Strange Oasis

By Spooky
ddwake1@netcom.ca


Date: 26 Jan 2002
Keywords: post-colonization; M/Sk friendship
Spoilers: Requiem

Summary: Running for his life in a post-apocalyptic
world, Skinner finds a strange refuge among his
enemies.


Strange Oasis
By Spooky


Moving. He had to keep moving or die. That was the
imperative that drove him, past exhaustion, past
instinct, past hope. As if it would make a difference --
as if it would change the fact that they had lost. Lost
their world to black, otherworldly death, fanged and
taloned. Soldiers for the Grays, sent to rid the planet
of its human pestilence. His companions gone, ripped
apart one by one. Even Scully, a year dead, her face
frozen forever in surprise. No time to mourn, to bury
the dead.

They had had to keep moving.

And moving he was still; some stubborn remnant of
the Marine he had once been refusing to succumb.
Once, in a different war, he had been the sole
survivor of his patrol. Now time had looped around
and repeated itself. Stunned numbness eclipsed
hunger, fatigue, his sporadic and uneasy sleep.
Driven by some instinct for survival he couldn't
comprehend. Some vain hope that resistance still
lived somewhere.

The forest spoke around him: leaves rustled their
secrets to the air, startled animals announced his
presence in their domain with their flight. The
activity was reassuring: if they were running from
him, it was because they hadn't already run from the
unnatural creatures in their midst. Three years of
living and running in the forests and devastated cities
had made him adept at interpreting the messages in
the sounds that reached him. Nevertheless, long
paranoia kept him looking for fleeting shadows
within the shadows, black death on silent feet.

He was beyond exhaustion. His once powerful
physique had suffered beneath hardship and
privation; his gaunt body was burning the last of its
reserves. Already the promise of winter was in the air
and he knew that if the black death that stalked the
land failed to find him, then winter's white death
would.

He stumbled to his knees again, a whoosh of breath
escaping despite his efforts to keep silent. His rasping
breath drowned out the forest noises. Was that rustle
in the underbrush more stealthy than the others? Was
the prickling at the back of his neck the eyes he'd felt
watching him since he'd begun his flight? Or merely
his overwrought paranoia?

He rested a moment on the forest floor, taking a long
swig from his canteen before readjusting the pack
that held his meager belongings. His head snapped
up; the sudden absence of sound as shrill to his
shattered nerves as an alarm. There was ominous
rustling in the bush and even the trees seemed to be
telling him to "Run, run!"

First one, then another, shadow detached itself from
the trees and Skinner knew he had finally come to the
end of his flight. His shoulders slumped in defeat as
he felt the presence of a third monster slide behind
him. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, unwilling,
finally, to see from which direction his death would
come.

The moment stretched into forever and Skinner found
himself wondering whether it was only his perception
of time that had slowed or if the monsters were
indeed deliberately drawing out the moment of this
death. There was more rustling and Skinner blinked
at the boots that were suddenly in his view. His gaze
swept up worn, dark jeans, black t-shirt to find a face
he hadn't seen in five years. A face he'd last seen in a
forest like this in Oregon; a man he'd come to believe
was dead.

Mulder.

Words deserted him; it seemed there must be
something to say to this, this unexpected resurrection.
Questions surged through his mind, unable to find
their way past his numb tongue. Of all the scenarios
he had imagined, dreamed of, this didn't even come
close. He could only gape at the familiar
countenance. Five long years of guilt and despair. Of
knowing he had failed. And here Mulder was,
standing before him, alive and seemingly well.

A movement in his peripheral vision caught his
attention and he watched the killers slide into back
into the forest depths. Rage surged through his veins,
grayed his vision. *Traitor*.

Mulder flinched back as if Skinner had struck him.
"Come," he said wearily, his voice raspy as if from
disuse. "You need to get warm, eat." He held out his
hand. Skinner stared at it balefully a moment, then
took it, reluctantly allowing Mulder to haul him to his
feet.

He followed his former agent through the woods,
wondering all the while if he was about to be
delivered to some alien death camp; become a host to
breed more monstrosities. He was acutely aware of
the shapes flitting through the woods on either side of
them. What betrayal had given Mulder this authority?
Wondered wearily why Mulder hadn't just ended it
there and then, why toy with him now? Mulder
looked back at him, his expression askance, before
resuming his sure-footed path through the trees.

They trekked in silence; and silence from Mulder was
an X-File in and of itself. He studied the back of the
man he had known, the man he would have once
called friend. Would have wagered his last breath that
Fox Mulder would never betray his own species. He
tried to reconcile that man with this one. This Mulder
was thinner, nearly gaunt, as he was himself. Mulder
had always radiated an aura of pain and sorrow, but
now these were amplified a hundredfold. But there
had also been a sense of hope and wonder about him
as well -- the set of Mulder's shoulders suggested that
these had died long ago. Despite present
circumstances, Skinner just couldn't believe Mulder
capable of such treason. There simply had to be
another explanation.

At length they came to a clearing, and Mulder
ushered him into the small cabin uncertainly. Skinner
let his gaze roam, his rage once again mounting. The
cabin was simply appointed, with bookshelves lining
the walls. There was electricity and running water
and Skinner knew those hadn't existed in the three
years since the invasion.

Mulder set about building a fire in the large fireplace,
then shuffled his feet, as if unsure of himself.
"Coffee," he muttered, as if unused to speaking
aloud. "Coffee."

There was the clanging of mugs and cupboards and
Skinner wondered what crimes Mulder had
committed that entitled him to such luxury. He could
see Mulder stiffen, as if he could see the words
hanging above Skinner's head, like some obscene
cartoon balloon. The words came through clenched
teeth.

"It's not what you think."

"Oh?" Skinner challenged. "What do I think?"

Mulder turned to face him then. "You think I'm a
traitor. That I would deliberately ." His hand swept
out in a gesture designed to take in the entire cabin.
"It's a pretty prison, granted, but still a prison. And
the jailers are damn ugly." His voice rasped as if it
hadn't been used in years. Or as if it had been
damaged beyond repair.

"You seem pretty chummy with them."

Mulder snorted in disgust, his shoulders slumping in
resignation. "They leave me alone as long as I stay in
the valley. If I try to leave ." His voice tapered off,
his gaze becoming vacant. Skinner shifted uneasily,
unwilling to contemplate what punishment might be
incurred for attempted escape.

In an effort to bring Mulder back from whatever
depths had claimed him, Skinner asked, "Why didn't
they kill me?"

The younger man turned back to pour the coffee,
thinking about his response. "I don't know," he said
at length, handing Skinner his mug. "I begged them
not to, but I never thought they'd listen."

Skinner nearly choked on his coffee. "You can
communicate with them?"

Mulder squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "Yeah."

Skinner's mind returned to a hospital room six years
ago, his agent drowning beneath the onslaught of
other minds, his own duplicity revealed -- proof
undeniable that Mulder could read his thoughts. He
raised his head to look at Mulder, and for the first
time he got a look at Mulder's eyes. Christ, they
looked like they belonged to a dead man. Pain and
terror and despair had eclipsed all else and left only
desolation in their wake. Skinner was certain he could
see the destruction of the world reflected in Mulder's
eyes. His former agent's eyes skittered away,
uncomfortable with his superior's thoughts.

Skinner took another sip of his coffee, allowing
himself to savour a luxury he'd had too seldom over
the years. And realized how much he'd missed it. He
closed his eyes, and tilted his head back in
enjoyment. He heard Mulder snort with amusement
and cracking an eye open, he could see the younger
man coaxing a grin out of muscles long unused.

The two men savoured the moment, finding a simple
human comfort in the levity, in the companionship.
Despite the initial awkwardness, the old patterns of
friendship were beginning to reassert themselves.
Silence settled over them like a favourite sweater.
Skinner, never garrulous by nature, found the silence
comforting. Mulder, bereft of human companionship
for five long years, seemed to have fallen out of the
habit of conversation.

At length, Skinner's voice broke the quiet. "Why
*are* you here?"

Mulder shook his head wearily. "I don't know. I just
woke up here, after they were done. And *they*,"
he gestured out the window, "won't let me leave."

"How long have you been here?"

"Two winters." Mulder suddenly squinted his eyes
shut, a hand to his forehead.

"Mulder?" Skinner queried, concerned.

Mulder waved him off. "'S okay. I just get headaches
now. I'm not used to having human thoughts in my
head. I just need to lie down for a while."

"You can read my mind?" Of course, Skinner
thought, dumbfounded. Of course.

"'M yeah. Make yourself at home. Mi casa es su
casa, and all that. Oh," he turned to Skinner, his
expression strained and grave. "I wouldn't go far
from the cabin if I were you. Just in case." With that,
he disappeared into the lone bedroom.
******

Skinner sat in front of the fire, savouring another cup
of coffee, sated. He'd stared a long moment after the
bedroom door closed, before his stomach let him
know it had been far too long since it had had its fill.
He'd wandered into the kitchen, staring stupefied at
the array of foods available there, foods he hadn't
seen in ages. He'd run his hands lovingly over the
packages, breathed in the aroma of fresh vegetables,
basked in the deliberate coolness of the frozen meats,
unable to remember when the Resistance hadn't had
to scrounge for sustenance from society's ruined
dregs. It had taken all his willpower to keep his meal
small and simple, knowing his deprived stomach
could handle no more.

And now he was sitting here, replete, in this
comfortable prison, when only a week ago he was
watching his comrades die. It spoke of things he
didn't want to dwell upon, so his mind skittered away
from them, choosing instead to contemplate Mulder's
words.

Wondered how one endured, day after day, year after
year, a prisoner, isolated not only from friends and
family, or anything familiar, but isolated from even
his own species. Could any loneliness touch that,
Skinner wondered. Far more than being a stranger in
a land where your skin marked you apart, but where
the inhabitants weren't even your own species. It was
no wonder that Mulder was changed -- the wonder
was that he'd stayed sane at all.

Skinner stared uneasily as he watched the dark shapes
glide past the window. Wondered how safe he really
was. He had seen these monstrosities bursting out of
living bodies, seen them rip those bodies apart.
Friends. Comrades. Scully. Yet Mulder had moved
among them with assurance -- he could communicate
with them.

And that was what was bothering him. Mulder had
not moved among them warily, as a prisoner among
his jailers; he'd moved among them as a man among
comrades, colleagues -- friends, even. Confident of
his place.

His gut clenched in rebellion. Could it be true? Could
Mulder have lied? Anyone can break, Skinner knew.
And Mulder had spent five long years in enemy
hands. He didn't want to believe it, but couldn't
shake the notion.

Communicate with them. Read their minds. Read
*his* mind.

He supposed that was why Mulder hadn't asked
about Scully -- no doubt he had seen the truth of her
death imprinted in his mind. Did he know then, of the
fate of her child? *His* child? How she'd learned of
her pregnancy the day of his abduction, only to
miscarry in her fifth month? How the loss of another
child had very nearly undone her -- only her fierce
faith that she would one day find Mulder had kept her
from complete despair. But Skinner had never seen
her smile again.

Better by far, he thought, if Mulder never saw these
thoughts. He would have them expunged from his
memory if only he knew how.
*******

Mulder was watching with thinly veiled amusement
as Skinner tried to make up for years of privation in
one sitting. If he had picked up the other man's
doubts, he said nothing.

"I'm not that bad a cook."

Mulder looked up from picking at his food, startled.
"No, it's good. Better than I can make. I'm just not
very hungry." He pushed his plate away. Skinner
guessed Mulder ate as little as he could get away
with, considering the man's gauntness in the midst of
plenty. Or maybe Bureau rumour hadn't exaggerated
the man's dependence on take-out.

"So where does all this," Skinner gestured to the food
on the table, "come from?"

"Manna from heaven," Mulder answered bitterly.
"There's a bright light, and abracadabra, groceries."


Sated once again, Skinner was yawning now, eyeing
the small, lumpy couch with trepidation. That got a
wry expression from Mulder that Skinner thought
was trying to be a full-fledged smile, only it had
gotten misplaced somewhere along the way. "The
bed's big enough for two. Don't worry," this time a
real grin answered Skinner's stunned expression.
"Your virtue is safe with me."

Skinner didn't tell Mulder he would have happily
sold his virtue for a night in a real bed. He yawned
again. "You coming?"

"Later," Mulder answered. "I don't need much
sleep." Skinner wondered if that were true, or if
Mulder simply couldn't face the terrors sleep must
surely bring.


Reflexes honed from years of quick awakenings had
him up and alert in seconds, hands groping uselessly
for a weapon he had lost weeks ago. It took longer for
memory to kick in, for him to remember who it was
on the other side of the bed.

Mulder was sitting upright, his back ramrod straight.
His eyes were wide, pupils dilated crazily into black
pools that allowed no light to escape. His breath came
in hitching gasps, low moans strangled with half
sobs. Skinner could almost have rathered awakening
to screams -- those moans were hideous.

Skinner was familiar with the look on Mulder's face -
- too familiar. Such a strange dichotomy to see that
expression transplanted thousands of miles and
dozens of years from steamy jungle to quiet cabin.
What was left of those who survived, Skinner mused,
knowing his own face had held that same look of
horror for too many years after Vietnam.

"Mulder," he said ineffectually. Knowing what was
happening didn't make it easier to deal with -- he
wasn't a touchy-feely sort of person, as Sharon had
reminded him endlessly. God, he presumed to be
fighting for the entire human race and he couldn't
even manage something as human as compassion. As
giving comfort to a fellow human being.

"Mulder, you're safe. It's okay," Skinner tried again,
no more sure of himself. "No one's going to hurt
you."

Mulder gave no indication he heard Skinner's pleas.
His whole body shook as if with palsy and Skinner
could see the sheen of sweat covering the younger
man. He touched Mulder's arm in what was meant to
be a comforting gesture -- the skin beneath his hand
was ice-cold.

"Mulder," he said more forcefully, damning himself
for an insensitive fool when Mulder flinched from his
tone. He was more certain than ever that he had to
stop this -- if only so he wouldn't have to hear those
broken sounds.

Years dissolved beneath the onslaught of memory
and he remembered his own night terrors during his
long convalescence in the VA hospital. Remembered
the matronly nurse enfolding him in her arms,
rocking him, cooing to him as if he were her child.
How safe he had felt.

"Mulder," he repeated, his voice gentler this time and
full of sorrow. Hesitantly at first, he gathered the
shaking man into his arms, rocking him and
whispering reassurances. Mulder's gaze remained
blank, but something must have penetrated the terrors
of his mind for the moans finally stuttered to a halt,
although the trembling continued.

Skinner pulled Mulder's cold body closer, sharing his
body heat. There was something comforting about it
all, Skinner mused, as if it wasn't a 45-year-old man
he was rocking like a child. Something reassuring
about being needed, about being able to give comfort.
He'd never considered himself the paternal type -- it
had been a major sticking point in his marriage with
Sharon -- now he wondered if he had been hasty.

Dawn was filtering through the curtains when
Mulder's body finally relaxed and dreamless slumber
found him again. Skinner carefully disengaged their
bodies, gently settling Mulder on his side of the bed.
Skinner wondered what, if anything, Mulder would
remember when he woke. How the hell, Skinner
wondered aghast, had he managed all these years,
crying or screaming himself awake, or silently
shaking in his sleep?


The nights had eventually fallen into a rhythm.
Sometimes it was Skinner who suffered from the
nightmares; Mulder waking him, or occasionally
holding him until the worst had passed. Once, he had
awoken from a dream of Scully's death, only to find
tears streaming down Mulder's face. Skinner realized
then that Mulder relived it all -- every nightmare
Skinner endured, Mulder endured too.

Most often, it was Mulder whose nightmares
disturbed the night, and Skinner who played the role
of comforter. Often, a touch and a word was all that
was required to bring Mulder back from the
tormented depths of his psyche -- but there were
times when he couldn't wake the younger man and
had to ride it out, holding him and murmuring
reassurances until lucidity took hold or Mulder
collapsed back into slumber. By unspoken agreement,
the men never spoke of the nightmares, or their odd
intimacy.
***********

Looking back on the preceding weeks, Skinner could
only find them surreal. He had always known the
human mind and spirit were resilient, able to adjust to
an infinitude of adversities -- he had only to look at
Mulder to see that. And yet if anyone had told him
that at any point in his life he'd be cohabiting with
Spooky Mulder, the FBI's enfant terrible, he would
have sent them for a psych evaluation. It seemed
incredible to him that he *was* here, among the
entities that had virtually destroyed the human race,
sharing this plush prison, and he was content.
Content. Huh.

He was regaining his strength, gaining back the
weight he'd lost through the years of scant rations.
With improved health came restlessness and cabin
fever. It seemed their captors were more interested in
their physical health than their mental well-being.
The books that lined the shelves were the only form
of recreation available to them, other than hiking or
jogging through the woods. Skinner accompanied
Mulder on these excursions only rarely, contenting
himself with endless pushups and sit-ups. The
proximity of those deadly shadows caused a visceral
fear in him, despite Mulder's assurances. As the
winter wore on, Skinner wondered if he, too, was
now confined to the valley, or if he was free to leave
if he wished.

On the one hand, he wanted to leave, to find another
resistance group and continue the fight. He felt
vaguely guilty for living in what was essentially
luxury, knowing what was happening outside this
remote valley. On the other hand, leaving would
consign Mulder once more to solitude, with only
alien assassins for companionship. Could he really do
that to his friend?

As it was, Mulder, who had never willingly been still
in all the years Skinner had known him, seemed to
have adjusted to the inactivity far better than the older
man. While Skinner combated boredom with such
exercise as he could, or perusing the extensive
library, Mulder would sit staring at the window, or
endlessly wandering the woods.

Mulder staring out the window now, his gaze
unfocused, his mind roaming among his captors,
gleaning what information he could.

Curious, Skinner asked, "What's it like -- reading
their minds?"

Mulder stared at the window thoughtfully. "Their
minds are simple," he said finally. "They were
created for a purpose, and they derive satisfaction
from serving that purpose." Skinner snorted in
derision, showing what he thought of the aliens'
vaunted purpose.

Mulder seemed not to notice. "They're all linked," he
continued slowly. "What one knows, they all know.
They are never alone." He looked at Skinner for the
first time, searching for words, his voice wistful.
"Their minds are uncomplicated. They don't know
how to lie. It's refreshing."

"You admire them," Skinner accused.

Mulder shook his head. "It's not their fault they were
made this way." He turned back to the window, his
voice so soft Skinner had to strain to hear. "There's
something -- comforting -- in knowing what you are,
what your purpose is."

He's traumatised, Skinner reminded himself. They've
been his only companions for two years.

Mulder gave him a scathing look. "It's not Stockholm
Syndrome either," he ground out, stalking to the
kitchen. Unfortunately, the cabin was so small that no
real escape was possible.

"I'm sorry, Mulder," Skinner apologized. "But I
don't really know what to think. I've seen them kill."
He took a deep, steadying breath. "They killed
Scully. I can't admire them or feel sorry for them."

Skinner waited for a flash of the famous Mulder
temper, but the younger man simply sank into a
kitchen chair. Skinner saw the that pain lingered in
Mulder's eyes at the mention of Scully. He spoke
softly, his eyes fixed on his hands, as if they belonged
to someone else. "I tried to end it so many times."
Skinner could barely hear the words. "They always
brought me back. Even here." Mulder raised his head
then, his gaze once more locked on the window.
There was a long pause. "I cut my wrists." His gaze
fell once more to his unmarked arms. "I tried
drowning myself in the lake. Even starving myself."
He let out a strangled parody of laughter. "They keep
bringing me back. I even went out in a snow storm in
a t-shirt and shorts. I didn't even feel the cold. They
won't let me go." If Skinner could have, he would
have wept for the despair in that voice.

And just what, precisely, was one to say to that?
**********

Skinner heard a muffled curse from the kitchen where
Mulder was slicing vegetables for dinner. "What is
it?" he asked, concerned.

"Nothing," Mulder answered, placing his hand
beneath the faucet. "I just cut myself, that's all."

"Need a bandage?"

"There aren't any," Mulder replied. "Our hosts don't
provide first aid supplies. But it's stopped now."

Skinner grunted a reply, turning to leave when his
eyes caught the bubbling hole in the countertop.
"Mulder," he whispered, feeling like he'd been gut
shot again. Had he been played for a fool? Was the
man before him about to morph into an alien bounty
hunter?

Mulder swallowed hard as he followed Skinner's
gaze. "They did to me what they did to Cassandra
Spender," he murmured. "My DNA has more in
common with those things out there than with yours,"
he concluded bitterly.

Skinner knew he should have some comforting words
to say, some reassurance to Mulder that in every way
that mattered he was still human. But the corroded
countertop still held his gaze, rendering him
speechless. He knew he'd waited too long when he
heard the cabin door slam shut. Mulder's social skills
might have been a little rough, but he had been one of
the most human people Skinner had ever known. And
despite everything the younger man had been
through, Skinner suspected that hadn't changed.


Hours went by as Skinner fretted, and Mulder
remained still absent. He was concerned Mulder had
hurt himself (but he'd heal, wouldn't he? a voice
whispered in his head) or had gotten lost in the dark.
He grabbed a flashlight and pulled on his parka and
boots, hoping that the aliens would leave him alone
while he looked for his errant roommate.

He needn't have worried. He saw no shadows gliding
just out of the reach of his light, nor did he feel the
pricking at the back of his neck that meant he was
being watched.

Following Mulder's tracks was easy enough, if slow,
and before long he reached a clearing among the
trees. What he saw there made him stop in his tracks
and he barely had the presence of mind to switch off
the light.

Moon and stars reflected off the snow, casting a
surreal illumination. Mulder stood in the centre of the
clearing, facing Skinner. He didn't seem to be aware
of his friend, however. Nor did the aliens surrounding
him. More aliens than Skinner had ever seen gathered
in one place. All the aliens patrolling the valley must
be here, he surmised, watching spellbound. Mulder
seemed to be held in a trance, eyes tightly closed,
muscles not even twitching. Even as the creatures'
long, taloned hands caressed him. Skinner couldn't be
certain what they were doing -- they were touching
Mulder all over, as if they were children needing
reassurance from a trusted parent. Or as if Mulder
was taking strength from them. The aliens' touches
appeared gentle enough, Skinner decided, even
worshipful. Something was happening here he didn't
comprehend -- just what else had Mulder been hiding
from him? If Mulder's story was all a ploy, what was
its purpose?

He concentrated on making a silent retreat, uncertain
of the consequences for intruding on what had to be a
private affair. He'd be certain to ask Mulder in the
morning though -- no more secrets, regardless of
Mulder's fractured emotions. Skinner had to know
where he stood -- was Mulder sympathetic to the
alien cause, if not an outright collaborator? Five years
of imprisonment and torture could do that, Skinner
knew.

Silently he withdrew, and headed back to the cabin.


It must have been past midnight when Mulder
returned to the cabin. Skinner was roused from his
doze by the fading fire by the closing of the door. He
heard Mulder give a heavy sigh, then the thunk of
another log being added to the fire. The flames rose,
casting more light over the dim cabin.

"You okay?" Skinner asked.

Mulder refused to meet his gaze. "I'm fine," he
answered, almost defiantly.

Skinner took a deep breath. The tension in the air
hung like a miasma of doubt.

"I followed you tonight," Skinner blurted.

Mulder shrugged. "Enjoy the show?"

"That depends on what the hell was going on out
there. 'Cause I have to say, Mulder, you didn't look
like a prisoner tonight."

Rage contorted Mulder's face. "You *still* think I'm
a traitor. You don't trust me."

"Mulder," Skinner rubbed the bridge of his nose,
helplessly. This was as bad as any of the
confrontations they'd had back in the Bureau. "Help
me out here, okay? I want to understand. I want to
understand how you can be so chummy with
those things." I want to believe.

Mulder collapsed into an overstuffed chair, head in
his hands. "You were a soldier. You understand about
following orders. Now imagine that you were
*created* to be a soldier, *programmed* to follow
orders. You can't imagine anything else, no other
existence is possible. They're soldiers. I don't I
can't I can't hate them for what they are. Not
anymore."

"And what was going on tonight?" Skinner asked
gently.

Mulder looked up, his gaze unfocused. "They're
responsible for my well-being. I don't there aren't
words . I was upset. They don't like that -- it makes
them upset too." He shrugged. "They respect the
similarities between us. The DNA we share."

Once again, Mulder's revelations had taken away
Skinner's capacity for speech.
********

Winter had begun to fade and the thaw brought with
it the promise of spring. Amazingly, the two men had
managed to survive the past weeks without undue
flaring of tempers. They took advantage of the break
in the weather to alleviate their cabin fever and tramp
through the woods. Skinner had even grown
accustomed to the menacing shapes gliding through
the trees alongside them.

It was worrisome, then, when he awoke one morning
to find Mulder gone. More worrisome when he did
not materialize during the day. Skinner wondered if
he should go out looking for his friend, but the
agitated state of the alien jailers changed his mind.
Skinner didn't want to know what could make them
this upset.

He was woken by a thump in the middle of the night.
He could barely make out Mulder's silhouette as the
younger man leaned heavily against the doorjamb.
Skinner scrambled out of bed, turning on the lamp as
he did so. He took a sharp breath. Hurriedly, he
helped Mulder to the bed -- the younger man looked
as if he was about to collapse.

Mulder looked terrible. His face was ashen, and he
was sweating and shaking uncontrollably. It was a
struggle to keep himself upright.

"What the hell happened to you, Mulder?" he asked
as he settled Mulder beneath the sheets.

"The warden wanted to see me," he responded
wearily. Skinner disappeared into the bathroom,
returning with a damp washcloth to wipe the fever-
sweat from Mulder's face.

"I thought they had finished the testing," Skinner said
neutrally, trying to keep his rage under check.

"Oh, they like to surprise me every now and then."
Forlorn hazel eyes locked with Skinner's. "If they
didn't still need me, I wouldn't be here."

And that, Skinner knew, was the awful truth.


Skinner stayed by Mulder's side during the night as
Mulder's fever rose and he sank into delirium. He
gritted his teeth while he held his former agent and
tried to reassure him through the nightmares and
hallucinations. A suspicious wetness filled his eyes as
Mulder cried piteously for Scully. Not once since
Skinner had arrived at this dubious haven had Mulder
so much as breathed his partner's name. Silently he
cursed all those who had hurt Mulder over the years,
especially the bastards who had performed such
inhumane tests. Torture. He bathed Mulder with cool
water. At one point, Mulder was lucid enough to rasp,
"Maybe this is why they let you stay."

Mulder's fever finally broke about midday and he fell
into a heavy slumber. Skinner seethed with rage at
their captors, at the suffering of a good man. Finally,
he followed his friend into sleep.
********

Spring had finally announced itself with rain-laden
grey skies that inexorably beat the snow into
submission. Dull light infiltrated the cabin, infecting
the men inside with bored lethargy. Skinner, fed up
with reading, and for lack of anything else to do, was
on his second set of one hundred sit-ups. Exercise, a
good diet, and a relatively stress-free life had
conspired to replace the weight and muscle tone he'd
lost in the years he'd struggled to survive
colonization. He'd been giving thought, too, of
moving on -- of finding another resistance group and
continuing the battle. As idyllic as this interlude was,
he could see it as nothing other than a brief respite, a
strange oasis in the midst of chaos. He knew the
peace was deceptive -- somewhere beyond the valley
humans were being harvested, used to breed a race of
super-soldiers, being rounded up, as Mulder had
been, for ruthless experimentation and slave labour.
There was always the possibility that the aliens would
not allow him to leave -- they appeared to have no
interest in him at all and he could only surmise that
he'd been allowed to live simply so he could keep
Mulder company in his captivity -- care for him when
the experiments resumed.

Mulder claimed he could not leave the valley -- but
Skinner couldn't help but think there had to be a way.
He wasn't about to abandon Mulder here, but Skinner
knew he could not remain in this plush prison much
longer. He'd regained his strength, and with it his
outrage and purpose. He would find a way to
continue the fight and his first act would be rescuing
Mulder from his jailers.

For his part, Mulder stood by the window, his eyes
fixed, not on the rain, or the agitated black shadows
moving restlessly in the dim light, but on a distance
that Skinner could not hope to fathom. He shivered,
as he always did when Mulder sent his mind out
among his guards.

"They're coming," the younger man announced
suddenly, his mind returned from his communion
with the monsters outside. No matter that Mulder
didn't think of them as such; Skinner couldn't think
of them as anything else.

"Who's coming?" he asked, a raw pit of fear growing
in his gut. No way was this going to be good news.

"The second wave," Mulder answered wearily, trying
to massage away the pain from his temples. "The
ones the Grays work for."

"Work for?" Skinner could only repeat dumbly.
There were *more* damn aliens coming? There
weren't enough of them on the planet?

"Yeah. I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I think the
Grays were conquered a long time ago -- maybe
thousands of years ago. They're the advanced guard,
because they're considered expendable."

"So who are these bastards?"

"They," Mulder gestured out the window, "aren't
really sure. It's not information that they've been
given." His brow creased in thought. "I might have
run into a few of them," he said slowly, chewing his
lower lip thoughtfully. "But I'm not sure. They
scrambled my memories pretty good."

Not good enough to keep you from having horrific
nightmares, Skinner thought to himself. "Just what
does this mean?" he prompted.

Mulder held the other man's gaze, his voice serious.
"It means there isn't any more resistance. They've
won." The former agent's shoulders slumped in
defeat.

Damn, but Mulder had rendered him speechless once
again. Skinner could only stare at Mulder, stunned.
No more resistance? Skinner had always assumed
that there would be a resistance movement,
somewhere, that could use his skills. That there
would always be blows to strike until they had won
back their planet.

But Mulder was telling him that wasn't going to
happen. They had lost. *Lost*.

His own incredulous eyes sought out Mulder's
resigned ones and he realized his former agent had
never held any illusions, any hopes, of winning this
war.

"Jesus," he breathed, unable to take it all in. The war
was lost and now the victors were coming to claim
the spoils. He heard Mulder shuffling off and the
bedroom door closing; another headache making
conscious thought well-nigh impossible.

Now what? Skinner thought as he sank onto the
couch. Should he leave anyway, in the hopes Mulder
was wrong? And if he did -- assuming the aliens in
the woods would allow him to leave -- to what fate
would he be consigning his friend? Skinner was the
only human the man had seen in five years -- the only
soul he could talk to. Was there some way for Mulder
to leave the valley? The aliens seemed solicitous of
him -- to the point of allowing Skinner to live, of
offering comfort.... Would that solicitude extend to
disregarding their orders if Mulder tried to leave with
Skinner? It was, he thought, a worthwhile question to
ask.
*******

A weight landed heavily on his chest and he was
being shaken roughly and an urgent voice was calling
his name.... Skinner snapped awake; disoriented; he
had been expecting Doggett to be sounding the alarm
and his men rushing about in preparation for an
attack. When Mulder scampered back after so rudely
awaking him, however, he remembered that Doggett
wasn't going to sound any more alarms and his men
would repel no more attacks. Ever.

His backpack hit him squarely in the chest after
Mulder flung it across the room. He hefted it -- it was
immeasurably heavier than it had been when he had
arrived. Mulder tossed him his clothes. "Hurry."

"What's going on?" Skinner shimmied into his jeans,
fear churning into his gut at Mulder's manic
movements.

"They're coming," the younger man muttered,
resuming his accustomed stance at the window.

"You said that the other day. What's changed?"

Mulder shook his head. "No. I mean they're coming
*here*. And if they find you you'll be dead -- or
worse." He met Skinner's gaze steadily. "You have to
go."


The men made good time through the woods they'd
come to know so well. Skinner was uncomfortably
aware of the agitated forms shadowing their flight.
He couldn't help but wonder if Mulder's urgency was
all for naught -- if the alien jailers would bar their
path from the valley.

At length, Mulder halted their mad dash through the
darkened forest. The woods here looked no different
than any they had passed through, except that it
marked the marge of the valley, the final restriction
on Mulder's freedom. The dark shapes halted too,
barely visible in the moonless night. "You need to
head north-west," Mulder finally broke the silence.
"Head into Canada, around Hudson's Bay. They," a
glance into the shadows, "don't know much about the
area, so I assume that means there aren't many of
them there. Maybe you'll find someone...."

"Come with me," Skinner said impulsively.

Mulder shook his head slowly, nodding to the
shadows looming in the forest darkness. "They won't
let me leave." His hand unconsciously caressed the
back of his neck. "And they could track me anywhere
I went," he added ruefully. "I'd just be a danger to
you."

An implant. Of course. Skinner should have realized.

"Go," Mulder said finally, his tone of voice belying
the urgency of his command. He was as reluctant to
see his only companion leave as Skinner was to go.
Mulder nodded to the trees once again. "They won't
follow."

Skinner nodded, not trusting himself to words. To the
living death his friend was facing. He thrust out his
hand. Mulder grasped it like a lifeline and they stood
for a long moment, hands clasped, eyes locked
together. Each realizing they would not meet again
and that the future for both was uncertain and fraught
with danger. There was no awkwardness when they
finally parted; they had endured too much and
circumstances were too dire for such things to be
relevant.

Mulder turned and disappeared into the trees.

Skinner stared after him a long moment before
remembering the menacing shadows just out of sight.
He hoped Mulder had been right they wouldn't
follow. He turned his back on his friend, his strange
oasis amid the devastation, and was finally able to
face the days ahead with renewed hope. As he
traveled throughout the night, it seemed he could feel
baleful, malevolent eyes following him; every rustle
caused his heart to jump in anticipation of being
ripped apart, Mulder's assurances aside. He
wondered if the black death that haunted these woods
was capable of keeping whatever promises they had
made. And what price Mulder would pay for those
promises.

But the hours passed without incident and he could
believe that only his paranoia dogged his footsteps.
At length he came to a road and the going was easier.
Until the air shook with a low, utterly familiar,
vibration. He looked up to see the ship pass slowly
overhead and hover over the clearing he had lately
left. A pillar of brilliant light leapt from the ship to
the ground and Skinner could only stare dumbly, as
he had in another forest, in another lifetime.

"Mulder," he whispered, as he had on that long-ago
night as the lights vanished and the ship sped into the
distance.

How long he stood there he couldn't say. Then
Skinner once again turned his back and headed north.
Always north.

Finis