"The Innocent Spring III: The Fall of the Leaf"

by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk
___

SUMMARY: Twenty-five years ago Samantha Mulder had been
left with the memory of a bright light and a cry, but
Dana Scully has been left with nothing - nothing but
cruel memories. Can she dare to hope?

KEYWORDS: Alternate Universe, Mulder-Scully romance
(fairly implicit.)

RATING: PG

CLASSIFICATION: SRA
___

DISCLAIMER: Not mine but Fox's. No profit made from
their use.

LITTLE NOTES: This is a second sequel to "The Innocent
Spring" I would recommend that you read the first two
stories in order to understand this, though you may just
about get by without reading them. It's a hard storyline
to summarise as a lot happened in such a short space,
but, briefly, in this universe, Fox was taken instead of
Samantha, and has now returned, having no memory of the
intervening years. His family have found his return
difficult to deal with, but Samantha's partner, Dana
Scully, finds herself drawn to him. Fox and Dana are now
together, but the past won't let them go.

FEEDBACK: Yes please.

****

They had left her with nothing. Only memories remained
to her, then, and memory can be a cruel comfort indeed.

In the grey deadness that would be her life hereafter,
she would, perhaps, look back upon a smile, hear again
the sound of his laughter, and would derive strength
from the memory that once she had been happy. One day,
perhaps. Not yet. Memory still was a torment to her,
then, and the weeping desolation of past happiness the
worst of all. For what is the memory of a smile but the
aching reminder that it will never be again?

Yet, even so, she craved the memories, needing them even
though they were her worst torment. It made her feel
close to him, both in the memories themselves and in the
act of remembering. _He_ had burnt himself on the flame
of memory, too, pursuing a course into the past that
could only destroy him. She hadn't understood, then, and
had railed against it. That one could so crave something
that caused only pain had been strange to her, alien. It
was no longer.

Would he smile when he found out? _When._

"She was like light. As soon as he saw her he knew he
would know no peace without her, and yet he knew her for
what she was. His life was grey and flat without her,
yet how could he tell her that he loved her?"

The warmth had played on his face, orange and black, as
he'd told her tales of a childhood that was still close
to him. She'd seen pictures in his voice, rich and
beautiful.

It was a memory of the winter this time. She hadn't
chosen it. She would lie on the bed, shut her eyes, and
accept whatever memory came to her, mourning the sad
memories, mourning yet more at the happy, for their
absence. She never wept.

"But then she smiled, her eyes like shifting grey water.
She took his hand and promised to love him and be
everything that a wife can be, although she could not
grow old with him, of course. Still, she would stay with
him as long as he lived, unless he struck her with iron,
and then she would go...."

The wistfulness in his eyes surprised her, looking back.
Had he known, even then? Was that why his eyes had shone
with unshed tears as he told her tales of a people not
quite human, living among men for but a little space of
time? Had he _known_?

"But then, one day, he was getting the horse ready for
market. He was late, impatient, and his hand
slipped...."

She clenched the blanket tight in her fingers. She
_needed_ the story to stop, to end with a happy ever
after, but she would not silence his voice. She had had
him for such a little while.

"And as soon as the stirrup touched her arm, she turned
away, their child on her breast. She gave him one last
lingering look, and was gone. He never smiled again.
They had been married for but a year and a day."

It had been one year, six months and fourteen days since
they had given him to her, and he was gone.

*****

They had left her with nothing.

"Fox!"

She'd kicked off her shoes, taken off her jacket, idly
skimmed through an open recipe book. Ordinary, ordinary
things, rendered tragic only by what was to come.

"Fox!" Louder this time. "I'm home!"

Worry had crept up on her, quiet and threatening. She'd
flicked through the pages, not really seeing them.
Tomatoes. Carrots. Chocolate. She would hate these
pictures, afterwards, that they would be forever clear,
forever unchanged, when he was gone.

"Fox!"

And then she'd heard it - the complete and resounding
silence. The noise of his keyboard, the rustle of pages,
the soft squeak of his chair.... Little, little noises.
She had never known how much _noise_ they made, how
silent the house could be in their absence.

"Fox!"

The first time he had gone, Samantha had been left with
the memory of his cry and the bright cleansing light.
They had left Dana with nothing. No blood. No note. No
noise. No clues. Nothing but the silence.

She could hear the silence still.

****

They had left her with....

"They? Why is it 'they', Dana?"

She blinked, surprised at the voice. She so often was,
now. Sometimes it seemed as if his voice in her memory
was the only reality she knew.

"They. He. It. Whatever." She twisted a strand of her
hair between her fingers. "It doesn't matter, Melissa.
He's gone."

"But it _does_, Dana." The emphasis surprised her. Since
he had gone she had lived her life on a monotone. "I
worry about you. You're bottling up all your feelings.
Look at yourself, Dana, dressed for work at ten o'clock
on Sunday. Smart suit. Tidy hair. Face.... Face dead.
You're not dealing with this properly."

Twenty-four years he'd been gone before. Twenty-four
years. How could she have tears enough for that? It was
a thing beyond emotion, beyond life. Her facade was
everything, essential to survival.

"This 'them' that you blame.... I think they're a
scapegoat. Bitterness at them is the only way you can
express your emotions. You are so full of emotions,
Dana. I can feel them. There are better ways to let them
out."

"Them." She blinked again, fighting tears this time,
remembering again his words in the light of a winter
fire. "He spoke of them. He.... I think he knew they
were coming back for him. He told me.... I didn't
understand. He knew he had so little time."

His words had painted a tall fair woman, beautiful
beyond mortals, but now she had _his_ eyes, looking back
pleadingly after but a year on earth.

"Dana." Melissa swallowed, sounded awkward. "How do you
know.... You've said how closed off he'd been those last
few months. How can you be so sure he didn't _chose_ to
go? That he didn't just leave you? Or even...."

Melissa's silence spoke of a possibility Dana refused to
contemplate, and dread swallowed up her instinctive
denial. Sometimes, she half-believed it herself, though
she hated herself for it.

"If he did, it was them, too." Her voice was lead.
Couldn't Melissa see? He would still be gone, she would
still feel like this, whatever the reason. "His
family...."

And then she turned away, whispering the rest to
herself, never aloud.

They broke him, Melissa. He was so innocent, so
trusting, so.... so honest. A child. A child doesn't
have to pretend to be strong, to hide his feelings. He
just cries, and his mother holds him, takes his pain
upon herself. It's how it _should_ be. It's how it was
for us. But Fox's father.... Oh, Melissa, I don't
know.... Maybe he thought his father would love him if
he was stronger, if he was a 'proper' man, hiding his
feelings. Maybe he just didn't want his father to see
how much he was hurt by his rejection. It's because of
his father that he....

She blinked back tears, facing her sister, her voice
wholly inadequate to express what she felt.

"He left me, Melissa. He just withdrew. He left me
months before.... before.... _this_."

But Melissa had been wrong. She felt no better, telling.

*****

She had tried so hard to bring him back, but he had been
drifting, lost. Two months, three, since his father's
death. He had been all adult, then.

"Fox. Talk to me, Fox." Hands on his face, pulling him
towards her, seeing still the pain beneath the facade.
"Tell me, Fox. We'll fight this together."

He'd pull away,  a cry low in his throat. Sometimes he'd
be fast enough for her not to see the tears that snaked
down his cheeks. Sometimes. Not always.

"Are you remembering? Is that it, Fox? That man at your
father's funeral. Is he something to do with.... when
you were away....?"

She'd caught him with her gun, once, a finger running
down the barrel longingly, almost sensually. She'd stood
awhile, watching him. He'd smiled when he'd seen her,
but she'd been there long enough to see the desperate
hatred in his eyes, and the longing for peace.

"If you're remembering, Fox, tell me, please. Don't bear
this alone. Don't...." His finger on the gun and the
hatred in his face. "Don't try to.... solve it alone."

Some nights she'd find him shaking, arms wrapped so
tightly around his body, tears pouring down his face.
Once, he had sought her arms as a refuge from the
nightmares. Now, he had faced them alone, denied that he
still had them.

"Please, Fox. I love you. Please don't feel you have to
be strong with me. Whatever happens, I won't.... I won't
turn my back on you. I'm not like your fam...."

There had been a sound like a sob and then he had turned
away, face closed in anger. He'd loved them still,
though they pushed him away at every turn.

That had been their last night together.

*****

She had been twelve nights without him.

"Samantha."

Dana was surprised at that. Nearly two weeks gone, and
she'd felt nothing but an aching grey despair, a
deadness. She knew she ought to slam the door in anger,
but what was the point? He would still be gone.

"Dana." Samantha's face was red with tears. "I'm.... I'm
sorry."

*****

Samantha, too, had been left with.... not quite nothing,
but she still had lost, had still been changed.

"I used to imagine what it would be like when he came
back. Every night." Samantha's voice was low with unshed
tears, a long habit. "I was bullied at school, you
know."

Had he screamed when he'd been taken? Had they hurt him?
Samantha's words were an accompaniment to the images and
questions that never let her be. But she _listened_, in
her way, letting the words lap against her
subconscious..

"After he was gone it.... it wasn't bad, not really. No
worse than before - better, even, sometimes. But...." A
shrug. "I was the only one left. Dad sometimes.... He
seemed to forget I was only eight. It was...." She
laughed, a sound with no light in it. "It was as if I
was chosen, by being the one that remained - as if I had
something to live up to - to prove myself worthy."

As if he had chosen her.... _That_ penetrated her
thoughts, brought her closer to tears than anything
else. She would never forget the near hatred with which
the man had looked at his son.

"At twelve they found I wasn't as bright as Fox was, and
I felt their disappointment. He had always been
exceptional. I was.... Oh, I know I was bright, but I
didn't fulfil the potential they'd thought I had,
before."

Even with the voice, Dana could still hear the silence.
The computer in the corner stared at her blindly, but
the keys had been untouched for two weeks.

"It was the worst of all, that year, being twelve. It
was as if I was terrified to surpass him. He was my big
brother. I _couldn't_ be older than him. I couldn't....
I think that's why I didn't live up to what they'd
hoped."

Dana's hand closed over the cross at her neck, holding
it until her hands were scored with red. It was just a
chance look, but it was so like Fox's. Eyes, expression,
mannerisms.... The similarity was like a physical blow.

"I used to think all the time 'what would Fox do?' When
I was bullied I.... I had to be my own big brother. I
used to dream of him coming back, protecting me, helping
me. I had eight years as the baby, and suddenly I was
the only one. I had to grow four years in a night. It
was.... difficult."

But not as difficult as growing twenty-four years in an
instant. She wanted to shout her accusation, but the
words didn't come. What was the point?

"When anything went wrong before, they blamed Fox."
Samantha winced, almost apologetically, as if she too
was remembering her accusing words in the funereal rain.
"You know how it is - they always blame the older child.
I used to get away with murder, provoking him,
pretending to be hurt and then getting him blamed. But
after he was gone.... There was no-one else. It was just
me. There was nothing between me and their displeasure.
When I did something wrong I could almost hear them
thinking 'if only she had been the one taken. If only
Fox had stayed, we wouldn't have had this problem.'"

"But he came back, Samantha." Her voice was hoarse, sore
with lack of use. It was hard to speak through days of
suppressed tears. "He came back and you...."

"I know, Dana." There was genuine pain in her voice -
pain and remorse. "I had twenty-four years imagining an
older brother who would put everything right. Instead I
got a.... a.... Someone who wasn't what I imagined. I
realised that any problems I've had were.... " She
shrugged, at a loss for words. "God, Dana. Twenty- four
years and I've been waiting for the magic which would
make everything better. As soon as I saw him I realised
how wrong I'd been. It's still down to me. My life's my
own. I have no older brother, no protector. It was....
It was difficult to cope with. It opened old wounds that
I thought I'd dealt with."

"But he needed...."

"I know, Dana. He needed someone. I was selfish, I know.
But I didn't know how to talk to him. I wished I knew
how to talk to him." Her voice cried out in longing.
"When I saw you and him...." Her hand reached out,
tentative, hovering, then withdrew. "I was jealous,
Dana. _I_ was supposed to be close to him, but I.... I
wished I could be more like you. He was uneasy with me.
You were the only one he wanted."

Silence. His first smile had been against the white of a
hospital pillow, looking at her in relief when
Samantha's brief visit was over.

"Dana?"

She sighed, shook her head slowly. "It doesn't matter,
Samantha. However sorry you are, it doesn't matter.
_I'm_ not the one who should hear it. And he.... It's
too late, Samantha."

Samantha stared at her, defiant. "And _if_ it is, then I
can at least mourn him as a sister, not as a stranger."

The minute hand trembled, passed to one. Just past
midnight.

It was the thirteenth day since he had gone.

*****

"Do you ever regret it, Dana - regret finding him that
night?"

Instinct was to deny it, but she paused, knowing the
need for honesty. She hugged his memory like a blanket,
fighting tears.

"No," she said slowly, shaking her head. "No. I don't."

"But he's made you so unhappy!" Samantha swallowed,
blinked, and Dana knew she saw the same motions in her,
knew them for what they were. "I used to envy you. You
were so.... so _normal_. If it wasn't for him...."

"No, Samantha." Dana looked up, seeing her face clearly
for the first time. Older, years older, than her partner
had ever been, before. "It wasn't him. It was never him.
It was the situation, the past.... his family."

It was said without malice, without accusation.  There
was no point, and they both knew it. They were in some
dream-like purgatory, living without colours, without
anger, without joy.

"But if you'd never known him...."

"If I'd never known him, I'd..... I'd never have known
him."

For the first time, she smiled. For the first time, she
cried.

*****

For Dana Scully, it ended as it began, a lifetime away.

The voices were loud that night. His first words, asking
for his mother. His cry of joy at the end of an old
book, newly discovered.  His lament blending with the
cry of the seagull. They filled the silence now, now she
could cry.

She had been three weeks without him, though for the
last week there had been hope in renewed friendship and
in their determination that they would find him.

And so she shut her eyes that night, feeling his
closeness in the wispy smell of his favourite coffee, in
the sound of the violin in a tune that always touched
him. She was beginning to draw him memory close to her,
deriving strength from it even as if caused her choking
tears of pain.

But then, with a scratch at the door and the whisper of
receding footsteps, it ended as it had begun. A noise.

A man.

A year and a half ago she hadn't recognised him, hadn't
known him. He had been a stranger to her, then, and she
had never seen his eyes, heard his voice, felt his
touch. She had been so sure he had been dead, then.

So she stands there now, feeling her whole life fade
away, mere nothingness against this moment. Details,
insignificant, stand out clear and somehow resonant. The
feel of the brass handle in her hand. The sound of a
distant siren. The shape of the brown blood stain on his
shirt.

She blinks, seeing her hand reaching out for his neck,
feeling for his pulse. Her mind clicks, flashing like a
photograph, saving every detail as a memory that would
be ever present, ever after.

Her fingers on the pale skin of his neck.

*****

END