By MD1016

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
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.