touch.  No windows, no
doors.  No possible way out - or in, for that matter.  She searched the floor
for seams, or anything that might give her a clue as to where she was.  But
there was nothing.


Closing her eyes, Scully sat back against the smooth wall, and allowed her
head to fall back.  The ceiling went up and up until it disappeared behind a
white mist.  Funny how she didn't notice that the first time she looked up.
And there was a sound.  A very distant hum worked its way down to
her through the mist.  Like a vacuum, she thought.  Some one is
vacuuming the sky.


Then, all at once, the ground gave way below her.  But instead of falling,
she was lifted up.  The sound got closer and the mist became brighter and
she began to hear a man's voice calling to her asking her to wake up.  No,
he was calling to Mulder.  "Mulder?" she thought aloud.  Was Mulder in
the clouds, too?  Were they both dead?


"Come on, Mulder," the doctor injected another syringe in to her IV.  "It's
time to come back to us."


"Mulder?"  Her speech was slurred and her eyes opened only a slit.


"That's it," the man coaxed.  He turned to the two younger men across the
bed from him, and gave orders for new medications to be administered.
Then he returned back to his patient.  "Can you hear me?"


Scully managed a weak nod, and licked her lips.  "Water."


The tall man poured a plastic cup half full with water from a nearby table;
and, propping her head up, just the slightest bit, he lowered the straw to
her lips and helped her take a swallow. The water was like wet silk over
her tongue; cold and luxurious.


When she was settled back in the bed, the doctor leaned over Scully.  "The
police have been here but there haven't been any missing persons reported
with your name and description.  Do you know anyone we can call?  Do
you have any family?"


Scully just breathed.  Mulder.  Just call Mulder.  Oh, God!  Was he still in
the woods?  Had she left him there, while she'd been sleeping in a hospital
bed?  How long had she been asleep?  She had to get back to him.  She had
to find him.


The monitor at her bedside showed a dramatic jump in heart rate.
"Mulder!"  She tried to sit up.  "He's still out there!"


Swaggen spoke in his calming bass tones, "Hold it.  Lay back and talk to
me.  Who's still out there?"


"Mulder," she gasped, "He's in the forest!"


"Wait, I thought you were Mulder."  The doctor studied her eyes for any
sign of haze.


"I'm Scully." She gulped a lung-full of air as the words tumbled over
themselves, "Dana Scully.  Mulder is my partner.  We're in the FBI.  He
needs help.  I have to get to him."


The doctor stood up to his full height.  "The FBI?"  He pulled the chart off
the edge of her bed and flipped through to the meds page to see just what
medications she'd been pumped full of.


"Yes.  I gave you a number, didn't I?"


"You did.  It was disconnected.  There was no answer."


No answer?  Mulder's cellular?  Disconnected?  Surely he meant out of
range.  "I need to use the phone."  With a grunt of protesting muscles, she
managed to kick down the blankets covering her but was stopped by the
sight of her legs.  They were covered with what looked like healing
chicken pox.  And between them, a thin tube emerged carrying a
warm clear-yellow liquid.  A catheter.  She gasped.  "How long have I been
here?"


The doctor tried to cover her. "Just rest for now."


But she wouldn't be deterred.  "I have to use the phone.  I have to get
Mulder some help."  She glanced up at the IV hanging on a rack just above
her head and then the  collection bag clipped to the side of her bed.
"Please hand me the bags, I'll carry them with me."


"I don't want you getting out of bed -"


"Look," Dana was beyond playing the dutiful patient, and her head was
swimming with  haze and panic.  "I'm a doctor; I know what I'm doing!"


The black man looked at her with wide, sad eyes. "I thought you were with
the FBI."


"I am."  She exhaled in frustration and rolled her eyes at his display of pity.
"I'm not insane, okay?  But I'm going to make this phone call."


At a loss, Dr. Swaggen looked over her pale, determined features and
hesitated for only a moment.  "I don't know why I'm doing this," he started
as he helped her unhook the heart monitor.  Then, with a stern glance at
her anxious features, he removed the plastic sacs and attached them to a
rolling stand.  "Just pull this with you," he requested and pushed it in to her
hand.  Scully gingerly slid off the left side of the bed, slightly embarrassed
to find she wasn't wearing any undergarments under the thin cotton
hospital gown.  "Why they couldn't put a phone in this room, is beyond
me," she grumbled under her breath.  She wrapped the back closed around
her naked bottom, and limped aching across the cold tile barefoot,
surprised at how much her muscles quivered under her weight. It felt as
though her entire body had been pummeled with rocks.


The tall man followed behind her.  "The phone is down the hall to the right
in the waiting area.  Here."  He stopped her. "You're going to need this."
In her hand dropped a silver quarter.




Scully pushed the quarter in to the machine before she noticed the return
number on it.  More specifically, the area code.  "9-0-7?"  She turned to
Swaggen leaning against the wall next to her.  "Where the hell am I?"


The dark man cleared his throat and obviously tried to look as if the
question were perfectly normal.  "9-0-7, that's Juneau."


Slowly, she hung up the receiver and rested her head against the handle of
it.  Alaska?  The last place she remembered being was in a small town in . .
. "I was in Maine."  She remembered.  By God, she remembered the case!
There had been . . . something to do with possible UFO abductees.
Children taken during the night.  Unexplained lights in the sky.  Power
outages. Mulder with his "Marvin the Martian" tie.


"You were in Maine?"  The man sighed, and his thick lips tried to form a
smile.  "Why don't you go and lie down, Mulder.  You need to let the
medications -"


"Scully."  She looked back at the phone and picked up the handset again, "I
told you - Dana Scully."  It was unnerving to be addressed by her partners
name.  Any yet, there was something faintly comforting in it, too.


"Right."


With a firm punch of her finger, Scully dialed "O" and waited through three
rings before the operator picked up.  "AT and T operator,"  the woman
said, expressing every ounce of boredom in her. "How can I assist you?"


Scully hesitated only a moment.  "This is an emergency.  I'm Special Agent
Dana Scully with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  I need you to put
me through to FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C.  I need to speak with
Assistant Director Walter Skinner."


"That is a long distance call, Ma'am.  You will have to deposit $5.00 for
the first minute -"


"No, you don't understand." Dana's legs began to quiver below her. "I don't
have any money.  This is an emergency."


"I do understand, Ma'am, but I cannot connect you without the initial
deposit of $5.00-"


Scully cut her off again; she didn't have time to argue with the woman.
"Then connect me to the regional office in Anchorage!"  She began to sway
a little and had to steady herself against the wall  to keep upright.  She took
a moment to look around and spied a plastic chair in the corner.  Swaggen
followed her gaze and pulled it up for her a second before her legs gave out
all together.


He loomed over her, his arms crossed.  "You should be in bed, you know."
When she didn't move his face shifted and he tried another approach.
"How about you go back and lie down, and I'll see about getting the
catheter out."


But a second later, her fraying attention snapped back to the crackle in her
ear piece as she was transferred to the automated greeting of the
Anchorage branch office. She followed the instructions selecting from
various menus until she heard a living person on the other end of the
phone.  Thank God.  "This is Special Agent Dana Scully.  My badge
number is JTT9828432.  I need to get word to Assistant Director Skinner
in D.C.  Somehow I ended up in Alaska, but Mulder, my partner, may still
be in the woods . . . " she paused.  There was a flaw in her reasoning. Was
he in the woods in Alaska with her?  Or was he still in Maine?  Or was he
somewhere else entirely?  Why were things so cloudy all of a sudden?


A voice from the other end of the phone line startled her out of her twisted
contemplation.  "Please repeat your badge number."  Scully did, slower and
more deliberately.  She wasn't sure anymore if Mulder was in any kind of
danger or not.  She couldn't remember how she got from Maine to where
she woke up in the woods, or even how she got from the forest to the
hospital.  She looked up at the doctor who seemed to be studying her very
closely.  "When you called Mulder - the number I gave you - did you use
D.C.'s area code?"


"Uh, no."  His face and voice remained a little too neutral for Scully's liking
as he slowly explained: "I thought you were from Maine."


"No," Scully exhaled in frustration, "I'm from D.C..  We were in Maine,
and now I'm here."  She raised a hand to her temple.  A dull ache was
starting to throb behind her eyes.


The phone person came back with: "The badge number you have given me
is no longer in service.  Are you sure you dictated it to me correctly?"


"Of course, I'm sure!"  Scully nearly leapt out of the chair.  She was certain
that she would have if she'd been feeling up to it.  The insanity of her
situation was wearing a little thin.  "I'm Dana Scully.  Assigned to the
X-Files.  In D.C. -"


"Well, that badge number did belong to a Dana Scully, but according to
what I've got here, she died five months ago."


Died? "Died?  No, that can't be right.  Check again."


She heard the tap, tap, tap of a computer keyboard and then a newly
sarcastic voice came back, "Still dead."


"Look."  Scully sat back in the chair, exhausted and sore and closer to tears
than she wanted to be.  "How do I get a message to Assistant Director
Walter Skinner in D.C.?  It's an emergency."


And as if the operator had never spoken to her before she asked in a purely
generic voice: "What is the nature of your emergency?"


Scully wanted to scream.  "I'm in Alaska, in a hospital, with no money, no
form of identification, my partner may be in serious trouble, and I've got a
doctor here, who's breathing down my throat, and he looks like he's going
to commit me to a psychiatric ward any minute.  And, now, apparently I'm
DEAD!  I *have* to talk to A.D. Skinner immediately!"


There was a momentary pause and then the voice said, "Uh-huh . . . let me
put you on hold."  Then Muzak swam through the receiver and Scully's
headache turned itself up a notch.  She slumped back in the chair and
moaned.


"Any luck?"  The doctor didn't look hopeful.


Scully let the receiver fall in to her lap and looked up at the man.  "So, you
know my name.  What's yours?"


"Oh.  I told you before.  I'm Doctor Swaggen," the man said.  "And you,
Dana Scully, need to get back in to bed."


The towering man seemed adamant and a new fear began to surface.  If he
made her lie down, there would be nothing she could do.  She was
exhausted, and her brain was like pudding in her skull.  No one would help
Mulder . . . if he needed help.  She was having trouble remembering if
that was, in fact, the case.  Oh, Mulder.  Scully's eyes slipped up to the
doctor's sympathetic face.  She gave him the saddest, most pained
expression and quietly asked, "Please."


Swaggen looked down at her in the chair - left hand clinging to the IV pole
to help keep her upright in the chair, right hand holding the black
over-sized ear piece to her head,  her red unkept hair flung every which
way, and her white and red spotted legs falling out from under the cotton
hospital gown - and shook his head.  "Look." His voice was low and
gentle.
"I have to check my rounds.  I'll be back."  Then he added with some
authority: "I want you in that bed when I return."


"I promise."  The blaring Muzak was interrupted and Scully returned the
receiver to her ear.


"I'm going to connect you to Assistant Director Skinner, now."


Thank God.


There was a click and a soft buzzing sound and then, finally, a ring.
"Skinner."  It was him.  His deep, grumbling voice.  Solid and
authoritative.  She could almost see him sitting at his desk, his
white linen shirt sleeve rolled up to his elbows.  A sight that she *never*
thought would bring her such peace of mind as it did now.  She nearly
choked.


"Sir, this is Dana Scully, sir."


There was a pause where neither of them breathed.


"I don't know who you are, but this is not funny!" he growled.


She was sure he was about to throw the phone down in its cradle and she
panicked.  "No, sir, please, I am Scully.  This isn't a joke.  Skinner, sir, it's
me.  Scully.  Please."


There was another moment of enormous hesitation on his part.  Scully
didn't know if she was supposed to provide some kind of undeniable proof
at this point or what.  But at least he hadn't hung up the phone.  She could
hear him breathing.  And then his heavy words sank through the
receiver.  "Scully's dead."


"Yeah." She closed her eyes. "That's what they tried to tell me when I read
off my badge number.  There must be something wrong with the computers
or something."


"There's nothing wrong with the computers.  Agent Scully is dead.  I
attended her funeral, myself, three months ago."  To this, she had no
response.  "You know we can trace these calls.  Impersonating a Federal
Officer is a Federal offense.  I wouldn't try this again, if I were you."


Then she heard him disconnect the line.


Scully looked down at the receiver for some kind of an answer.  Her mouth
hung open - she was at a loss.  Her head was swirling with the movement
of the room and her feet were freezing. She simply couldn't think.  With a
shaking hand she hung up the phone, too.


Does Mulder think I'm dead, too?  Is it possible?


The hallway was immeasurably long, and with quiet resignation Scully
knew she wasn't going to make it all the way back to her room.  Not with
the stand dragging along side of her.  She was too tired.  Too frustrated.
Too angry to do anything but pick up the receiver again.


"AT and T operator.  How can I assist you today?"


She took another deep breath.  "Collect call."  Dana gave the woman all
the information requested and then waited through a series of beeps while
billing verification went through.  "Come on," she whispered under her
breath, "Mulder, answer."  But when a response came it was the woman's
voice again.


"I'm sorry, but your party didn't pick up."


"I need to place another collect call, then."  Dana wasn't about to let the
woman go without a struggle.  Hopefully her mother would be home.  Oh,
God, please let her be home.  After the third beep, Scully was about to give
up hope when she hear her mother's all too familiar voice.


"Hello?"


"Mom?"


The hesitation was there.  And then an angry hiss.  "Who is this?"


"Mom.  It's Dana."


"No . . .."


And then Scully believed it - *had* to believe it.  They all thought she was
dead.  How could this happen?  This *can't* be happening, she screamed in
her head.  "Mom it IS me.  It is!"  Tears spilled over her lashes.  "Mom, I
woke up in a hospital in Alaska."


"Alaska?  Dana?" For an instant there was hope.  And then: "NO!  Who is
this?"  Then, in the back ground, he heard his voice.  It was low and
grumbling and she couldn't make out the words, but it was him.
Unmistakably him.  Mulder had gone to her mother's place.  She smiled at
the thought.  If she could just get him on the phone . . . he'd hear her voice.
Mulder would be at her side in a second.  There would be nothing to worry
about if she could just get Mulder on the line.


But her mother responded with a gut wrenching sob.


"MOM!  Let me talk to Mulder!  Please, this isn't a joke.  I'm Dana.  I'm
your daughter!  PLEASE!  Give the phone to Mulder!"


Her mother's cries continued and then there was a  scuffle of the receiver
changing hands.  Mulder's tormented voice boomed in her ear.  "Don't you
have any respect for the dead?"


"Mulder!"


"Don't call here again!"


"MULDER!"  Scully's body lunged for the phone's wall unit.  And when
she heard the click, it was like a rubber band snapped inside of her, and she
crashed to the gray tiled floor.  She barely registered the long, sure hands
lifting her bodily and carrying her back to her bed.


End of 2/9


"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep."
-Robert Frost (1874-1963)


*****


The Rarity of The Human Connection
And Several Months Missed (3/9)
By MD1016




Mulder woke from the nightmare screaming her name.  Just as he had
every night for the past five months; ever since that night She had
disappeared in the blinding white light.  Not even the medication kept the
visions of Her away.  She haunted him.


Clutching the thin cotton sheet to his chest, he rolled his legs off the side of
the bed and stood up.  The warmth of the Georgian summer settled over
him like a blanket of molasses.  It kept him from thinking clearly, keeping
his body groggy and his mind fuzzy.


But even in the haze he knew that She was there with him.  The same
inexplicable way he always knew.  The visions of Her were so clear - so
unbelievably real.  They said it was hallucinations.  Dementia.  Grief.
That's why he needed the pills: to keep Her away.  To save him from
insanity.  And when the pills didn't work, there were always the restraints.


Please.  No more restraints.


He tried to blink Her away.  Will Her away.  He even begged.  But he
couldn't get the image of Her huddled against the wet bark of a downed
tree to leave the darkened corner of the room.


God, She was so real.  Her hair plastered against the wet sheen on Her
face, his red flannel shirt pulled tight against Her body; Her look of
desperation through him.  Her lips fell open and he heard the agonized
voice of the apparition calling his name, begging for him.  And he ran to
Her, wanting so desperately to dissolve into the shadows of the night with
Her.




He was on the street before the morning sun was over the horizon, walking
steadily away from the Delmont Psychiatric Hospital.  They couldn't help
him.  They'd said he was losing his mind.  That it was insanity that made
him see his dead partner and insist that She was alive.  Out there.
Somewhere.  Calling for him and not understanding why he wasn't with
Her.  When the plain truth of the matter was that he'd been too slow.  The
light that had engulfed Her and pulled Her up from the Earth, had
disappeared before he could reach Her.  Three seconds was all that it had
been between holding Her in his arms, and holding air.


And *They*. They who lurked behind the smoke and haze. They had
insisted that They knew nothing of her disappearance.  That They couldn't
help him search for Her because They didn't know where She was.  For
months They played that game of ignorance and double talk; refusing
involvement.  Until that day in March when *They* had claimed Her body
had been recovered, badly mutilated.  The remains of a brutal death.


But Mulder had refused to believe Them without seeing Her body.  Proof
before belief.  He'd learned that from Her.  But, all attempts to see Her
body had been blocked.  At first by official procedure of a homicide case,
then by suggesting that he was, himself, a suspect.  That unconscionable
accusation only supported his belief that They were desperate to keep him
from discounting the body as a fraud.  And then, They used his
single-minded determination to find Her against him: They sent him away
to that horrible hospital for God only knew how long.  Between the drugs
and his screwed-up sleep cycle, it was impossible to tell just how long he'd
been there.  A month?  Possibly two.




An enormous truck thundered past him on the road, and then slowed and
came to a stop.  "You want a lift?"  The large, hairy man in the cab wore a
yellowed tee-shirt ripped up the sides to fit over his rippled body.  From his
wrist to his shoulder he wore black and blue tattoos that proudly
proclaimed that God was dead and anarchy ruled the land.  Mulder
shrugged and climbed aboard, not really caring one way or the other.
He wasn't headed anywhere in particular - just away from wherever it
was that he'd been.




The truck slipped from one golden pool of light to the next on the
interstate, passing the evening traffic with little interest as it sped by.
Mulder shifted against the door and lolled his head up.  Cars.  Trees.
Darkness.  He snuck a side-ways glance at the burly driver next to him.
At least She wasn't there.


"Hey buddy," the man said louder than was intended.  "You think you got
enough sleep there?  You were really out!  Yeah," the man let out a
full-body chuckle, "'round twelve hours.  That's about five rest stops,
buddy."


Wincing, Mulder ran a hand over the crick in his stiff neck.  "Sorry I'm not
much company."


"Hey, don't sweat it, Buddy.  Just a warm body in the cab is company
enough, you know?  If you're hungry I got you a burrito a few stops back."
He pointed his thick finger down to the paper bag on the carpeted floor
between them.


"I don't have any money to give you."


"I'm not lookin' to get rich off you, buddy.  Just thought you might be
hungry.  You don't look like you've been strappin' on the feed bag these
days."  The man eyed Mulder poking in to the bag with satisfaction.  "So,
buddy, what's your name?  Mine's Marcus."


"You can call me Buddy," Mulder chewed the cold, thick burrito around
his hesitant words.  "But most people call me Mulder."


"I like that.  Little Buddy like from 'Gilligan's Island'."  Marcus let out
another booming chuckle and smacked the steering wheel with his left
hand.  "So, Buddy, where are you headed?"


It took a moment for Mulder to swallow the heavy food down.  "Headed?
Nowhere.  Where are you headed?"


"To Maine.  Gotta drop off this load of corncobs."  The mountain of a
man looked to the haggard soul on his right.  "You ain't got no money, and
ain't headin' nowhere?  What'cha gonna do where you get there?"


Mulder glanced out the passenger window at nothing in particular.  "I
hadn't thought that far in advance."  He ran a hand over his weary face.
Maine.  He couldn't go back there again.  Too much pain was tied up in
that part of the country.  Her haunting would be relentless there.  "Are
you going through DC?"


"Yep."  Marcus pulled the last burrito out from the bag.  "Should hit the
capital at about lunch time tomorrow."


Sighing, Mulder nodded.  "You can drop me anywhere in D.C.  I live
there."


"Sure, Buddy.  Whatever you want."




The endless summer stretched all the way up the eastern sea board,  and
was stifling DC with the same oppressive heat Georgia had had.  Mulder
stood in the dark hallway outside his apartment, the key in his hand
poised to enter the lock.  But the strength to push it in, turn it, and open
the door wasn't in him. Nothing waited for him on the other side of the
door but the destruction that his fury had left months ago.


The fish tank that usually sat empty on the shelf had been smashed beyond
repair.  The computer had been thrown through the squat coffee table after
all of the magazines and books in the house were hurled like ticker tape at
a parade.  Or ashes at a funeral.  That night had been a flooded tirade of
anger and hurt and despair that ended with the arrival of the police, an
overnight stay in the drunk tank, and an official placement on medical leave
with admittance to the psychiatric hospital in Georgia.


He didn't want to go in and face the mess.


And, of course, Her file was in there, too.


With the pictures.  The unconvincing pictures of Her supposed
"murder".  A twisted body with chucks of flesh and muscle ripped away.
Disfiguring teeth marks on the neck and breast.  The horrific black and
white images were burned into his brain.


Leaning against the dark door, fearing what lay just beyond, a chain
reaction of cold sweats and nausea tore through his body.  Even though he
*knew* those photos were elaborate fakes, the idea of Her raped and
dismembered body washing up on the bank of the Potomac shook him to
his very core.


A drop of sweat worked its way down his scalp and along the back of his
neck.  A shiver shot up his spine.  Without even thinking about it, Mulder
shoved the key back into the pocket of his jeans and stormed out of the
building.  He couldn't stay there.  He couldn't stay anywhere She had
once been.  When Samantha had disappeared, he saved everything that
reminded him of the little sister he hoped to see again one day.  But with
*Her* - anything that She might have touched ripped him apart.


He had to get away.  He had to escape Her.  His car was still in its space in
the back lot.  Mulder ran the whole way.




The bank was closed by the time he pulled into the parking lot - but
Mulder expected nothing less.  At the ATM, he pulled out as much cash as
the machine would allow before sinking back into the cool air conditioning
of his car.


There wasn't really a question of what to do next.  It was more a matter of
where to start first.  He'd already made two trips to Maine - to the clearing
where he'd last seen Her - and neither trip provided any evidence or clues
to where She might be.  He couldn't do that again.


Mulder started the car and drove aimlessly through the busy city streets
opting for a left, then a right turn for no reason in particular.  He found
himself on the expressway.  And then not.  Around him a neighborhood
appeared, and then a familiar white house with bold green shutters.


Mulder stopped the car and watched.  A figure appeared in the front door
after awhile and peered quizzically out at him.  The woman was small and
hesitant as she approached his car.  Nothing like She would be.


"Fox?"  Margaret's blue eyes met his through the glass.  She seemed so
tired to him.  Older.  Sad.   His door opened and he knew her hand was
on
his arm, gently tugging at him.  But he couldn't feel it.  His entire body was
numb.  With a maternal care, she helped him out of the car.  "Fox, come in
to the house . . . let me make you something to eat."


"I'm sorry," he stammered.  His feet found the cement and somehow  he
was standing under his own power.  "I didn't want to come here.  I don't
want to burden you."


"*You* are never a burden, Fox.  And you're always welcome in my home,
you know that."  Her nurturing hands slipped protectively around his
slumped shoulders and she led him into the house.  She sat him at her
kitchen table and placed a hot mug of tea in front of him, along with a small
jar of honey.  "When did you get back, Fox?"


"I left two days ago."  His tone was tight and anxious.  Immediately,
Margaret knew what he meant.  No elaboration was necessary.  He had
said 'left', not 'checked-out' or 'released'.  Which also meant he wasn't
planning on returning to the Bureau, since leaving the hospital would most
certainly mean a dismissal.  He'd given up on the X-Files.


Mulder looked up at her sorrowful blue eyes and said with absolute
resolution, "I'm going to find her."


Margaret nodded.  What else could she do?  She didn't have to look at the
haggard man beside her to see the devastating effect her youngest
daughter's murder had had on him.  She didn't need the evidence of his
blood-shot eyes, the waxy tinge of his skin, the frail way his skin hung off
his cheekbones to know that Mulder was dangerously close to complete
devastation, himself.  She had always known their bond had run deep;
knotting their souls together.  And she feared that that rare connection
would pull him under.  That she would lose him, too.  Her heart went out
to him and she found her voice.  "But stay here and rest for a while.  Even
if it's just for the night."  His violently shaking head pressed her into a more
persuasive tone.  "When you're fresh and rested, Fox, you'll think clearer.
Do it for Dana."


The sound of Her name exploded inside his head.  Instantly images of Her
all-too-brief smiles and questioning looks flooded his field of vision.  The
way Her hair flipped back around her ear.  The curve of Her neck.  The
gentle slope of Her lower back.  Her smooth voice.


Overwhelmed, he squeezed his eyes shut and sat back in the
high-backed chair.  Why had he driven to Her mother's house?  It only
reminded him of Her.  Everything he could see . . . smell.  It was all a part
of Her.  But a calm came over him.  The serenity that Her understanding
eyes could always fill him with.  "Just tonight," he breathed through the
tension in his stomach.  "For her."


Margaret didn't bother to offer him an early dinner.  It was clear that he
was exhausted.  Obsession and guilt had stripped him of all his allotted
energy.  With a mothering hand, she helped him into the guest bed and
pulled the thick woollen quilt over his shoulder.




But sleep didn't overtake him and grant him peace from Her haunting.
And the satiny voice in his mind pulled him from the darkened room and
forced him to seek solace in the light.


He wandered downstairs, treading heavily on the floor boards.  Her
mother was in the living room at the bottom of the stairs.  Sitting curled up
in a chair.  Just like *She* had so many times.  He rounded the banister
and collapsed on to the couch.


"Couldn't sleep?"


"I've given up sleeping."  His mouth barely moved as the bitter words
leaked out.  He pulled his gaze from Margaret's face, finding too many
ghosts in the blue of her eyes.  "You don't believe me, do you?"  Nothing
moved in the house as he sucked in a lung full of breath.  "You believe
she's dead, don't you?"


The question hit like an accusation.  But one that Margaret was
prepared to deal with.  Her mouth tightened a fraction around her
admission.  "I believe she's dead, Fox."


Mulder shook his head with the fury of a mad man before he buried his face
in his hands.  But Margaret calmly continued, never once wavering in her
subtle certainty.  "I buried a husband and two daughters.  None of them
will ever come back to me.  The grief from that is tremendous, Fox, but it's
one that we must accept."


"Why?!" he demanded, his eyes flying to hers in defiance of the memories
reflected there.


"Because, until we do, there can be no peace for them."


His eyes widened.  Was that why She was haunting him?  Because he
refused to allow Her to rest?  Was he torturing Her spirit by denying Her
death?  They had said at the hospital that it would be better for *him* to
accept the facts that the police had shown him.  But he didn't care about
himself.  She was all that mattered.


"You believe she's dead."  He tried to get his mind around the words his
mouth didn't want to say.  But his very being was repelled by the concept.
"You believe she's dead," he tried again.  "That Dana is dead."  Margaret's
muffled whimper from across the room barely registered in the tempest that
raged inside his head.  "Dana is dead," he chanted again, the images from
the photos cutting through the billowing, black clouds that consumed his
world.  "Dana is dead."


And then, he believed it.


His heart stopped in his chest and his lungs refused to work, and he sat
stone still on the couch willing himself to join Her in oblivion.  The tears
that slipped from his eyes went unnoticed.  The twisting agony that burned
in his stomach and chest became his whole world.  Until he heard Margaret
in the kitchen screaming.


At first the sound was foreign.  But gradually he heard her speaking and
the words made sense.  ". . . Dana?  Who is this!"  The woman slid down
the wall to the ground just as he made it to her side.  Mulder ripped the
phone from her hand.  Over and over Margaret woefully whimpered,
"Dana's dead.  My baby's dead . . .."


The unfocused fury raged through his body and soul.  His fist trembled
with it as he lifted the receiver to his face.  "Don't you have any respect for
the dead?"  His hoarse whisper was little more than a hiss.  "Don't call here
again!"  Then, he slammed the phone in its wall cradle and wrapped
Margaret in his arms.  He pulled her to him, and the two of them huddled
there on the linoleum for hours, weeping and mourning the passing of Dana
Katherine Scully.




When dawn arrived, Margaret woke on the couch, an afghan tucked
protectively over her body.


Fox Mulder was gone.


She didn't expect to ever see him again.


End of 3/9


"I give the fight up: let there be an end,
A privacy, an obscure nook for me.
I want to be forgotten even by God."
-Robert Browning (1812-89). Paracelsus, pt. 5.


*****


The Rarity of The Human Connection
And Several Months Missed (4/9)
By MD1016






She felt rough fingers slide over the inside of her wrist, and her eyes
flickered back to consciousness.  Above her, the ceiling was a brilliant
white, spotlighted by the early morning sunlight that blazed across it from
the nearby window.  A little to the right, Dr. Swaggen stood in
concentration, counting off her heartbeats to the ticking of his watch.


"How am I feeling, Doc?"  Scully managed a small smile, her voice
stronger and more solid than it had been.  "You think I'll make it?"


His mouth returned her grin, but his eyes remained dubious.  "Why don't
you tell me."


With her brow scrunched in scrutiny, she went through her internal
checklist.  Something she'd become very apt in doing over her years with
Mulder.  Head: no real pain; but heavy, like she'd slept too long.  Arms:
mobile and responding; no pain.  Torso:  much better; the nausea was
gone.  Legs:  well . . . at least they didn't itch.  "I'll survive."


Then, the audible rumble from her mid section forced her to amend her first
diagnosis.  "If I get some food.  I'm starving."


"Well," Swaggen chuckled, "that's a good sign.  I'll check on that for
you."  He flipped through her chart and made a few notations.  "Do you
have any food allergies?"


"No . . ." her eyes fixed on the file in his hands.  It was several times
thicker than the usual patient's chart -  if there was such a thing.  Papers
peeked unevenly from the sides catching her concentration.  "May I . . . ?"



With a shrug Swaggen gave her the folder and began explaining what she
was seeing.  "When they brought you in, you were comatose.  Responses
were nil, blood pressure was low and threatening to crash, pulse faint, body
temp 94 degrees.  Originally, we thought you must've been submerged in
freezing water -"


"Five pints of blood!  That's impossible!"  Her eyes bulged out as she read
the type on the sheet.  "You gave me five pints?  How can that be?"
Swaggen's eyes met hers and she recognize a faint veil of surprise
registering in them.  With annoyance, Scully insisted, "I told you I'm a
doctor.  I know what I'm looking at."


Still doubtful, the doctor nodded and recollected his thoughts.  "We were
shocked when we pricked you for a toxicology and nothing came out.  No
one was thinking substantial blood loss because there was no evidence of a
wound or puncture marks.  No internal damage, no stomach bleeding,
nothing.  The marks on the epidermis -"


"Ants."


"Yes, well, they didn't account for the abnormalities that we found in your
glycosides, either.  Your T-Cells were next to nothing and the adrenalin in
your system was three times the norm.  We couldn't figure out why you
were still alive."  He flipped a few pages for her and pointed to the second
table from the top.  "Both the toxicology and virus scans came up negative.
CT-Scans showed nothing conclusive.  X-Rays - nothing."


Scully shook her head.  "I don't understand.  If these oxygen levels are all
correct, then why *am* I still alive?  How did I walk around for two days
in the woods?"  It was just two days, right?  Her memories, while
stationary now, still held the fuzzy blur around their edges.  She had
trouble distinguishing a possible memory from something she might have
dreamt. Or was she dreaming now?


Again, Swaggen just shrugged.  "No idea.  But we're thinking it might have
something to do with this."  He pulled a black and white photo from the file
and laid it on top of the stack for her to see.  "Do you have any idea what
this is?"


"Uh . . ." her brow arched, "it looks like a DNA marker."


"Right," his rounded finger pointed to one of the long striped ribbons,
"These strands that are broken away - here - they're not part of your
original genetic make up.  At least, we hope they're not.  We found
something that is quite startling in them.  This here, that you're looking at is
not a normal  DNA nucleotide.  In fact, the lab guys suggest that they
might have identified a new genetic pair.  A fifth and sixth nucleotide."


"WHAT?!?" Scully bolted up in the bed.  "That can't . . . no . . . in my
body?  In my genes?  That's not possi- I would be dead!"


"That's what we thought.  We had our lab guys doing flips for a couple of
days trying to find out what was wrong with the equipment.  Then I made a
call to a friend of mine at John Hopkins.  He's a genetic researcher.  He
says that this might be a result of branch DNA incorporating a synthetic
genetic pair."


In shock, Scully's jaw dropped open, but she was able to nod her
understanding.  "But, how . . .?"


With his dark hand sweeping the side of his face, Swaggen peered down at
his patient.  "Actually, we were hoping that you might fill us in on what
happened to you when you woke up -"


There was a flash in her eyes and she demanded: "How did I get here?"


"Uh . . ."  Pulling the chart from her hands, Swaggen flipped to the last
page.  "Two men found you while they were out hiking.  One swore he
heard you screaming 'murder'.  The police took their statements and filed a
Found Persons Report, but nothing turned up."


"Nothing at all?"  She winced.  It was quickly becoming obvious to her
what must have happened.  They'd taken her again.  They had done
experiments.  They had dumped her body where They thought no one
would find her.  If nothing came up with police reports, she must've been
erased from the system completely.  And since everyone in DC
thought she was dead . . . no one would have noticed.  Mulder wouldn't
have noticed.  God, that hurt.  "How long ago was that?  How long have I
been here?"


The grimace on Swaggen's face preceded his voice of clinical detachment.
"You've been here for forty-two days."


"WHAT?"  The walls of the room came rushing in to meet her, and the
ceiling crumbled down on her head.  Over a month?  How was that . . .?
"This can't be happening."  Her mind tried to insist that it wasn't anything
more than a really bad dream.  At any moment the alarm would go off, and
she'd be safe and sound in her own bed, where she would be considered
very much alive.


And Mulder would be there at work, and he would make a jab at her being
late.  And then they'd settle into a new case and everything would be fine
again.  Maybe she'd tell him about the dream this time.  Tell him how
terrifying the nightmare had been.  Possibly even let him hold her . . . just
enough for her to be reassured that it *was* all a dream.  God, let it be a
dream!


Tears were forming, blurring her vision.  But she blinked them back into
submission.  Get a grip, she told herself.  Control, Dana.  But then her
mind flew in to an outrage.  When had she lost command of her life?  Why
had They taken that from her?  Five months gone?  Dead?  How could
Mulder possibly think . . .?  Wouldn't he need proof?  How could They
convince him . . .?  And a month in the hospital!  Alone!  No one
looking for her.  No one even knowing her name!


Her head fell back into the firmness of the pillow and she stared at the
ceiling tiles.  So much was gone.  Not just from her memory this time, but
also from her life.  She didn't have her usual allies to help her though - no
job, no family, no Mulder.


Damn it!  He'd heard her voice!  On the phone.  She'd said his name . . .
hadn't she?  Why hadn't he recognized her?  How could he doubt her?
Scully slammed her head on the pillow in frustration.  How could she fight
Them alone?  And she *was* alone, for the first time in her life; not just
wanting to be strong and stand on her own, but really, truly without a
partner.  A friend.  Without Mulder.  How could she possibly get her life
back if he wasn't there by her side?


And then, two fists grabbed her upper arms and a low timbre
resonated down to her.  "I know this is hard, but you have to concentrate
on getting better.  Your body has been through a minor war.  Allowing
yourself to become upset and depressed is only going to hamper your
healing process."


Scully knew that the doctor was telling her the truth, and that certainty
helped to reassure her .  At least she had that.  She may have been
out of control of her life for a while, but she wasn't out of the picture
entirely.  And damn it, she would take back everything that she'd lost.  By
force, if necessary!


Dr. Swaggen collected the file and replaced the pictures.  "There's still a lot
we're not sure about with your condition.  But you seem to be responding
well enough to some of the stronger drug therapy."


Scully inhaled sharply and nodded her head, hearing Dr. Swaggen's
footfalls  heading for the door.  "I'll check on some breakfast for you," he
said almost as an afterthought.  "Just relax for a while and try not to think
too much."


*****


Thinking was, of course, all that she could do.  From that first moment of
realization on, Scully plotted and schemed; trying to force an answer to the
question of how to get back to Washington.  Getting Skinner to listen to
her, seeing her mother - they were second in priority.  First, she had to get
home.  Once Mulder saw her, she was sure he'd help her.  He'd take care of
everything.  All she had to do was make her way back to him.


Obviously, she didn't have any money to fly or rent a car.  She didn't have
any ID to get the local law enforcement to assist her.  She didn't have
anyone that she could contact for help - well, no one who would believe
she was alive.  She spent hours debating whether to try to call Mulder
or her mother again, but in the end she reasoned that they would simply
refuse the collect calls.  And she didn't want to have to put them through
the obvious pain they were in again.  That would just be cruel.


Hitchhiking was a possibility; but physically, she wasn't at her best,
and DC was a long way away.  There would be no point if she didn't arrive
home safely.  Because if she *did* run in to trouble on the road, there
wasn't anyone who would come and find her.


She briefly played with the idea of getting a grunt job and earning the
money to rent a car, but with no ID, and more specifically, no working
social security number, that wasn't a sure fire plan.  And anyway, it could
take months for her to earn enough money to travel the entire width of the
continent.


Around and around her mind ran through every possible scenario.  And
each one was repeatedly shot down by the pragmatist in her.  How did one
survive without an identity?  Without family and friends to lean on in times
of crisis?  How could she live, even for a short time, without Mulder?


That last thought had scared her.  She'd known he had become an
irreplaceable part of her life.  Always there for her when she needed him
and sometime even when she didn't.  But she'd never really understood just
how much she'd grown to depend on her partner.  Ever since Scully could
remember, she'd always prided herself on being able to stand tall on her
own.  To overcome any obstacle with her strength alone.  And now, when
that strength was really put to the test . . ..


A familiar ache swelled up in her stomach.  Scully pressed her right fist into
the pain and forced in a deep breath.  She was making herself upset again,
and her body wasn't up to the torment.  As much as she was feeling better,
Scully knew - even without Dr. Swaggen telling her - that not all was right.
And it seemed that her obsessing about Mulder just aggravated the
symptoms.


"How can I *not* think about him?" she whimpered to herself.  It was
torture knowing that he was suffering.  Thinking she was dead, when in
reality she needed him desperately.  "No," she forced her eyes closed, "this
is just temporary.  I'll get back, and everything will be fine."


But her mind kept on going.


What would she do if they were ever really separated?  If, say, she were to
be transferred away from the X-Files . . . permanently.  Well . . . she and
Mulder would protest, of course.  But part of the understanding that went
hand in hand when one joined the Bureau was that one had to relocate
where the Bureau dictated.  Like the army.  There wasn't a lot of choice.
And if she was pulled from him . . ..


She ached to see him again.  To prove to him that she was all right. 
Visions of his tormented eyes followed her in and out of sleep.  Her
inability to touch him and comfort him colored her days as she became
more and more obsessive about getting home soon.  Before he had a
chance to act on the self-destructive tendencies that had always plagued his
life.  God, Mulder, please hang on.  Be okay for me.


What about stealing a car?  If she drove straight through she might make it
in a week.  How far was Juneau from  DC, anyway?  But there was a
question of gas, and that took money.  Which ultimately brought her back
to square one and then the whole dizzying process repeated itself.




Days of this passed, broken only by sleep and meal times.


The answer came after a week and a half of these days.




She had just finished her last dose of oral medication for the day, and
settled back in to the pillows with the intent of writing Mulder a letter.  She
wouldn't put a return address on the outside, she'd decided, and she'd have
one of the nurses address it so he wouldn't be afraid of her handwriting.
Once he opened it, it would then be up to him to accept or reject.  But at
least she would know she'd done everything in her power to get a message
to him.


The trouble was, she wasn't sure how to begin the letter.  And as the
medication started taking effect, to became harder and harder to find the
words.  Dear Mulder?  Hey, Shmucky-Who-Now-Believes-Everything
-He's-Told?  Please believe me?  Please.


Scully yawned.


Damn that sleeping pill.  Damn Mulder.  If he hadn't given in to the popular
belief for the first time in his life, she wouldn't have been obsessing over
how to get back to him.  He would've found her already.  Therefore, she
would have been able to sleep on her own, without the help of the sleeping
pills.  She hated sleeping pills.  It took away just a little more of her control
over her own body.  Damn Mulder.


Oh, Mulder.


She allowed her mind to drift to an image of him in his soft tee-shirt and
jeans, hair rumpled, face exhausted.  He would be walking in the door as he
sorted through his mail, stopping at her unmarked letter.  Maybe he would
think it was from a new informant.  Another man with power and no name.


He would open the letter carefully, ripping the top flap from the side.  His
jaw would tighten in that look of concentration he always wore when he
expected trouble.  The paper inside would slip out easily and he would
slowly unfold it.  "Mulder, it's me . . ."


In a rush, the hospital room came back to her.  Dr. Swaggen was at her
side, gently patting her hand, trying to pull her attention to his face.  "Dana,
listen to me.  This is very important.  Dana?"


"Hmmmm?" she blinked him into focus.


"Do you remember that friend I told you about?  The one at Johns
Hopkins? Remember I told you he was a genetic researcher?  Well, he's got
the whole medical community over there interested in your case.  He wants
to fly out there.  Dana, do you understand what I'm telling you?"


Her eyes rolled around in her head as she tried to focus her concentration
on the doctor.  "Johns Hopkins?  Baltimore?"


"Right.  And I thought this was a great idea since you seem so intent on
getting over there, anyway.  Tonight.  We're going to get you on a flight
tonight."


Scully closed her eyes.  Thank God.  She was going home.  Home.  To DC
and home and Mulder.  Mulder.  Mulder.


The medication took a firm hold on her and dragged her towards sleep.
But not before she felt her hand raised and paper placed under it.  Then a
disembodied voice floated past her.  "Dana, I need you to sign this paper.
Just write your name.  Write Dana Scully."


Yeah, she thought as her hand smoothed out the cursive, like Dana Scully
means anything anymore.  Her name was nothing more than a series of
sounds that represented who she used to be.  According to the world, Dana
Scully was dead.  Lost somewhere in the shadows of power.  Just beyond
the Truth.  Never quite reaching Justice.


Surrounded by the silence of a drug induced sleep.


*****


And then she was awake.  Just like that.  Like a light switch flipped on
and she was aware of being in a narrow room.  All white.  Light
everywhere, pointing at her.


Dana was laying on a cold surface, a single, heavy sheet draped over her
form.  There was a door at the other end of the room; she could see it over
her feet.  All around her there were instruments and machines and trays of
surgical tools.  She was inside some kind of make-shift operating
theatre.


Panic surged through her every molecule as the realization of just where
she'd ended up hit her.  She was back on one of those railroad cars.
Where They'd done the tests on her before.  She yanked on her arms and
legs as a reflex to the terror that coursed through her, but the restraints
held.  She couldn't see them because of the sheet covering her, but they felt
like leather cuffs.  Probably similar to the ones used in mental hospitals to
secure patients.


"Finally."  An unfamiliar man's voice was followed by a small clicking of a
metal door shutting and the scuffing of leather on the floor.  As he came
around to her right side, she could see that he wore blue surgical scrubs.  A
white mask hung loosely around his thin neck.  The dark hair that peeked
out from under his cap was matted to his forehead where a light sheen of
sweat glistened over his olive complexion.  His dark eyes searched hers,
intently.  "I thought you'd never come around."


With a flip of his hand, he whipped the sheet off from her, and Scully gave
a startled cry, whipping her face away from him.  Was he going to hurt her,
with her conscious?  Was she going to *know* what the butcher was doing
to her?  She was completely vulnerable; utterly at this stranger's mercy,
strapped naked to a steel table.  She couldn't fight him.  She couldn't
protect herself.  Would he rape her?  The horror of her naked body being
forced to yield to the man sent tremors through her.  And when his hot
hand clasped her forearm, she squeezed her eyes shut, mentally preparing
for the absolute worst.  "Our Father, who art in Heaven . . ."


A cool rush of air ran over her right wrist and she gasped.  The restraint
had been released.  Then, he was down at the bottom of the table working
on her feet.  "We don't have much time left.  The team should be here in
less than ten minutes.  Damn it!"  He swore and yanked her left ankle free
with a firm tug. "I *told* them not to cut it too close!"


Scully watched the man with wide, confused eyes as he began to unfasten
the cuff on her left hand.  A myriad of questions and emotions was running
through her head, not the least of which was: What the hell is going on?!


"And you, Agent Scully," his tenor voice clipped out her name, "are
starting to piss me off.  This better be the last rescue attempt I have to
make on you."


"Rescue?"


"There isn't time for explanations now."  He threw the recently discarded
sheet back at her and she quickly covered herself.     He continued talking,
taking no notice of her condition, covered or not.  "You're going to go out
that door," he pointed with a hooked thumb over his shoulder, " and take a
left.  About five cars down, you'll see a parking lot on the other side of the
train yard.  Look for the blue pick up with a round orange sticker on the
windshield.  Get in the cab and lock the doors and lay down out of sight.
I'll be there in half an hour or so, just as soon as the excitement of your
disappearance dies down a little."


Stone-still and eyes wide, Scully sat on the table, not believing what was
going on.  "Who are you?  What are you going to do with me?"  How did
he know she wasn't going to make a run for it?  The scalpel was on the
floor . . . if she made a lunge for it . . ..


With frustration in his eyes, the man glanced at his watch.  "Nothing.
Jesus!  There isn't time for this.  Just go to the truck, Agent Scully."  Then
the man's gloved hand steadied her chin and his oval eyes searched her
face.  "You can walk, can't you?"


"I . . . I think so."


He pulled away from her and crossed his arms.  "Look, you don't have to
trust me if you don't want to.  I don't care.  But as I see it you have two
choices.  Them or me.  And right now, I can safely say that if They find
you still here, I won't *have* to make any more rescues on your behalf.
There'll be nothing left to rescue."


"Is that a threat?"


"Just a statement of fact.  It's your choice."  He turned from her casually
and purposely  knocked over a surgical tray, sending the sterilized
instruments crashing to the floor.  He smiled when she jumped.  "We have
to make it look good, don't we?"


The lesser of two possible evils.  This man or Them.  The unknown had
always terrified her more than anything else, and at that moment, she was
willing to take her chances with someone who seemed to be attempting to
help her.  The alternative wasn't a choice.


Slipping down from the table, she pulled the sheet closer around her body
and  scurried barefoot to the door.


"Oh, Agent Scully.  I wouldn't try to make a break for it, if I were you.
You're in a top secret government weight station.  Completely surrounded
by men with big guns and even bigger dogs."  He turned his back to her
and began sawing at the right table restraint with a scalpel, his teeth
gritting his words under the force.  "If you're not in the truck when I get
there, I'm leaving without you."  He glanced at her over his shoulder.  "Do
you understand?"


"I'll be in the truck."


She slipped out the door and the even brighter morning light struck her
unprepared.  She'd been out of the sun for nearly two months, and it took a
second to adjust to the brilliance streaming down on her.  Too much light.
And too much heat.  Why did it have to be so hot?  She stepped down the
three iron rungs and landed hard on the rail bed.  The soft pads of her feet
would surely be bruised and ripped apart  by the loose stones in no time.


Five cars, he'd said.  Fine.


The heat from the coarse gravel under her feet was painful as she made her
way down the side of the train.  No one in sight.  Everything still and
almost foreboding.  Scully wasted little time studying her immediate area,
though, five car lengths was a lot farther than it sounded.  And the man had
said time was running out.


When she reached her destination she found the lot.  It was on the other
side of the train, about a hundred yards off.  Only a few dozen cars were
there, all just as deserted.


The thick connecting arms of the train cars would have been difficult to
climb over, and with the clock ticking, Scully opted for the easiest way
across the train track.  Underneath the train.  A moment's hesitation was all
it took to override her natural  reluctance.  Her survival instincts were
strong and screaming at her to hurry.


On her hands and knees, dragging the sheet with her, she crawled under the
heavy body of the car, over one thick metal track, across the wooden
brace, and then the other rail.  The whole time holding her breath, praying
that the wheels wouldn't move.  After all, she was a pathologist.  She'd
seen first hand what a six-ton train wheel and track could do to a body.


Once clear and on the other side, she scrambled to her feet, and ran the rest
of the distance to the smoother pavement of the parking lot.  Two rows
back she found the blue pick-up with a round, orange sticker.  On it, black
letters spelled out: STAL.  Stal?  The hot asphalt began  to burn her poor
feet.  She quickly opened the passenger side of the cab and pulled herself
into the oven-like heat.


It smelled like a new car.  The upholstery and carpeting were clean and
dark.  Remembering the man's instructions, Scully closed the door and
locked it.  Then she reached over and locked the driver's side as well.
Should she crack the windows?  Should she risk it?     As she laid down on
the floor in front of the seat and pulled the sheet over to cover her head
and body, she ignored the nagging claustrophobic tension in her chest.


This wasn't forever.  He had said twenty minutes.  She could handle twenty
minutes.  He had said stay hidden.  Fine.  She was hidden.


I'm lying on the floor, she thought, of a truck, completely naked.  Because
a man I don't know told me to.  This is insane.  This is something not even
Mulder would do.  I think.


A droplet of sweat slipped down from her neck and ran between her
breasts.  Silently, she waited there and stewed.



End of 4/9


"I have accepted fear as a part of life -
specifically the fear of change . . .
I have gone ahead despite the pounding
in the heart that says: turn back . . ."
-Erica Jong (b.1942).


*****


The Rarity of The Human Connection
And Several Months Missed (5/9)
By MD1016




The steaming summer sun had set hours before without Mulder's noticing.
His small, hazel eyes had gradually grown accustomed to the fading light
until it blinked out of existence and he was left in abject darkness.  Pulling
up all of his energy reserves, he lifted his weary body from the deep-set
couch and crossed the dusty floorboards of his father's old summer house.
The switch on the paneled wall flicked a few small table lamps on.


The previous hours were nothing but a blur.  Not knowing where to go or
what to do, Mulder had fled Mrs. Scully's house in a panic; needing to
escape the brutal pain of loss and grief. It was like She was taken just
yesterday, not five months earlier.  And in a very real sense that was what
had happened.  Actual acknowledgment had killed more than just his hope.


It killed Her spirit.  The part that had haunted him . . . the only part of Her
that he had had left.  He felt like a murderer.


Before, when he had seen her ghost, it terrified him.  In his head, it meant
either she wanted to punish him, or he really was insane.  Neither option
left him with a zest for life.  But now that he'd exorcised her from him -
literally banishing her with his words - the small, infinitesimal pleasure he
had derived from her image was gone.  He'd banished her.


Blind, he'd driven for hours - no destination in mind - until he'd found
himself at the cottage.  It was just as empty and dead as he felt.  And, of
course,  She'd never been there.  It would be easier to shut himself
down.  Maybe he'd be able to substitute one ghost with another.


Mulder peered out the small kitchen window that overlooked the lake with
indifference.  The water would be warm this time of year, he thought idly.
An absent hand scratched at the flat plain of his stomach, and he looked up
into the adjacent room.  Without having to open any, he knew the kitchen
cabinets were bare.  It didn't really matter.  He had no intention of ever
eating again.  How could he possibly nourish his body when Hers had been
so . . . defiled?  It would be like Sally Struthers begging on behalf of all the
starving children of the world.  Too bad Mulder didn't have a TV remote
for his life.


A stabbing jolt through his chest sent one arm up against the wall for
support, and the other clutching at his heart.  Good, he thought, maybe a
heart attack will finish me off.


Stumbling back to the couch, he dropped himself down in to the soft,
textured cushions and waited for his last breath with a morbid eagerness.
Like a child waiting in line for the House of Horrors.  Terrified.  And yet,
willingly taking on that terror.  Wanting desperately to be scared to death.


The end, however, didn't greet him.  Instead, he laid on his back for most
of the night, staring up at the shadows that spread themselves over the flat,
white ceiling.  God dammit.  Cheated again.


Why do I have to live when She can't?  Is it about suffering?  Do I have to
suffer as much as She did in Her last hours?  Is that my penance for not
rescuing Her?  For not being there?  His eyes closed and he swallowed
thickly.  God.  How can She be gone?  How can what They said possibly
be true?


The graphic photos flashed through his head again, and he cowered from
the images.  So much horror.  Someone had touched Her.  Violated Her in
the most gruesome ways possible.  Taken not only Her life, but Her dignity
and humanity, as well.  Stripped Her of everything that She had held
sacred.  "Oh, God," his voice wailed in the still air.  "Oh, GOD!  I'm sorry!
I'm so sorry!"


The chaos of true fury spiraled through him, and he whipped the pillows
from the couch. They flew across the room, destroying trinkets and baubles
with haphazard precision.  Mulder flailed his arms and legs over the edges
of the sofa, unable to pick himself up and destroy the room properly.
Flailing pathetically, like a fish on a dock.  Deep wails forced their way out
as he laid there, until the dawn peeked through the blinds and exhaustion
won out.


His sleep was peppered with visions of Her shadowed form, both
remembered and imagined.  But never Her face.  Her eyes.  Her soul.
Those were gone from him.  He'd traded them for a chance to bring Her
some peace.  Something he'd never thought to give Her while she was with
him.


He didn't wake up until the blazing sun was ready to set again.


*****


Mulder emerged from the bathroom haggard and swaying against the brutal
force of gravity.  Hours of tortured sleep had left him drained.  The only
solace allowed him was the gradual emergence into the unmerciful reality
of  consciousness.  The physical ache of hunger was nothing compared to
the regurgitated pain and desolation of losing her over and over.


Stumbling down the darkened hall, he leaned heavily against the paneled
walls for support.  His steps were slow and uneven; much like his ragged
breaths.  The pulse in his neck throbbed against his windpipe.  He felt like
shit and was sure he looked worse.  A masochistic smile transformed his
face, creating disfiguring planes with the shadows.


And then, as if in a dream, Mulder looked down and he could see himself.
Slowly making a path towards a brilliant golden light.  Seeing his hands flat
against the walls, but not feeling them any longer.  He watched as the hall
opened wider, giving him more space to move through; becoming
hopelessly long.


The light burned like radiant fire, hovering just beyond the end of the hall.
Like a beacon, it called to him; led the way.  Mulder blinked as his body
followed, making its way at a snail's pace down towards the golden source.



But with a flash of impatience, the yellow glow sped at him like a swarm of
luminous hornets.  And Mulder saw his arms and chest become engulfed in
the gentle warmth of it.


Then, once again he was in his body looking out.  He no longer ached.
The grief and pain were gone.  And he breathed with a smile of relief.  The
glow lightly kissed his features before sinking in to him; becoming a part of
him.  The sensuousness of the contact  briefly dropped his eyes closed. He
relished the playful dancing of the colored orbs behind his eye lids.


But when his eyes opened, Mulder froze in place.  The light was gone.  The
dark had returned. And, on the ground before him lay a huddled figure.  A
heavy white sheet covered all.


"No."  Mulder whimpered as his hand, of its own volition, snaked down
through the air and reached out for the cloth.  "Please, no."  His own
fingers refuse to yield to his pleas.  They curled around the hem of the
sheet. Mulder wanted to run.  He tried to turn his head away.  He strained
to force his eyes closed again.  Anything to save himself from the already
returning heartache and sorrow.


His arm yanked on the cloth.


And Mulder screamed.  "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


Lying huddled like a new, wet fetus lay a woman.  Her red hair was
limp and dark against Her damp head and shoulder.  Naked hips and legs
curled up  protectively against Her red-splotched torso.  The line of Her
form curved smoothly against the blackness that surrounded Her.  She was
still and glistening and all that existed.


Blood raged through Mulder's body, swelling in the flesh between his legs.
He could smell the sweat on Her skin.  He could feel the heat from Her
body radiating up to him; searing him.  The roundness of Her perfect rear
sloped gradually into a slender waist he recognized.  It was the
unmistakable lower back that he had touched so many times before.
Flawless.  Bare to him.  Beaded with a sheen of perspiration.


His body had forsaken him.  The stiffness in his crotch pressed painfully
against the firm denim encasing it.  It was wrong, Mulder knew, but it was
out of his control.  He couldn't stop his hands from smoothing over his
erection any more than he could force his eyes to look away from the arch
of Her neck.   Tears of disgust and anguish rolled unheeded down his
unshaven cheeks.  His hips bucked forward into the air without finding the
satisfaction of friction.


And, when She lifted her head the slightest amount and Her pure blue eyes
looked up and locked with his, Mulder couldn't help the explosive release
that soaked through the tight front of his jeans.  His eyes rolled back as he
gasped from the shameful pleasure of it.  His knees buckled.  Then, as his
head sank, his boneless body fell forward over Her.  Or, what his mind
screamed should have been on top of Her.  But as he collapsed, he could
feel nothing except the unforgiving wood of the floor rushing up to meet
him.


*****


The stagnant air weighted him down.  The desire to move was not in
him.  Self-loathing kept the tears pooling where his cheek pressed against
the floor, and exhaustion kept him from caring.


It wasn't enough that he had  seen Her again; that somehow She had
managed to find Her way back to haunt him.  No, he had to succumb to the
primal lusts of his body.  To step in line with all the other men who had
defiled her and reduced her to less than nothing.  While She watched.


NO!


Mulder leapt up and bolted out the back door.  His bare feet carried him
over the dark grass towards the lake shore, his arms lifted the tee-shirt up
and off of his torso.  Stumbling a few steps in the dark, he freed his feet
from the confines of the jeans and underwear before he hit the cool,
blackness of the water head first.


His slender fingers ran over his face, scrubbing fiercely at the guilt he held
as if it were a thick mask of dirt.  Every part of him felt filthy; sinfully
so.  His hands ran over his penis and thighs, washing away the previously
dried cum.  All the while, making his way farther out into the lake.


The warmth of the air combined with the gentle current had a calming
effect that gradually brought Mulder out of his frenzied baptism.


Breathing hard, he sank back into the water, allowing his natural buoyancy
to keep him afloat.  The half moon cast its spotlight over the bloody
blackness of the world around him.  It would be so easy, his mind
pondered, to simply sink in to the water and disappear.  No mess for
someone else to clean up.  No pain.  No more haunting.


Like anything in his life could be that easy.


Why did She continue to haunt him?  Why wouldn't Her spirit let him go?
Did She hate him for his failure to reach Her in time?  And what would She
say to him if She knew what he was doing?  If She could see him treading
water in the lake in the dark?  If She knew he had looked over Her naked
body and climaxed?


It was sick.  That he would fantasize about Her that way: shielding Herself
from his view, trying to retain even the smallest amount of dignity.  And
still he was able to . . . do what he had done.  Disgusting.  Sick.


But then, they'd said at the hospital that he was mentally ill.  Over and
over.  That what he called 'Her hauntings' were, in fact, elaborate fantasies
of a troubled mind.  That, in reality, She was gone forever.  She wasn't
trying to communicate with him.  And all he had left was fantasy.  Well,
that, and the comforting weight of his body suspended in water.


Sinking.  Slowly.  Deeper and deeper.


"Oh, Mulder."


He could hear Her voice resonating in his head, as the water rose above his
ears.  "Mulder."  The coolness of the sandy lake bed gave way gently under
his feet.  He let his legs bend as he sank further down into the blackness.
With an almost euphoric calm, he ignored the pangs of self preservation
that burned in his lungs.  It would all be over soon.  All of it: the pain, the
emptiness, the guilt . . ..


"Please.  Mulder."


Why was he hearing Her voice now?  Why couldn't She just let him do
what needed to be done?  What he wanted to do.  Why was She there
when he wanted so much to deny Her?


"Please."


But then, he never could deny Her.  Not really.


His feet planted themselves firmly in the mud, and pushed his body up
towards the surface.  He didn't want to respond to the lunacy inside his
head.  But once again, it was beyond his control.  His body was forced to
obey Her; fantasy or no.  Gasping for air as his head broke the water, a
series of painful sobs shook through him.


The air was warm in his chest.  And moist.  Mulder choked through the
guttural cries releasing the anger and frustration that boiled within him.  "I
don't want to live without you!  I don't want to live!"  His words echoed
over the glassy lake top.


The lulling, nearly non-existent current eventually brought him back to
the narrow shore.  Without the strength to haul himself out from the water
completely, Mulder crawled up the gentle slope until his waist was clear of
the rolling movement and fell asleep.


*****


Morning came slowly.  But even slower still was Mulder's drift back to
consciousness.  It had been days since he'd eaten, and even then it had only
been an frozen burrito.  Hunger was starting to win its battle with his body,
and Mulder was feeling the consequences: ranging from the throb in his
head to the ache in every other part of his body; and then, the added
pleasure of nausea and vertigo when he tried to stand on the uneven sand.
It was no wonder when he fell over and nearly passed out.  Thank god
Scully wasn't there.  She would be furious.


Yet, something in him pulled his body up from the lake shore and got him
in the house again.


The hot shower was meaningless against his numbed skin.  As were the
clothes he found in one of the oak dressers.  His fathers.  The jeans were
too big, and the shoes were too tight.  But Mulder didn't even notice.
Sensation was lost on him.


He found the key on the hook by the door and headed out to the car.
Nothing tangible was in his mind.  He was running on auto-pilot, only
vaguely aware that he needed food and something to drink.


The guilt was gone.  The ache and grief were forgotten.  Only an empty
hunger plagued him.  And so, he left the house in search for something to
feed it.


End of 5/9


"I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind,
In balance with this life, this death."
-W. B. Yeats (1865 1939), An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.