By annaK
annakarrennina@hotmail.com
 

Visit my fic at http://www.geocities.com/annaK1013/fanfic
Rating: R
Classification: S, A, Myth-Arc, MSR, Post-XF
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine.
Archive: Only at author's own website and Ephemeral until all
parts are posted. After that, I'd be honored, but please ask
first.
Spoilers: Entire series, with particular reference to
Synchrony, William and The Truth.
Summary: Past, present and future; they are a culmination of all
three. Only in looking back can they hope to move forward.

Author's Notes: This is *not* a Work in Progress. The story is
totally completed, and will be posted as each chapter is returned
from beta. Also, my knowledge of New Mexico is minimal at best;
I'd like to thank addictedtoDD for all of her help in teaching
me about Albuquerque, and to say that any mistakes remaining are
my own.

There are so many people that I owe so much to for the help and
encouragement given during the writing of this story, and I will
endeavour to thank them all at the end. For now, let me just
thank my wonderful beta team; Foxxy, xdks, Tali and Elizabeth,
particularly Foxxy and xdks who have been with me on this from
the beginning, and without whom this would never have been
written. You gals are truly incredible, and I can't thank you
enough.

Dedication: For James, because this story's about healing, and
you taught me everything I know about that. I just wish you were
here now to show me how to heal the hole you've left in my life.
I miss you.
 
 

**

Inverse Reflections by annaK

**
 

The changing of sunlight to moonlight
Reflections of my life, oh, how they fill my eyes
The greetings of people in trouble
Reflections of my life, oh, how they fill my mind
All my sorrows, sad tomorrows
Take me back to my own home
All my cryings, feel I'm dying, dying
Take me back to my own home
I'm changing, arranging, I'm changing
I'm changing everything, ah, everything around me
The world is a bad place, a bad place
A terrible place to live, oh, but I don't wanna die.
 

                  Reflections Of My Life, Marmalade
 
 

**

Prologue

**
 

Days turned to months as the eyes of the stars began to rain with
tears. Spring showers permeated the dry air, the world turning
muggy and suffocating as the Ides of March passed by. Summer sun
beat down on pale white skin, a dusting of freckles and red lines
painting alabaster pink, whilst already browned hands glowed gold.
Autumnal showers brought a halo of brass colored leaves down
around them, the trees swaying in the November winds until left
barren, their fruits littering the floor in a timeless carpet of
life; until Winter's icy hands began sliding beneath thick coats
and woolen hats, beneath gloves defending stiff fingers from the
snowy climes.

Within the car words were said and thoughts were shared, their
breathing in sync as they passed through valleys and mountains,
fields and deserts, moving ever forward.

Tires turned along dusty roads, hands grasped and held. Language
was minimal, their tongues tied behind masks of doubt, fearing
the uncertain and mourning the tangible.

State lines mapped out the boundaries of their journey, but the
true distance covered was internal. Each new motel room, every
new face, all encompassing their brave new world, far from home
and the lives left behind.

When the road sign announced their arrival in the 'Land of
Enchantment,' they stopped.

Full circle to find the truth; their truth.

They had driven what felt like the world, the oceanic borders of
the United States trapping them within its bureaucratic soul,
unable to escape the conflicts and trials of life on the run.
Holes in her heart and holes in his head, they were battered and
broken but soldered together, each compensating for the other's
empty spaces.

Once again in New Mexico, they could embrace the dusty air,
allowing the blood colored earth to seep through their bodies,
solidifying them against the tides that sought their
destruction.

New lives were built as walls were painted and carpets laid. Red
hair grew longer, roots bleaching blonde from too much sunlight
whilst cropped brown turned salt and pepper, age and stress
taking physical manifestation.

Jane and James, Lydia and John, Laura and Mike; pseudonyms
eventually abandoned with the passing of the currents of time.
Katherine and William were never used. Neither would have been
able to utter his name.

Fox and Dana had left their lives behind and started afresh. No
one asked why. No one asked anything.

She had found a job at Lovelace working in the pediatric unit. He
had not argued, not questioned her decision. He had merely held
her at night as she cried over lost little girls with bright blue
eyes and lost little boys with daddy's charm, all the while
feeling his own sinuses burn with the scent of baby soft skin and
the feeling of betrayal.

They were fragile as midnight shadows washed over them, allowing
them moments of vulnerability before the rising sun healed their
wounds for another day.

He had built himself a life on the internet, psychology articles
written and sold and shady cohorts draining him for information.
Some were like long lost friends, paranoid to the extreme, whilst
others were more serious, more dogmatic. These were the contacts
that Marita had provided, allies with whom to save the world from
the sidelines.

Whether 2012 would bring with it nothing but another Christmas
Eve, or whether it would hail the Armageddon, the truth was, Fox
Mulder was no longer in a position to act and thus tried to no
longer care.

Scully worried enough about the future for both of them. He was
still too burned by the past. No fiery apocalypse could singe his
soul as deeply as the losses of nearly a decade ago.

Nevertheless, they moved forward, doing what they could when they
could. The world was no longer theirs alone to protect, but their
relationship was another matter. As tilted on its axis as Earth
could ever be, it would occasionally slip, threatening to fall
into the black hole of eternity and never recover. They held it
together with gossamer threads, often unable to bear being
together yet with no hope of surviving alone. Their connection
was instinctual, often nothing more than a survival tactic.

Both knew that one would die without the other.
 

**

Chapter 1

**
 

You could be my unintended,
Choice to live my life extended,
You should be the one I'll always love.

I'll be there as soon as I can,
But I'm busy mending broken
Pieces of the life I had before.

                              Unintended, Muse
 

**
 

April, 2007,
Albuquerque, NM
 

"Morning."

Sunlight paints the room in morning glory, the shutters
pulled back to allow air to permeate the still warmth. She
sits beside him, a cup of steaming coffee in her hand and
a serene expression on her face.

"Hi."

"Sleep well?"

"Yeah, thanks. I think you tired me out last night."

She smiles at his grin and bends to kiss him. Things have
been peaceful lately, their new lives finally settling,
domesticating them, calming their previously taut nerves.
Before, they had cowered like fugitives, expecting to have to
run from their balmy home at any moment. Now, they relax, the
stress of the road slipping from their knotted muscles and
allowing them to simply be themselves. There are still rough
patches, times when their life together is stormed by the
thundering noise of angry words and the agony of unhealed
wounds, but there are good times too.

On mornings like this, when her smile reaches her eyes and
her warm breath caresses his face in gentle touches, he feels
like they are finally out of the car, able to embrace the white
picket fence and move forward into a new era.

"I've got to go to work," she breathes against his mouth, her
hand tracing lazy circles over his stomach.

"But, but..."

She silences his protests with a kiss before pulling away,
brushing out the wrinkles in her skirt and heading for the
door.

"I'll see you tonight," she calls over her shoulder.

He lies back against the pillows, absorbing the warmth that
creeps in through the window, and closes his eyes again,
welcoming the heaviness of slumber as it pulls him deep beneath
its quiet waters.
 

**
 

It is not yet nine but the sun is strong. She is becoming
accustomed to the weather yet still finds the humidity
oppressive, the warm dampness of the air curling itself around
her, sinking into her skin in a sheen of perspiration.

Finally within the air conditioned haven of the car, she heads
into the city. Their home is situated near the bottom of the
Sandia Mountains, the tall trees' green foliage seemingly out
of place in the desert landscape. Shadows crisscross over the
windshield, rays of light pushing through the canopy of leaves
to bathe the car in an emerald glow.

Passing by the Petroglyph National Monument and turning towards
the East side of the city, she makes her way through the
streets. The traffic is busy, cars throwing showers of dust
into the air as they stop and start on the downtown roads. She
is used to it. This is 'home'.

She had fallen in love with the artistic spark of the place from
the moment they had arrived. The cultural heritage combines
Native American pueblos with strange, modern structures. Blue
tiled sculptures act as benches to bus drivers awaiting their
next shift, imposing museums attract dozens of tourists, and
the University of New Mexico, as well as housing hoards of
students, contains many beautiful examples of Pueblo
Revival-style architecture and The Fine Arts Museum. She had
dragged Mulder around the building when they had first arrived,
determined to do something touristy before they were once again
forced into upheaval. That had been three years ago. They are
still here.

Turning into the parking area of the large, off white center
where she works, she kills the engine. The loss of the air
conditioning soon leaves the car unbearable, but she is loathe
to move. Every morning she sits in silence, outside of this
building. Within its walls there are children, too many children,
all suffering. She tries to help, as do all of the medical
personnel that roam these corridors, but, first, she has to sit
here and lay her demons to rest for another day. The warm hands
and tiny smiles that she will face are not hers to love, not
hers to hold.

Her children are forever lost.
 

**
 

When he finally drags himself out of bed, it is almost ten. Since
they settled here, he has finally learned to enjoy the quiet pace
of his new life, enjoy the knowledge that he can lounge around,
relax all day, watch television. Twenty years with the FBI had
trained him to be energetic, to be able to work with little sleep.
He wonders if he is catching up on all the hours of rest lost
during the past decades, or whether he has just got lazy.

Stumbling into the sparsely decorated kitchen, the walls white to
reflect the heat and the tiles beneath his feet cool on his bare
soles, he fills the kettle with already warm water. Once the coffee
is made, he moves forward into the small alcove in the
living room that has become his office.

The corner is cooler than the rest of the house, its walls
bathing him in shade as he sits down before the computer.
They'd bought the machine second hand out of what little money
they'd had access to in those first months in their new home,
and its age shows. The "monstrosity," as Scully had put it, takes
up half of the desk, the monitor's bulk threatening to crack the
meager piece of plywood that serves as its stand. The Gunmen would
often mock the prehistoric machinery when they took their places
beside him, Frohike's teasing laugh echoing in his head like a
litany. Old friends are not forever lost to him, rather they live
on in his subconscious, their playful digs and sober warnings all
taking form within his psyche, manifestations of the past seeping
into his mind to be carried forward into the present.

Today, he is alone, the soft sense of peace hanging in the air
like incense left to keep away the spirits.

Booting up the machine and logging on to the internet takes what
seems like forever as the ancient hard drive groans under the
pressures of the twenty first century.

His email inbox contains all sorts of junk mail, messages about
"the latest UFO sighting," another labeled "what the government
aren't telling us," and his personal favorite, from a man who the
Gunmen would have just loved to meet, "frogs are colonizing the
planet for the aliens."

Scrolling down he finds his latest assignment from Psychology
Weekly, the magazine that has been commissioning his articles
since they settled here. His latest task is to write on the
subject of "Affective disorders: Is there a cure?"

He had not informed his employers of his specialist subject:
'How to become a monster', as it is simply something he no longer
wants to be a part of his life. 'Spooky' Mulder has enough demons
left to slay within his own mind without having to add the twisted
thoughts of a psychopath into the mix.

The last email on the list is of more importance.
From mreyes@fbi.gov

He and Scully have maintained contact with Monica since they left.
Whilst Agent Doggett is allegedly aware of their correspondence,
he never takes an active role. The two agents who were left behind
are now working for the VCU but have somehow managed to be allowed
to 'unofficially' maintain the X Files unit. By mutual agreement,
cases are not discussed; their relationship is not professional.
Monica is Scully's only friend, and, when Scully retreats behind
her walls, Monica is the one who seems to be able to direct him to
the brick that, when removed, will send the entire foundations
plummeting to the ground.

This email is not a 'social letter'. The subject says simply;

"X-File"
 

**
 

Lovelace Medical Center, NM
 

Bright colors swirl across the walls in an avalanche of rainbows.
Papier-mache balloons hang in the corner, silent spectators to the
young lives that bloom within the room. Red and blue bricks litter
the floor in careless abandon as one tiny hand places yellow and
green legos together as the foundations of a small house.

Simple, beautiful; painful.

Dropping her half eaten sandwich onto the table, Scully kneels
down before Katrina, the small girl's brow furrowed in
concentration as she focuses on her task. Since she first began
working here, Scully has taken to spending her lunch hour in the
playroom, the delighted squeals of children creating a harmonic
melody, a perfect background to these few quiet hours, and a stark
relief from the pained cries that haunt her dreams.

"What are you doing there, sweetie?"

"Building."

Twinkling blue eyes flick up as a bottom lip is pulled between
tiny baby teeth and podgy fingers curl around toys in obvious
shyness.

This little girl is three. She is not a patient here, but her
sister receives weekly treatments for a heart condition, and
Katrina is forced to spend hours alone within the small playroom.
Scully's attempts to provide her with some company are well meaning,
but, she admits to herself, not altruistic.

The scene is all too familiar. Liquid blue orbs and fearful pouts,
quiet conversations as serious hands take pride in childish
delights. The longish brown hair that runs in ringlets down the
small child's cheeks is Scully's only savior from falling into the
past, wrapping its painful yet comforting arms around her and
drowning in its many tears.

This little girl is not hers.

She never allows Mulder to visit her here. She tells him it is for
safety. They both know that they would have been found by now if
anybody was really looking, but he believes in her paranoia,
believes in her fears and will not push the boundaries she sets.
It is one lie that she can justify. Mulder's pain at seeing her
as fragile, afraid, is something that she can deal with. His pain
at knowing that her secret life is born of the past, of her
allowing it to seep into her soul and become her role playing
partner as she lives in the present, would be unbearable for both
of them.

Running gentle fingers down an apricot soft cheek, Scully gets to
her feet. Her re-enactments of ancient hurts will have to wait.
She has work to do.
 

**
 

Mulder stares blankly at the screen before him for several
minutes. Confusion more than dread is affecting his reflexes,
preventing him from clicking on the small 'open' icon and ending
the suspense.

"X-File."

He doesn't understand.

There had been no signs for months that their work would threaten
them. Scully still carries her fears like a talisman around her
neck, but he feels as if the tides that sought to crush them
like sandcastles deserted on a beach have receded; he feels safe.

There had been no warnings from those that dwelled in his
subconscious, no whispered messages or overt comments. His
external ghosts have remained silent for months except for the
occasional gibe. It is his internal demons that continue to drown
out his rationale.

He opens the message.
 
 

*Mulder,

I know we had agreed not to discuss the cases that Agent Doggett
and I investigate, that you wished to remain separated from your
old work.

I am very sorry to go back on this agreement, but I need your help.

We were recently contacted by a young woman who I believe you once
met; a woman named Lisa Ianelli.

Miss Ianelli claims that she came into contact with you and Agent
Scully in 1997, following the arrest of her then boyfriend Jason
Nichols for the alleged murder of his friend, Lucas Menan.

She claims that it was not Jason who murdered the boy but, rather,
you came to believe that it was Jason's 'future self', so to speak,
returned from the future to prevent her future discovery of time
travel.

The story sounds farfetched, even to me, and Agent Doggett
believes that Miss Ianelli is stringing us along, however, when she
mentioned your name, I felt it was necessary to check out her story.

The reason she has contacted us is rather uncertain. She claims
that, as you allegedly came to believe, the freezing compound that
allows time travel has become reality and that time travel is now
possible. She states that, following Mr. Nichols' death a decade
ago, she continued his work as a scientist, wishing to uncover the
theoretical nature of time travel without actually making her
results public. Now that she has been successful, she has come to
believe that others may be aware of her results, despite her
attempts to keep them secret, and that she is in danger because of
this. She wants our protection.

I've looked in your old files, and while I found her name among
some notes on what I assume was the case she has mentioned, the
file is one that was never fully restored following your office fire.

Do you remember this case?*
 
 

He remembers the case well. It had occurred during those terrible
months when Scully was fighting her cancer, when he would have
done anything for time travel to be possible so that he could go
back and prevent those bastards from hurting her, from having the
power to gradually pull her away from him as he stood their
helplessly holding onto the gossamer threads of her existence.

Time travel had seemed like a great idea then. Maybe it seems like
a great idea now, too. To have the opportunity to go back, to do
it all again. Scully had once said that she wouldn't change a day;
would he?

He believes that things happen for a reason, has come to believe
that, as Scully had said one night a lifetime ago, there is only
one choice and all the other ones are wrong. If that is true, then
he and Scully have made the right choice; they are together.
Unfortunately, it often feels like they have both abandoned
themselves to find each other, abandoned the things that mattered;
abandoned their son.

Yes, he would change a day. In fact, he thinks he'd change several.
 
 

*Any information that you could provide would be much appreciated.
As I said, I am so sorry to trouble you with this.

I hope you are both well.

Love to Dana,

Monica*
 

**

Chapter 2

**
 

I can tell by your eyes that you've probably been cryin'
forever,
And the stars in the sky don't mean nothin' to you,
they're a mirror.
I don't want to talk about it, how you broke my heart.
If I stay here just a little bit longer,
If I stay here, won't you listen to my heart?

If I stand all alone, will the shadow hide the color of my
heart;
Blue for the tears, black for the night's fears.
The star in the sky don't mean nothin' to you, they're a
mirror.
I don't want to talk about it, how you broke my heart.
If I stay here just a little bit longer,
If I stay here, won't you listen to my heary?

                I Don't Want To Talk About It, Rod Stewart
 

**

April, 2007,
Albuquerque, NM.
 

The night is young but the clouds are dark, the eerie
shadows of the heavens throwing dark smudges across the
landscape. The gentle purr of the engine provides an ominous
soundtrack as she drives up the uneven lane towards the
house, her fingers white as she grips the steering wheel in
a hold that she fears will crush the leathered metal.

It has been a long day.

A small boy, only about three months old, had been admitted
early in the evening, a lifesaving operation needed to
remove the small tumor that was feeding off his smile. He
had deteriorated rapidly, the surgeon's skillful hand no
opponent for the cancerous mass that was tearing that little
boy from his mother's arms.

He hadn't made it.

Time of death, 8.56pm.

Another dead child to haunt her.

Pulling into the small driveway, she attempts to relax her
death-grip, her focus on the pain in her hands rather than
the pain in her heart slipping, allowing the insidious
tears that threatened to fall a small leap of victory as
they jump from her throat to hide behind her lashes.

She will not cry.

Dana Scully has shed enough tears to last a lifetime.

One shaking hand fights to insert the key into the lock,
the clouds blocking out the moonlight and blinding her
against the small piece of metal in her hand. Finally, a
click and a turn and the door swings open, the creaking noise
of the hinges unsettling in the silent night.

The house is quiet, one small lamp illuminating the foyer,
but the other rooms apparently in darkness. She can hear the
distant sounds of an imperial, British accent, the flickering
of a black and white film coming to her in pieces through the
gap in the living room door.

Taking a deep breath to lay the day to rest, she steps into
the room.

Mulder lounges on the sofa, gray tee-shirt looking rumpled as
the shadows from the TV pass across him, his hair sticking up
and out in every direction as if recently combed by restless
hands.

"Hey," she whispers. Her hushed word hangs in the air, the
gentle sound permeating the silence and brushing across her
lover in a fleeting caress.

"C'mere," he whispers back.

She moves across to him, her form dancing like a shadow as the
pictures on the screen cascade across the room like firelight.
Sliding onto the sofa, she nestles herself between his legs,
his left knee drawn up at her side and his right foot on the
floor. He is soft and warm and he smells like home; he is all
she has left.

Gentle fingers begin a hypnotizing journey through her hair
and a warm palm settles on the base of her neck, its rhythmic
pressure relieving some of the tension from her tired muscles.

"What have you been up to today?" she asks, softly.

"Researching."

"For one of your articles?"

"No. For an X File."

The silence breaks as the energy of the past crackles to the
surface, its presence like an electrical spark in the air,
setting the tiny hairs at her nape on end beneath his
stiffening hand.

"Colonization?"

The word is like an uttered reference to the Devil, the
timbres of her voice registering hushed reverence as well as
dread.

"No. Nothing's happened. Don't worry. It's just a case that
Agent Reyes contacted me about."

His hand restarts its gentle massage.

"What case?"

"Do you remember Jason Nichols?"

"Umm... the name sounds familiar, but I can't place it."

"He was a kid we met in Boston back in '97. He was accused of
murdering his friend Lucas Menan, but he said he didn't do it.
His alibi was an old man who had tried to warn him that Lucas
was going to die, a man who later claimed to be Jason Nichols
from the future."

The pieces of the case come back to her in fragments. She
remembers that Mulder had believed that time travel was
involved, remembers him quoting her thesis at her as if to
validate his claims.

The conversation feels like old times, back when they would
sit together in the twilight hours and discuss theories, ponder
monsters, both human and inhuman. For months before their world
had been turned upside down, they had brainstormed on cases in
what, to an outsider, would have looked like the hushed
whispers of pillow talk. It is something of a relief to be once
again living in those all but forgotten days.

Sinking further back into the warm cushion of his chest, she
picks up the narrative.

"The old man was killing scientists by freezing them, thinking
that it was a way to change the future. He injected them with a
previously unknown compound. His partner..."

"Lisa Ianelli," Mulder provides.

"Right, Lisa Ianelli claimed that Nichols had discovered that
if a cell is frozen rapidly, then it doesn't kill the cell.
The freezing agent that the old man..."

"Jason Nichols," he interrupts playfully.

"There is no evidence that the murderer was Jason Nichols from
the future, Mulder. I know I'm a little more open minded these
days, but don't ask me to accept this time travel theory. Now,
may I continue?"

Grinning at her raised eyebrow, he gestures for her to carry
on.

"Anyway, the old man, who may or may not have been Jason Nichols'
future self, used an unknown freezing agent, one that was
particularly unusual because it could be reversed, and those
affected could be revived. If I remember correctly, Lisa Ianelli
provided us with the means to revive a scientist who was, by all
accounts, dead. Something went wrong though. He combusted."

"Time travel and spontaneous combustion, Scully. I just got very
turned on."

Ignoring his teasing remark, she continues.

"Anyway, your theory was something along the lines of Jason
Nichols' future self having come back from the future to save
Lucas Menan's life. Menan was threatening Jason Nichols' grant
and, had he lived, Nichols would not have been able to
continue with his research. I can't remember what else you
concluded."

"I concluded that, as you said, Nichols' future self returned to
1997 to stop himself from continuing his research. When he
failed to save Lucas Menan's life, he took to killing off all
of the people that would be involved in the discovery of time
travel a decade later. He attempted to kill Lisa Ianelli, but,
with the information that she had provided us with in order to
try and save the scientist, a Dr Yonechi, you were able to
revive her. Jason Nichols' future self then immolated himself
and his past self."

"All these 'selves' are getting confusing, Mulder."

"Sorry," he chuckles, planting an open mouthed kiss just below
her right ear.

She sighs, enjoying the pleasant distraction for a moment before
asking "So, this all happened ten years ago. Why the interest
now? What does Agent Reyes want with this case?"

"Lisa Ianelli contacted her and Doggett looking for protection.
She claims that time travel is now possible and that there are
men who have threatened to kill her if she doesn't share her
breakthrough."

"And they want your help with the background?"

"Yeah."

"But I thought you'd said that we wouldn't be involved with the
X Files anymore?"

"This is one case, Scully. I'm just going to tell them what I
remember, maybe do a bit of research for them. That's all.
Relax, it'll be okay."

"Fine, but don't get too involved."

"Too involved? This was my life's work, Scully, or have you
forgotten that?"

The angry shouts of a man and woman blare from the TV screen.
A lovers' tiff.

"No, I haven't forgotten. I thought you had though."

"What?"

"Nothing." She replies, her tone sarcastic, as she moves away
from him, clambering over his tensely bent leg and pushing off
the back of the sofa to regain her footing; one arm at her side,
the other, suddenly, held in Mulder's tight hold.

"No, Scully. We don't walk away, remember? I think we need to
talk about this."

"Mulder." The word is more of a growl as she commands him with
her eyes to release her.

"We're. Going. To. Talk."

"Fine. Talk."

"Things have been wrong for years now, Scully. We have our good
days, but you're not really here, are you? Where are you?"

"Oh, for God's sake. You want to talk like responsible adults and
you immediately dive in with the psychological crap. Just get to
the point, Mulder."

"You're scared. Of this, of the past, of us? I don't know, but
you're scared and you won't let me in. God, it feels like we're
back where we started."

"I am not scared, Mulder. You're the one who's scared."

"Wha..."

"Come on, you're the psychologist. You think I'm scared because
it's easier to deal with than the truth. *You're* scared. You're
scared of what's going to happen in five years time, you're
scared that they're still after you, that you wont be able to stop
something happening, whether it be an old case file coming back to
bite you on the ass or whether it be little gray men marching in
here and colonizing the planet. You're helpless and that terrifies
you, and you're so self absorbed that you don't understand that
it's killing me to watch you fester away. I told you a lifetime ago
that you would never give up, that you would not be broken or
defeated, but I was wrong. I said I'd follow you to the ends of the
earth all over again because of your dedication, your passion.
That's gone Mulder. You're not the person I fell in love with, and
don't you dare try to make this all about me; it's about you,
Mulder. It's always been about you.

You're always running inside your head, even when we're not moving.
You don't get it, do you Mulder? That's why I'm scared. You want
to keep running from the past and the future so badly that you
refuse to sit still in the present. You want to forget who we were.

I can't keep running from the past, Mulder. It's all I have left."

The TV picture turns to fuzz as the satellite blinks out.

The room is in darkness.

Only the moonlight allows him to see the tears that twinkle on her
cheeks like crystals as she turns away.
 

**

Chapter 3

**

I have squandered my resistance,
For a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises.
All lies and jest.
Still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the
rest.
[...]
And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him
down,
Or cut him 'til he cried out in his anger and his shame,
"I am leaving, I am leaving."
But the fighter still remains.

                                      The Boxer, Paul Simon
 

**
 

The evening is quiet, the rumbling clouds passing by over the
mountain tops, eerie spectators to the troubles below.

He sits on the porch, staring at the passing night.

Scully had gone into town to get dinner, leaving him with
"There's some salad in the fridge" before grabbing the car keys
and running away; running away from him.

He suspects she's gone to the Frontier. The greasy diner is open
24 hours a day and is a favorite with the locals. Scully had
fallen in love with it soon after they arrived, the large front
windows providing an impressive view of UNM. She had said she
wanted to eat where the locals ate, enjoy the casual atmosphere
and friendly conversations. He hadn't believed her. Dana Scully
loved the Frontier because it buzzed. Students during the day,
theatre crowds coming from a show at Popejoy in the evening and
clubbers coming to soak up the alcohol after the bars closed;
the Frontier is a hub of activity and Scully likes activity.
When there are people bustling around you, you can ignore your
thoughts, blank them out.

They also sell buttery, sugary cinnamon roles that, as she had
often informed him whilst he was enjoying one, could induce a
diabetic coma.

He guesses Scully will be looking for a sugar rush after what
had passed between them that evening.

Finally dragging his weary body to its feet, he stands and
heads inside. The evening is balmy, the spring air providing a
hushed warmth as it follows him into the house and wraps around
the rooms in pine-scented glory.

The salad is cool and fresh, juicy tomatoes soft and tangy under
his tongue. He never eats salad on its own, considers it one of
Scully's weird habits, but tonight he doesn't have the energy to
cook.

It's funny how doing nothing seems to exhaust him more than
doing everything had before.

Reyes' request hangs in his mind, memories of days where he and
Scully had fought together and apart, of days where an invisible
enemy leeched off her brain, where time was short and trust was
flailing.

Being asked to remember that time is painful and difficult.

Being asked to remember anything is painful and difficult.

Yes, Scully was right. *He* is hiding from their past, not her.
The truth is, she doesn't need to hide; she'd had a chance to
live it, she'd chosen this future. He hadn't.

Dirty plate dropped in the sink, he heads for bed.

He will not wait up.
 

**
 

Fearful dreams and clinging hands wrap around sodden sheets.
Brow furrowed in midnight terror, he plays the past through
his subconscious, the tendrils of time coming together as
serpents on Medusa, the poisonous hiss of snakes seeping
through his skin and into his veins.

Dark times and dark words, the echoes of her earliest betrayal
haunt his sleep. Acrid "I'm fine"s and trails of blood marring
porcelain perfection; he, helpless and lost on the sidelines.
The wind blew her away, piece by piece, and he felt his very
being torn in two, the fragments of her life shattering within
his soul before cutting through his skin, escaping his body and
leaving him bleeding and broken.

An everyday case, mundane as far as some X Files went. Bodies
frozen, shattered into pieces in an eerie display of the icy
fragility that she now seems to possess, their flesh and bone
crumbled with the smallest touch, just like he fears she will
if pressed with his love, with his need. Like a butterfly's
wing, she is just waiting to turn to dust under the pressures
of his dependency.

A thesis written so long ago by a young woman unmarred by the
brutality of the world, a hopeful dream of fiction becoming
reality, of science overcoming the hurdles and allowing man to
embrace the currents of time and energy through the ever opening
door of physics.

"You're seriously suggesting that this old man is back from the
future?" asks a young skeptic, hair spilling over from its neat
home behind her ears.

"Unless you have a better explanation for how he knew exactly
when and how Lucas Menan was gonna be killed, why Jason Nichols's
fingerprints are inside that patrol car, and how he knew Lisa
Ianelli's secret."

"So what you're saying here is the old man is..."

"Jason Nichols. Although common sense may rule out the
possibility of time travel, the laws of quantum physics
certainly do not. In case you forgot, that's from your
graduate thesis. You were a lot more open-minded when you were
a youngster." His smile is teasing, warm with the softness of a
familiar game, a cat and mouse repartee where he is always
chasing her mind.

"I know what I wrote, Mulder. I also know that the laws of
physics would permit the theoretical possibility of time travel,
but the limits of human endurance would prevent such a trip from
ever happening."

He doesn't believe her.

Through the eons of time, motion speeds forward, latching onto a
darker day, a darker confrontation; the first child vanquished.

"Who are the men who would create a life whose only hope was to
die?"

She is strong yet breaking, trimmed black suit a steady facade
but one that could not hide the crumbling within from his
penetrating gaze.

"I don't know. But the fact that you found her... and had a
chance to love her... Then maybe she was meant for that too."

Tidbits of courage thrown out like bread to the birds, his tone
is soft, his eyes watering.

So much loss.

A coffin, a tiny, tiny box, resting place for a life so unlived.

"There is evidence of what they did."

He can't watch.

There is nothing there, only a dusting of sand and a token of
faith. It is not nearly enough.

Forward again. The gloom is gone, the shadow of the church lost
into the midnight sky. Stars shine above and smiles shine below.
A late birthday present and the sounds of joy from the pitch;
happiness.

"Okay, now, we want to... we want to go hips before hands, okay?
We want to stride forward and turn. That's all we're thinking
about. So, we go hips... before hands, all right?"

Holding her close, arms draped loosely around as the night takes
shape and the heavens laugh.

"Hips... before hands, all right?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

"Hips before hands."

"Ooh! That's good. All right, what you may find is you
concentrate on hitting that little ball... The rest of the world
just fades away-- all your everyday, nagging concerns."

The thud of ball on bat, the prattle of whispers, the feeling of
suede beneath his fingers, the tickle of hair beneath his chin;
the smell of eternity burning his senses; happiness.

Everything moving, moving. Ever forward, speed and motion
colliding into a supernova of days, hurt and joys, loves and
hates.

The loss of a ball into the dark night sky, a shooting star
rocketing through the clouds and whispering with the moon,
dancing through space and the shadows of the beyond.
 

**
 

Sitting up with a startled gasp, he wipes at the beads of
sweat that trail along his brow.

The psychologist immediately kicks in, interpreting what his
subconscious has been telling him.

Of course it is no surprise that his dreams are haunted by the
case that he has been studying, by past memories; by the angry
words that he and Scully have shared.

It is the clarity of his visions that trouble him.

Like the occasional ghosts that still haunt his waking hours,
the dream had had form and depth, a texture so strong that he
felt he could reach out and touch it.

He had been there, a spectator to the past, standing on the
sidelines and watching, not just remembering.

If worm-holes are opening in the universe, are they opening in
his mind too?

*A dream is an answer to a question we have not yet learned how
to ask.*

Could he go to places in his mind once the doors were opened
that others could not even begin to fathom? Could he change
history with a simple, careless thought?

If time travel was possible, could they really change the past?
Would it destroy the future?

Unanswerable questions spiral through his mind in a hypnotizing
rhythm, the fiery sparks of history playing together to form a
tornado of doubts.

The possibility of annihilating the present to fix the past, so
far beyond his beliefs in destiny and fate, is terrifying in its
complexity, yet so alluring in its justice.

Would he sacrifice their journey to redeem their mistakes, to
silence the screams of lost children, of broken promises and
broken hearts?

He doesn't know. He is happy, or as close to happy as his
remaining demons will allow him to be, but he is incomplete,
part of him missing, a part of him that was lost so long ago; a
part that he can never truly live without.

He had once sworn to himself a silent vow, that he would never
settle for contentment, never sell his soul for the quiet life,
never abandon his convictions. He'd forgotten his oath, left it
behind with an empty apartment and a tank of fish. He'd wanted
to forget it.

Now it is back, mocking him with its integrity, with its solemn
demands.

He has become someone else, someone who the old Mulder can
neither understand nor abide by.

He would not miss the past decade should it be vanquished,
would not object to the warm embrace of starlight should it
wrap its welcoming finality around him in a gentle hold.

Past, present and future; he is a culmination of all three.
Maybe only abandoning the latter two will offer redemption.
 

**
 

A quick survey of the house shows that Scully is still not home.
He isn't worried. The diner is open all night, and she is
probably still hugging a cup of coffee.

He heads out for some cleansing air.

Whispering winds rustle through the trees, the night sky black
as the muggy clouds pass by. The half smile of a barren moon
slices through the shadows, the threads of light bouncing off the
metal tracks of the Aerial Tramway so far above, to crisscross
over the ground below in a silky net.

He stands on the porch, ears attuned to the sound of insects
singing in the undergrowth, and eyes unseeing as he glances across
the inky smudges of midnight-blackened woods.

A sound to his left draws his attention. On the bank, long, gray
hair hanging limply over tired shoulders sits a man. Golden skin
and bottomless eyes stare up at Mulder, one wrinkled hand
reaching out in a silent beckon.

"What do you want?" Mulder asks as he approaches the ghostly
figure.

"Do not harbor such anger, young man. The Fox is a wise animal,
his visitations are a gift, not a curse."

"Yeah, well you try spending your life trying to untangle the
riddles of the dead."

"Who says the riddles are of the dead? Who says they are not just
the messengers?"

Mulder slumps down beside Albert Hosteen, resting his weary head
on his bent knees. The moonlight continues to grow in strength,
the darkness gradually washed away.

"What are you trying to say to me?" the younger man asks, his
voice hushed by tiredness and defeat.

"The night sky is a beautiful thing, Mr. Mulder. It is the shroud
of the Gods. Behind the murky depths of clouds lie a cluster of
stars. They are known as the Pleiades, a group of beautiful,
dazzling deities located in the constellation of Taurus.
According to ancient legends, the stars are said to be the
sisters and the daughters of Atlas."

The elder man waves a hand at the clouds, as if wanting to dust
them from the sky and allow the glint of stars to cut through.

"The stories of the Pleiadians lie in many Native American
legends," he continues. "In certain Cherokee beliefs, it is
said that their people originated in the Pleiades long, long ago.
They claim to have come to this world as Starseeds to bring Light
and knowledge.

Legend holds it that time travel is possible through
consciousness. So often, this is how wisdom and higher
information is passed to us. Without crossing the barriers of
time, the human race would fail to progress through the eons of
nature; it would become lost in the past.

It is through the Crossing of Time that the Higher Pleiadian
Forces of Light bring us the information that is vital in our
spiritual development. They are not God, yet they bring wisdom,
as many have brought wisdom throughout the ages from higher
realms.

Their purpose is not to save your soul, but to enlighten you
more to the power and beauty of who you are, and to the divine
creation of which we all are a part. People who bring in certain
information are in no way divine or special.  They are simply
willing to tune into another place, another time and receive
information. Many humans have always had the capacity to do that.

You have the abilities to recognize what the dwellers of another
time are telling you. Whether separated from you by the veils of
the spirit world or through the passage of history, you hear them
calling.

When the physical world opens a door, you have the power to pass
through that door, up here," Hosteen says, placing an old,
delicate hand on the younger man's temple.

"Do not reject your gift, Mr. Mulder. It will save your soul."

"I don't understand."

"You will."

With the first stars cutting through the clouds and the ground
beneath coming alight in the halo of the moon, the specter
vanishes behind the heavy droop of Mulder's eyelids.
 
 

**

Chapter 4

**
 

People like us, who believe in physics, know that the
distinction between past, present, and future is only a
stubbornly persistent illusion.

                                        Albert Einstein
 

**
 

It is a nursery; his son's room.

Scully is lying on the floor on her stomach, baby laid
out by her side, one chubby fist clinging to her hair.

"Whatcha doin'?"

She is smiling.

"Gagagaaaaaaa"

He is smiling.

"Ow! Hey li'l guy, that hurts!"

"Gagagaooooooo"

"Oh, I see. You like that do you?!"

She tickles his tummy. He laughs, big baby eyes
sparkling and tiny toes dancing in the air.

They are smiling.
 

**
 

"Mulder?!"

He gradually opens his eyes. The ground beneath him is
cool, hard; he's not in bed.

"Hrmph. What time is it, Scully?" he asks, blearily gazing
at the woman who is bent over him, her hands in his hair
and her brow furrowed in concern.

"Stay down." She instructs as he attempts to get up, her
voice cool and professional. She's in 'doctor mode'. She's
scared.

"Mulder, what are you doing outside?"

*Outside?* He remembers very little. He was talking to
someone... to Albert Hosteen... and then he was watching
Scully and William play. A dream? He doesn't think so.

His silence seems to worry her more, her tone becoming
panicked, her words rushed.

"Mulder, it's three in the morning and you're lying out here
on the porch! What happened? Do you remember? Was someone
here? Are you hurt? Do you have a head injury? Mulder, talk to
me!"

He simply stares at her. He is fine. Nothing is wrong.
Nothing's ever wrong. No one was here, no one has hurt him;
apart from her.

"Jesus," she breathes, taking his lack of speech as either
evidence of shock or a head wound. She's afraid. He doesn't
want to scare her; there is nothing wrong. But his mind is
quiet, his thoughts refusing to evolve into speech and allay
her concerns. All he sees is his child.

*Tiny toes dancing in the air. He is smiling.*

"I'm fine. I guess I fell asleep." At last he is able to
speak. He stands up, brushing off her fussing hands and
turning to stare into the woods. He can't face her.

"You, Mr. Insomniac, fell asleep on the porch?!" She is
incredulous; worry warring with anger in her sleep
deprived mind.

"I guess. Look, I'm fine. Stop fussing."

"What the hell is going on?" Anger has clearly won. She
doesn't understand why he is being like this; how could
she?

"I said I'm fine. Just leave it."

"Mulder?" Her tone is imploring. She's hurt.

"Just leave it."

A thousand expressions dance across her face as she accepts
his words like a blow to the stomach. His coolness slaps her,
sends her reeling. Has it really come to this?

Ambivalence slips into place like a suit of armor, hiding
her wounds until she can tend them in private.

"Fine. You gonna come inside or are you gonna spend the rest
of the night out here?"

She walks into the house without looking back. She is
exhausted and can't face this. He follows her in.

Has it really come to this?
 

**
 

The next morning arrives too soon. They are both on edge,
both tired. They do not talk but do not ignore either; there
is nothing to say, yet each is aware of the other's presence,
each aware of the electricity in the air.

She didn't sleep last night. He opted for the couch, the TV's
noise distinctive as she stared at the ceiling and watched
the dawn creep in.

Saturdays were normally peaceful. She rarely worked weekends,
and they would often spend their down time doing normal
things; shopping, going out for lunch; being together. Mulder
was right, things have been wrong between them for a long time,
but they've always been able to simply carry on, to be at ease
together; to survive. Today, things are different. The
atmosphere is cold, the air threatening to break and leave
them surrounded by the jagged pieces of their life together.

She busies herself with cleaning the house. Shelves are dusted,
carpets cleaned; she keeps moving, never wanting to stop. If
she stops, she will think. Thinking hurts.

Mulder is busy at the computer. She suspects he is working,
but doesn't ask on what. It may be an article, it may be a
case. Either way, he is distant.

Communication has never been easy for them. So much is said
with a glance or a look, that words have become obsolete. Now,
he won't even look at her. She doesn't understand what's
happened. They had a fight; they've fought before, hurt each
other before, but he has never taken their words to heart in
the past, never refused to move on.

Now, she worries that it is not the fight that is troubling
him, worries that it is something else; something that she is
unaware of and thus has no hope of dealing with.

Finding him last night was terrifying. Him, prone and seemingly
unconscious on the porch is a picture that she cannot erase from
her mind. He said he was fine, and she has no reason to doubt
him, yet she knows that something happened. She can't even begin
to fathom what has turned the mild hostility that he showed her
after their argument into apparently seething anger, but she
knows that something is not right.

The sun is getting stronger as it approaches noon, the warm
light seeping through the window, its gentle presence seemingly
out of place in the cold atmosphere of the room. The beams dance
across the walls, settling across Mulder's face in a golden
glow. He is beautiful.

**Talk to me, Mulder.**
 

**
 

He has been staring at the screen for hours, but has done little
work. The information Monica asked for has been typed and emailed
to her. Despite what he said to Scully about wanting to help, he
hopes that this is the last he will hear of the case, hopes that
the past can be left in the past, that Agents Doggett and Reyes
can make do with the information he has provided and not involve
him further, hopes that they can stop whatever it is that is
happening to the world. Worm holes; Albert Hosteen warned that
they are opening. It is a possibility too daunting to face.

"You're gonna have to face it, buddy," says a voice from behind,
nasal resonance combining with gentle admonishment as lost
friends take their place by his side.

"Why?" he asks without turning around.

"The shit's hitting the fan. This is all gonna come out soon,
and, as usual, you've managed to get yourself caught right in
the middle of it."

Scully continues to move about the room, the vacuum sending
particles of dust flying into the air where they dance in the
sunlight like snowflakes.

She is oblivious to the conversation.

"How's that?" Mulder asks, dubious.

"Mulder..." the voice of reason steps forward, Byers'
appearance seemingly starker in death than it ever was in
life, his sharp suit out of place within the sandy contours
of the room. "... You've been told things, seen things,
experienced things; things that no one can deny nor explain.
You see us, you could communicate with *them*; you are
special, Mulder, gifted."

"You make me sound like some kind of freak!" he laughs,
humorlessly.

"Yeah, well, if it looks like a..." comes Frohike's muttered
response.

"Anyway," Byers interrupts, "the point is, you're seeing
things. Visions of the past; not memories, because you weren't
there when these events occurred. This case that Agent Reyes
is working on, this discovery of time travel, as grand and as
much of a scientific breakthrough as this is, it can't be
allowed to happen. What's happening to you, what you're seeing;
it will happen to everyone, Mulder. All of their darkest fears,
those grudges harbored about things past, all of it will
suddenly be there, playing through their minds as if they were
watching a home movie. Imagine a loved one was murdered,
horribly, brutally: anyone who couldn't move past that loss
would be plagued by it, would watch it happen in all its
grotesque reality. Time travel isn't a case of Doctor Who
hopping into a telephone box and going back to the future,
Mulder; it's the mind having access to everything; past,
present and future."

"That's what Jason Nichols was trying to tell us back in '97,"
Mulder whispers, Byers' words sinking in and twisting painfully
in his gut.

"Yes."

"But I don't get it. What was that freezing compound about? I
thought it was necessary to send people physically 'back.'"

"It was. For the physical manifestation of time travel, the
literal phone box ritual, Lisa Ianelli discovered that a body
must be frozen to survive the journey. Something's changed
though, evolved. Doors are opening outside of the realms of
science. The freezing compound is no longer needed; knowledge
is. Knowledge of what's happening, of how to change it. You
have that knowledge.

"Ianelli's experiment may have been aborted, but she has
attempted to physically transfer something through time, and
that in turn has opened a portal, opened a door between the
worlds; a door that you are looking through."

What he is hearing is terrifying, incredible; unbelievable.
Yet he believes it. He can *feel* that what they are saying is
true. He doesn't know how the gunmen know what they are telling
him, still doesn't understand why he is able to see the things
he sees, know the things he does, yet it all makes a strange
sort of sense. Maybe it is not for him to question.

"There's something else," Frohike says, breaking the imposing
silence.

"What?"

"Scully. You can't leave things like this."

"Like what?" He is so tired. He wants nothing more than for
them to disappear, taking the world and all its troubles with
them and allowing him to curl up and forget.

"Oh, come on, Mulder. Don't make me kick your ass. You know
you can't leave things like this."

"Like what?"

"Give it a break, man."

"I'm sorry, but I really don't see how this is any of your
business."

"It's our business, 'cause we're your friends."

"Yeah, well, I appreciate the sentiment, but I don't need love
advice from the Three Stooges."

"Mulder, this is serious," Byers says.

"No kidding."

"You're hurting her, Mulder. You always swore you would never
hurt her intentionally, but that's exactly what you're doing.
Talk to her; tell her what you've seen, tell her what you feel."

"What I've seen? What I've seen is her living a life that she
never allowed me to be a part of. What I've seen is evidence
that she was happy without me. What I've seen, what I know, is
that we've been living a lie."

"That's BS, Mulder, and you know it. She loves you and you owe
it to her to talk to her."

"I'm sick of talking to a brick wall. She won't let me in. She
never has. Maybe I'm just tired of trying."

"Things have been bad for a while, I know, but you can't let
this fall apart. What you two had... what you have... it's just
too important to lose."

They are right, but it makes their words no easier to accept.
He needs to talk to her, needs to explain, to hear an
explanation, yet he doesn't know how. Things have been left
unsaid for so long, ancient hurts left to fester in silence.
He doesn't know how to broach the subject, where to begin,
let alone where to end.

He has to try though. He owes it to her. He owes it to himself.
 

**

Chapter 5

**
 

Can you remember who I was? Can you still feel it?
Can you find my pain? Can you heal it?
Then lay your hands upon me now
And cast this darkness from my soul.
You alone can light my way.
You alone can make me whole once again.

We've walked both sides of every street
Through all kinds of windy weather.
But that was never our defeat
As long as we could walk together.

So there's no need for turning back
'Cause all roads lead to where we stand.
And I believe we'll walk them all
No matter what we may have planned.

                            Crossroads, Don McLean
 

**
 

**Do you remember that first week, Mulder? That first
experience of life on the run? I remember your face
when we arrived in Tennessee, remember you joking
about Elvis and making sure not to mention your last
visit here; or where I'd been at the time. I remember
you insisting that we hadn't been followed, claiming
that if they were looking, they'd have found us
immediately. So, you said you wanted to play tourist.

We wandered down Broadway that first day in Nashville,
barely forty-eight hours after you'd been sentenced to
death. It was surreal. The sun was shining, the air
was warm but not too humid. It was a lovely, normal
day; and we were normal people. Drinking beer and
sharing barbecued wings out of a wicker basket at the
Broadway Stage; you, stealing all of the napkins and
then taking twenty dollars from my purse to buy the CD
that the stereotypical cowboy who'd been serenading us
was selling.

The rest of the day was wonderful. You, back at my side
at last, smiling and carefree, a far cry from the
defeated man who had sat by my bed and claimed he had
failed. We ate dinner at a mini-brewery in the center
of town, then walked along the banks of the river before
finally crawling back into the car and heading off to
the next town, the next motel.

It started out so new, so warm. Where did it go wrong?
Did settling down here lull us to sleep? Is Albuquerque
really just our soma holiday, where everything important
fades to nothingness, where we forget who we are and just
live for the comfort of the moment? I still feel, Mulder,
I still hurt. I'm not asleep. Are you? Has it really
gotten this bad?

Talk to me, Mulder.**
 

**
 

She has moved into the bedroom, abandoning the dusting
and the hollow ache of being in the same room as him, yet
feeling miles away. There is now just a wall between them,
yet the distance seems insurmountable.

She is curled on top of the comforter, novel in her hands.
She can't concentrate on the words, can't concentrate on
anything. Just him. Only him.

The rustle of movement in the doorway alerts her that he
is close, yet she is unwilling to look up; hurt and fear
war within her, their auras glazing around her in an
intricate barricade, protecting her from the possible
wounds that may be inflicted.

"I'm sorry."

His words are hushed yet they float across the room in
poignant symphony, the apology a caress across her strung
nerves.

"So am I."

The book is pushed aside, her page lost as the array of
papers falls clumsily to the ground. Like that night so
long ago, he comes to her, moving her across the bed as he
takes the place that she has vacated. Like that long lost
night, her hair falls across his face as she bends over him,
her eyes desperately seeking his in unashamed vulnerability.

*Talk to me, Mulder.*

"I know... I know things have been hard lately. I know we
both said some terrible things yesterday," his breath brushes
against her as he speaks, butterfly kisses soothing the aches
as he clears the way for new hurts, "and I am sorry for
that..."

"Mul..."

"Shh... just, just let me finish. I'm sorry for yesterday,
and I'm sorry for everything that led up to it. You were
right, Scully. I have been distant, have been hiding from the
past. But what you have to understand, what I *need* you to
understand, is that I have to hide from the past. It's the
only thing that keeps me alive. You say you need your history,
need those memories to sustain you; I understand that, really
I do, but what you seem to forget is that that past is yours,
that's why you need it. It's not mine. Those last years; I
lost everything. I lost my life, and then I lost the only
things keeping me alive. You lived the memories, you made the
memories; I didn't. You had him. I didn't."

*Him.* The name is never spoken aloud, the wounds never
allowed to heal.

Mulder's voice is barely a whisper as he continues, his eyes
dancing away from the hold that she attempts to keep on them,
from the connection she tries to maintain as they enter these
uncharted waters. "I... I see things, Scully. Things I can't
explain. Hell, I don't think I want to explain them."

Running a finger lightly across his forehead, she leans down
and plants a gentle kiss on his temple. "I know, Mulder. I
know. I was just waiting for you to tell me."

Eyes once again meet and hold, silence communicating more than
words ever could.

"It's more than you think you know." He once again turns away,
a frightened child burying into the soft comfort of the pillow.
"I see, I've seen, people that are no longer here."

"I kno..."

"I've been told things by these people, shown things that
neither they, nor I, could have known. And, recently, I've
been seeing the past."

"You mean you've been remembering?"

"No. I've been *seeing* it. Things that happened when I wasn't
there. By--... someone said that it has to do with this case.
That wormholes are opening, and I'm looking through them."

"Why you?"

"I don't know. I don't know. But it's just so damn hard." His
voice breaks and he buries further into the pillow, closing
his eyes against the world. He wants to disappear, doesn't want
to face her.

Pictures dance behind his closed lids.

He sees Scully leaning over a crib, her back hunched in defeat.
He scrunches his eyes against the vision, tries to push it
away, but it just becomes clearer, just attacks his senses with
more strength.

**"I need to tell you a few things, li'l guy," she says. "I
don't know if you'll remember this when you're older, don't
know if you'll remember me, but I need you to know."

The baby lies hypnotized by the steady sway of the mobile,
eyelids drooping as he allows his mother's voice to guide him
to a land of marshmallow dreams.

"I love you. I love you so much. Bad things happen in this
world, and all I want, all I've ever wanted, is to keep you
safe. If you remember me, don't hate me, never think that I
didn't want you, didn't love you, because I did... I do... so
much."

A single tear falls on the babe's slumbering face.

"There's a world out there, sweetie. A world that's not perfect.
And you're so special, William. So very, very special.

"One day, if you wonder about me, wonder about your father,
know that there is an answer to your questions, a truth within
reach. That truth is here."

One neatly manicured finger traces a gentle cross over the
child's flannel clad chest.

"And if you find that truth, you will be blessed. Because the
deepest truths, the ones hinted at and hidden yet always within
your grasp, are the ones found in your own heart.

"I'm in there, my baby boy. I'll always be a part of you, just
as you'll always be a part of me. All I ever did was love you.
It's all I'll ever do."

Her voice breaks as more tears rain through the air and cascade
over the crib in a shower of tiny touches.**

She'd been hurting, and he hadn't been there. She'd been in
pain, and he wasn't there to sooth the wounds. She'd lain
battered and broken, and he hadn't picked up the pieces. And
he'd had the nerve to blame her?! To have harbored such petty
resentments when all she had done was sacrifice herself to keep
their child safe, to keep him safe, now seems like the most
heinous of sins.

His eyes open in a flash of agony and with the stinging stab
of comprehension.

"Mulder? Mulder, are you okay? What happened?"

Her hands are all over him, trying to hold him, trying to sooth
him, trying to heal him. He'd gone quiet, she'd thought he was
just thinking, but the look in his eyes as he stares at her now,
the palpable pain that radiates from him; it scares her.

"Mulder?" she whispers, a single tear creeping down her cheek
in silent empathy. "Talk to me."

"Oh, God. I'm sorry, Scully. So, so sorry."

He grabs her to him, her figure nothing but a rag doll as they
fall into a tangle of limbs, holding and crying, soothing and
healing.

"I thought, I thought you hated me. I thought you didn't want
me to be a part of William's life. I hated you for making that
choice for me. I never... I never realized what you went
through. I'm sorry. So, so sorry."

His words are mere mumbles as he showers her neck in kisses,
finally working his way to her mouth which he seizes with
pure desperation. Tears still falling, clothing is gradually
torn at, thrown to the sidelines as they tumble together atop
the sheets.

Bodies have the power to heal each other, to suture wounds
that words could never tend. A kiss, a touch; all bleed
together in a cleansing balm.

They will be healed.
 

**
 
 

Headers in part one...
 

**

Inverse Reflections by annaK

**

Chapter 6

**
 

Spend all your time waiting for that second chance,
For a break that would make it okay.
There's always one reason to feel not good enough,
And it's hard at the end of the day.
I need some distraction, oh beautiful release,
Memory seeps from my veins.
Let me be empty and weightless and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight

In the arms of an angel, fly away from here,
From this dark cold hotel room and the endlessness that you
fear.
You are pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie,
You're in the arms of the angel,
May you find some comfort there.
 

                                      Angel, Sarah McLachlan
 

**
 

A gentle touch, a whispered word. Dusk creeping in outside,
threading its indigo fingers through curtains and blinds,
through closed eyes and sated flesh. Night seeps within,
cooling the veins and cleansing the heart, washing away the
days, the weeks, the years. Darkness calms, surrounds,
conceals. The forces of the Heavens seek possession, crawl
inside and take up residence like spies in the mind, like
cancer in the brain.

Warmth beneath her cheek, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat
only half perceived through the haze of slumber, the gossamer
touch of his arms around her barely recognized, hardly felt
through the wash of dreams.

An April shower drips heavily down the window, blurring the
view as it blurs the mind. One eye opening, she stares out
at the trees, the sky turning violet as the sun sets.

His breath whispers through her hair.

She doesn't know what has passed between them, doesn't really
understand what Mulder was saying, what he meant. She'd been
hurting, she'd been vulnerable, and she'd let him in. Now she
fears that words have been sacrificed, that their lovemaking
has been nothing but a blissful distraction.

He'd said his name. William. He'd said he hated her.

She may not see the past as he claims to, may not look through
portals, fly with tachyons; yet she remembers it with vivid
agony.

She can still smell talcum powder on her hands, still feel the
warm splash of bath water as tiny legs kicked bubbles into her
eyes. She can still feel the warmth of a small body against
her chest, the almost painful, affirming tug of hungry lips
on her breast. She still feels the chill of empty arms and the
smooth caress of his blanket against her face as she held it
to her cheek and cried.

She can still see an empty crib, forever imprinted on her mind,
still see her mother's face when she told her that her youngest
grandchild wasn't coming home.

She can still hear the silence of the previously noisy nights
and the hushed whispers of Monica and John, trying desperately
to be there for her yet not knowing how.

She can still recite the few emails sent over the months, the
words of love and promises that kept her alive.

She remembers everything, every tiny, inconsequential detail.

Mulder had said he'd hated her.

His heart beats on beneath her cheek, but she is alone.
 

**
 

She is staring at him when he awakes. She is crying.

"C'mere."

She nestles into him, but won't meet his eyes.
 

**
 

"Mulder? You awake?"

"Yeah."

He pulls her closer to him, her back to his chest, his arms
tight and strong around her waist.

"Why did you hate me?" Her voice is muffled as she turns into
the pillow.

"I didn't mean that. I never hated you. I just didn't understand."

"But you do now?"

"Yeah, I think I do, and I'm so sorry."

"How?"

The question is ambiguous, yet he knows what she means. How
has comprehension come so suddenly and so utterly, and how
could he ever really understand? The first question is the
only one he can really answer, the second one would hurt too
much. Truth be told, he can never hope to understand. This
he accepts.

"I saw you with him, with William, just before you gave him
up. You were talking to him, and you were crying."

"Oh."

There is nothing more to say.
 

**
 

She dreams.

**They're standing on a beach, the sand soft and cool
beneath her feet as the moon bounces off the water, rippling
in the waves.

Her child lies in a small boat, rocking on the waves. He is
peaceful.

Mulder is behind her, his arms draped over her shoulders,
hands clasped over her chest. He is whispering to her, but
she can't hear what he's saying.

The boat suddenly rocks on a strong wave, the string that is
attached to it pulled loose from her hand.

Mulder is immediately in the water, trying to grab hold of
the child, trying to carry him back to shore, but the waves
are strong. The wind blows with more force, her hair whipped
across her face and her skirt tangling around her ankles.
She stands motionless, watching the boat float further and
further away. Mulder is screaming, but she doesn't move.

Soon, the boat is nothing but a pinprick on the horizon.
Mulder is drenched, his shirt and jeans clinging to him as he
attempts to swim, attempts to undo her mistake.

He's drowning.

Still, she watches in silence.**

She gasps awake.

Just one in a long line of nightmares.

Climbing from the bed, she ignores Mulder's sleepy complaint.

"I'm just going to the bathroom," she whispers.

Once the door is closed and the shower turned on, the tears
come. Too tired to fight it, she slips to the floor, sobs
racking her body.

She let him go.

Mulder owes her no apologies, owes her no understanding.

She let him go.
 

**
 

When he wakes again, it is the middle of the night. The rain
has ceased and moonlight bleeds through the blinds.

Reaching out for Scully, he finds an empty space.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he follows the light that seeps
from beneath the bathroom door.

"Scully?" he calls.

"Scully?"

Concerned, he tries the door. It is unlocked. Entering the
small room, he finds her sitting on the floor, robe wrapped
protectively around her and wet hair curling around her face.

"Hey. What's wrong?"

"Hold me."

He lowers himself next to her and pulls her to him. She's
cold, so cold.

"What's the matter?"

"I let him go." The words are a choked whisper. "You should
hate me. I let him go."

He pulls her even tighter to him, and then takes her face in
his hands, establishing eye contact.

"Dana Katherine Scully, I will *never* hate you. You did what
you thought was best, what *was* best. You're a good mother,
Scully. You sacrificed everything for your child. Everything.
I'll never know what you went through, no matter what I see,
because I can't even begin to imagine how you felt. I'm sorry
it's taken me so many years to say this, and I'm sorry things
have been so hard, but I love you. I loved... I love our
child and I just miss him so much... I couldn't see past that.
But now I do, and I know that he's in a better place, that
he's safe. I just love you both so much."

His voice breaks as they cry together, clinging to each other
on the bathroom floor.
 

**
 

At three in the morning, they make dinner. Pasta is eaten in
silence on the sofa, the quiet still filled with hurt and
uncertainty, yet also with peace.

They are together.
 

**
 

The rest of the night is passed in slumber, their bodies
remaining entwined as they curl into each other beneath the
comforter; even in sleep, they will not let go.

The night has cleansed their souls, fears and dreams finally
aired, finally allowed release. The revelations are
bittersweet, have taken so long to come about that they are
tinged by regret, yet they are revealed nonetheless, allowed
to take form and to be dealt with, rather than being left to
fester any longer.

As the sun rises and a new day dawns, new quests lie on the
horizon, new questions to be answered, new enemies to conquer,
yet they can now move forward in unity. The past cannot be
undone, but the future can be changed. Once again, they must
undertake a quest to protect the world; from time travel,
from colonization, from any number of unseen threats. They
stand together, and in that, as always, there is hope.

And, as she awakes from a dreamless sleep, she sees his face
next to hers, sees the lines around his eyes, the gray that
dusts his hair, feels the scratch of his stubble as she gently
caresses his cheek, and she knows that they will win. Whatever
plays within his beautiful mind, whatever they may face, they
have each other. That is enough. That is everything.
 

**
 

Chapter 7

**
 

I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would
have suited me-
Yet I sometimes long for it.

 
                                                 Lord Byron
 

**
 

He stares at the clock, hypnotized, the second hand slowly
counting the passing seconds. He is in his own time machine;
his heart is pumping blood, he is breathing, he is existing
through time.

His mind waltzes with the past.

Resentment abandoned, the glimpses of memories lost are now
welcome impostors, tiny diamonds of light flashing before his
eyes, dazzling him with warmth and beauty. Like fireflies in
the night, pictures twinkle, moving onwards, ever onwards.
Like he once did the laser hearts of dreams, he follows.

Scully had to go to work, the house is quiet, and he is at
peace at last.

A twilight vision suddenly grows brighter, brighter. The
contours twist and turn and he is looking at another place,
another time.

**Dust. The ringing of sirens in his ears. Dust.

Like a fallen angel, the cold earth hard beneath his chapped
hands, he crawls toward the gaping hole that blurs before him.

Time sparks and burns on the edges, memories dislocated and
partial creeping through the cavern and into his mind.

The street lamp flickers with recognition above, tiny
particles of energy passing from the frayed wires into the
chasm of eternity.

He stays low, weary of the smoke that threatens to burn his lungs.

Scully.

He has to get to Scully.

Visions softly creep into his subconscious, reality blurring
behind the realms of possibility.

The air is thick and silent, the downtown streets lost amidst
an explosion of sandy debris. The particles cling to his
clothes, to his hair, burn his eyes. He can't see.

He has to get to Scully.**
 
Not the past. The future. Colonization? No. Time.

The sky is falling.

He has to get to Scully.
 

**
 

Fear has many faces.

When she was a child, fear was about monsters under the bed,
about not being able to find mom, about dad's angry words.
Fear was when Bill and Charlie jumped out at her in the dark,
when night crept in and the boogie men came out to play. Fear
was simple.

When she was a teenager, fear was about teachers, about late
homework and bad test scores, about boys who would leave her
if she didn't enter into the terrifying world of sex. Fears
were serious, a coming of age.

When she was a woman, fears were expected. The chill of
footsteps behind her when walking home alone, fears of
pregnancy jeopardizing career, of lovers stealing her heart.
Fears were normal.

When she joined the FBI, fear was of madmen with guns, of
failing to impress in a male dominated world. Fear was the
'Go, go, go!' cry of an ASAC, but fear was always accepted as
a part of the job, kept at bay by the Sig at her side. Fears
were ignored.

When she became Mrs. Spooky, fear became horror. Fear of the
unknown, fear of the tangible. The look in Donnie Pfaster's
eyes as he held her to the ground, the snick of the trunk as
Barry shut out the world, the bright lights and agony of half
remembered missing time. Fear was of dying of cancer, of
dancing with death, of having a chip in her neck and no faith
in her heart. Fear was strange, debilitating, yet compelling.
Fear was agony.

And when she became Scully, just Scully, fear was seeing
Mulder lying bleeding or broken, seeing him despair. Fear was
wondering if she'd ever see him again. Fear was for a baby
who she alone was expected to protect. Fear was all
encompassing.

Now, fear is seeing Mulder, panic face in place, pushing
through the doors of the pediatric unit, walking towards her
in this world where she works, this refuge that she has built.
Fear is knowing he would not come here unless something has
happened; something bad. Fear is the realization that she
will follow him out of the door and maybe never return.

Fear has many faces, but they all bleed to one in the end.
 

**

 
"Scully?"

He stops when he sees her, when he sees the instant fear in
her eyes, the look of recognition. It has been a pact, a vow
to keep her fears at bay; he would never come here. Now, as
he pushes through the doors, watches her step away from the
small child whom she was coloring with, he realizes this is
not their world. This is her world; just hers.

A doctor's world, a mother's world. A world of tragedy and of
loss, but of tangibility, of hope.

He doesn't belong here.

"Mulder?"

"It's okay." Warm voice, fingers gentle as they brush an
errant strand of hair out of her eyes. Comforting.

"What's going on?"

"Can you take a break?"

"What? Oh, yeah, sure."

The tranquil stillness of the ward is left behind as they
emerge into the parking lot, a balmy April breeze blowing sand
and dust into the air.

"What's going on?"

"I had another vision."

"Oh." There is a wariness in her voice. Too many brushes with
the unimaginable, with the terrifying. She accepts and shrinks,
head bowed and eyes downcast as she takes in the latest riddle.

"I think... I think I saw the future." Her fear is contagious,
he, too, slouching under the weight of his words. Paranormal,
extraordinary, unbelievable; the fantastic has lost all
intrigue. It is now merely a burden, one he wishes he could
carry alone.

"Colonization?"

"No, but something bad. I think... I think that Ianelli's
going to open some sort of portal. Or maybe she won't, maybe
the people that are threatening her will. I'm not sure, but
what I saw... it was..."

"A portal?" Like a dying fire being fed new wood, her eyes
rise, the old spark of incredulity in place.

"Yes. A door to the past. It looked like a pool of
electricity. It... it was hanging in the air, and sending
out shocks, like lightning, it was decimating the place."

"What place? Where does this... portal... open?"

"Here. Right in the city."

"Here? In Albuquerque?"

"Yes."

"Isn't that a little convenient? I mean, of all the places
that something like this could happen, it has to be where we
live?"

A deep breath; an attempt to clear his mind. The weight of
knowledge, of unanswered questions and impossible truths, is
pushed aside as he breathes in the dusty air, turns his face
to the sun and feels its warmth. He is certain of his words,
sure that their comfortable life is about to end. But in this
moment, he doesn't want to think of the future. He wants this
moment, wants to discuss wild theories with Scully and make
her roll her eyes. Wants to play believer to her skeptic.
Wants to take a minute to feel the warmth of the tease, to
recapture the past.

Play the game, cat and mouse. Same as before. But this time,
there's more than an ethereal hope that she'll say he's
right.

Eyes turning back to Scully, he feeds the fire.

"What are you suggesting?" Banter. Familiar, teasing. They're
outside the Hoover building, sparring over the latest case.
Yes, the streets are too dusty for D.C, and the air too thick,
but they're back there nonetheless. Someone's said "jump" and
he's asked "how high?" She wants to know whether they're
jumping off a cliff.

"I don't know," she concedes, one eyebrow raised in ancient
challenge. "Maybe that you're tired, and stressed out, and
have been watching too many late night movies on the sci-fi
channel?" Sobering, she continues "Or maybe, if you're right,
it might mean that the people who are threatening Ianelli are
the same people who are after us."

They're back in their city, in their lives. But on the outside,
they're still fugitives, still pawns in a game. She can't
forget that. She wants to, but she can't. If she does, their
new home will be nothing more than the crater that their old
one has left in her heart.

"Scully, I know you've never really felt safe, but they've
forgotten about us. We've been sitting ducks here for years,
and not once have we seen anything to indicate we're in
danger."

"Maybe we're not. Maybe they knew we were here all along.
Maybe they wanted us here."

His look of bemusement renders his words unnecessary. "Okay,
now you're being paranoid."

"Am I? Come on, Mulder. These people don't give up. What if
they maneuvered us here? What if they wanted us here, if
they knew that portal was going to open and they..."

"And they what? Wanted us to get sucked back in time?"

A chance to change the past?

**Although multidimensionality suggests infinite outcomes
in an infinite number of universes, each universe can produce
only one outcome.**

No.

A chance to fight the future?

"Maybe."

"Why?"

"I don't know. But maybe Ianelli does."

Striding towards her car, she is only vaguely aware of
Mulder's concerned stare. If what she said has left him
incredulous, then she knows it must be insane. But deep down,
she knows she is right. She said to Mulder that she couldn't
abandon the past, couldn't live a life constantly running
from the shadows of memory. If Mulder is right and a door to
the past is going to open right on their doorstep, she needs
to know why.

Knowing is the only way she will be able to fight the desire
to dive in, swim with the currents of time and reclaim her
home, her family; her child. Knowing is the only way to stop
herself from making the same terrible mistakes again.
 

**

Continued in Chapter 8...
 
 

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