"The Innocent Spring IV: The Dead of Winter"

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

SUMMARY:  It is a hard winter, cruel and cold. It is as if the
pain of the dying year is frozen, beyond hope of healing.
Sometimes, Dana Scully wonders if the thaw will ever come...

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 third sequel to "The Innocent Spring." I
would recommend that you read the others first 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. When Fox showed signs of remembering, he was taken
again. He has now been returned....

FEEDBACK: Yes please.

**********

"It's gone, Dana. Gone. I'll never get it back."

Then the snow came.

She was too close to it, then, and too hurt, but afterwards she
began to feel it was no coincidence. He had been so deep in pain
at the start of that winter. It was as if the snow had encased
him, taken his emotions and preserved them in ice, immutable. Time
stopped for him. Like a hibernating animal, he was held in that
moment, unmoving until spring, unable to get past it.

"It's gone, Dana. Gone."

The first time he had said it she had stroked his face, eyes
spilling with love and relief. He had  been reborn to her, then,
pale in a hospital bed. Twice reborn.

"What's gone, Fox?" His cheek had been so soft, so beautiful. The
feel of it had filled her mind, but she could still listen, could
still ask.

"My memory. Twenty-four years." A sob. "My life."

She'd frowned, absently. His every breath had been a miracle to
her, then, and she had not seen the dark clouds rising. "But you
couldn't remember...."

"I had bits. Images. Clues. Pictures in memory, and the hope.... I
thought one day I'd remember it all." She'd seen the emptiness in
his eyes, but it still hadn't really registered. Not then. "I was
beginning to remember. Is that why they took me again? To make me
forget? To take that hope from me too?"

She'd touched his lips, a soft brush with her fingertips. She'd
even felt hope then, that he'd give up on the past and think only
of the future. It had nearly broken him, before, chasing the
elusive shadows of a nearly-forgotten past.

She hadn't understood.

And then the snow came.

*****

She found him in the snow, one day, just sitting there in the grey
light of a late afternoon. She crouched beside him, letting him
know by her breathing that she was there, that she was ready.

"I threw a snowball at Samantha, once." His hands were clenched
around his knees, his voice tight with guilt. "She cried. Told me
she didn't want a brother any more. Dad shouted at me. Mom
just.... looked at me. She called Samantha her baby."

She reached for his clasped hands, then withdrew, weak. His
constant rejection had been so hard on her, too.

"Was that why they were glad when I was gone? All the times they
shouted at me.... Which one turned it into hate? Which one made
them choose? One snowball, and it could have made the
difference...."

"It made _no_ difference." She touched him now, her voice firm. He
was going too far, drifting away from her. "They mourned you when
you went. That's why they found it difficult when you came back.
The reminder...." She swallowed. "There is no way they could have
_chosen_ to lose you. No way at all."

"But I'll never know, will I?" His face was like stone, etched
with indelible lines of despair. That she could have thought mere
words could make a difference.... "That's all I see when I see the
snow - questions without answers. Everything's a reminder, Dana.
Everything."

"A reminder?" She frowned, not understanding.

"That I'll never know. Never. My whole life - gone. Nothing."

Not nothing. Not nothing, Fox. Forget the past. We have the
future. Let it go. Please.

She turned away, afraid to let him see the pleading in her face.
Her fingers were red, stiff. Melted snow dripped as water from her
fingertips. The droplets shone, reflecting memory of past winter,
a year ago, a lifetime ago.

"Got you!"

Snow had crept down her neck, cold and wet. Horrible, but....

"Fox Mulder!" She'd whirled round, face stern in mock outrage.
"That's so immature. Don't _do_ that."

His smile had faltered, clouded. He'd breathed out, seeming to
lose half his size, all his vitality. His mouth had moved, silent,
almost despairing. "I'm sorry, Dana. I'm sorry."

She hadn't known then, about his father. Not everything. She had
still been surprised, then, with his ability to be crushed,
rejected, at a stern look, at a single word.

"No. Don't do that again." She'd put the smile in her voice that
she'd always felt, praying the moment would pass. It had been too
early to tease him. "Don't challenge a trained FBI agent to a
snowball fight, not if you don't want to lose. Horribly!"

And, quick as thought, she'd stooped, pounced, snow in both hands.
He'd smiled, tremulously at first, then cried out.

But his eyes had been laughing. And afterwards, warming up inside,
shy in her arms, he had seemed so at peace.

So at peace.

The tears were like ice on her face, now.

*****

"You should tell him, Dana."

Weeks later, but still so cold. She leant her forehead against the
window, twisted the curtain in her fingers. Wherever she looked
she could still see Fox's face, tightly wound with concentration,
as if sheer exertion could reawaken the memories. He hadn't
accepted their loss.

"Tell him what?" she murmured, belatedly hearing Samantha's words.

"Tell him what you keep telling me. Tell him the good memories.
Tell him about the games in the snow, and the books and your
birthday dinner. Tell him about that time your nephews...."

"He was there. He remembers them." There was an edge of annoyance
to her voice. The estrangement was still too recent. She still
felt the need to remind Samantha that her brother had made her
happy, too.

"But does he really?" Samantha leant in close, her eyes intense.
There was still guilt in her look, and apology, always. "I know he
remembers them, but does he _remember_ them. Maybe he needs to be
reminded of what he's still got."

"He doesn't care." It came out almost as a sob. "All he thinks
about is those missing years. Everything else is.... He doesn't
care, Samantha. This last year.... The future.... It's nothing to
him. Nothing."

The branches moved in the wind, black against the snow.

Samantha touched her arm, whispered. "And you?"

Dana watched the snow. She wouldn't answer.

*****

"I need to know. I _need_ to." Wrapping paper crumpled as he
lunged forward, eyes pleading. Hours it had taken her to choose
his present, and he'd barely looked at it.

"Come on, Fox." His mother gave a short laugh, almost nervous, but
her eyes were like stone. "It's Christmas. Don't spoil it,
like...."

"They took it from me." He grabbed his mother's arm. Dana could
hear the tears in his voice. "They took everything, but you....
Samantha was little, but you were there when it happened. Is
there.... Is there something you're not telling me? That man...."

"It's over, Fox." Mrs Mulder almost spat the words out. "Twenty-
four years we had to adjust to that, and you...." She looked away,
as if relenting at the last minute. "There are some things that
are.... hard to be reminded of," she said, coldly.

"Because you know." The words were quiet, muttered through tears,
but still audible. "That man at Dad's funeral. You looked at
him.... He was there.... when I was away...."

"So you remember him?" His mother's voice was all sarcasm, though
there was something else in her eyes - something.... strange. "You
saw him?"

Fox leant back, as if he had no strength left to support even his
own weight. "I don't.... I can't remember him now. But I do
remember.... I remember telling Dana after the funeral that I
remembered him...."

"And from that you accuse your own mother of.... of what?" Mrs
Mulder's eyes flashed ice. "Of kidnapping you? Of knowing where
you were and doing nothing? Of.... of wanting you gone? You can
sit there and _say_ this to me?"

"Mom?" He'd lost everything. Just a little boy on the rug, needing
a cuddle. He'd never been given the time to learn how to build a
wall round his feelings. "I'm sorry, Mom...."

"Oh, for goodness sake." His mother stood up abruptly. A glass
ornament fell to the floor and broke. "Stop crying, Fox. You're
acting like a child."

"Mom...." Pleading. "Mom...."

He reached for the shattered glass. A cat. Dana had seen the
longing in his eyes as he'd handled the glass fox, then the fear
of rejection that led him to a safer present. Blood welled up on
his finger.

"The subject is closed, Fox. The past is over. I will _not_ talk
about it again."

He stood up, wiped his hand with his face, and walked stiffly from
the room.

Dana had never hated as much as he did then, even though she'd
seen the fear in the older woman's face. _That_ was a winter that
would never thaw.

*****

I am writing to forget.

Melissa tells me it is good to talk. Melissa, so sure in her
wisdom, so ignorant of life. What does _she_ know? How can any of
us, in our secure little lives, really _know_? Until I met him. I
have learnt more of the healing of pain in the last few months
than she has in ten years of her workshops and fellowships and
meditations. About the not healing of pain....

Talking? God! Why should I want to talk? Talking preserves the
memory, makes it grow. Where before it exists in the mind on one
person, afterwards it is shared, doubly terrible. It comes back to
haunt us, later. "Do you remember when....?" Eyes concerned,
sympathetic, reminding us of a pain that should belong forever in
the past, forever forgotten.

I am writing to forget.

A secret confided to paper can be burnt, destroyed. And, as they
consume the words, will not the flames consume _something_ of the
pain, of the memory?

Earlier today....

I see him with every breath.  His eyes stare at me, choking my
words. It is so hard to write. His eyes.... Can I ever be free?
Can I ever....

I WANT TO FORGET! I WANT TO....

*****

Fresh paper. No tears, this time. I have chosen carefully. Thick
black ink, indelible, but even that not proof against the flames.

I can still see him. I mustn't see him. I don't want to see him. I
want to forget. I _will_ forget.

Say it, Dana. Say it. Put it into words and release it, expunge
it. Transfer the memory to the page and the page to the fire, and
then....

Earlier today, Fox held a gun to his head.

So easy to say. So easy. So.... so terrible.

"Fox." My own voice was strange to me, calm. Just that, Just his
name. Nothing more. Why?

He held it in his hands, reverently, like a relic. Sitting, hands
almost in his lap, almost relaxed, casual. No words. If it hadn't
been for his eyes, for the barrel of the gun, for his _eyes_....

"Fox." I licked my lips, mouth suddenly dry, scared of saying the
wrong thing. "Fox."

"I was just.... looking at it." His voice surprised me, dead and
flat. "Just thinking."

"Fox." Each step was an eternity, a torture. I came to his side,
knelt down before him. "Do you _really_ want this? To leave me?"

He frowned, shook his head. "I was just looking. Thinking what it
would be like." And then, louder, a slight edge to his voice. "I
wasn't going to _do_ it."

It surprised me, the anger I felt then. "Then why look at it?" I
grabbed the gun, threw it away violently, although I knew this was
the time to be gentle. "Why even look at it, Fox. Why?"

He closed his eyes, held them shut for a second, two. When he
opened them a tear coursed slowly down his cheek. It shone in the
cold light of the window, almost beautiful.

I laid my hand across his cheek, let the tear run between my
fingers.

His eyes spoke a pain that was beyond words.

I will not think of it again.

*****

When it came, the end was silent.

She would so often wonder, afterwards, what had woken her - what
had taken her downstairs on bare silent feet at the dead hour of
night. Not a noise. Not a cry.

"Fox?" She mouthed the word, rather than saying it. "It that you?
Fox?"

He was sitting upright on the couch, shaking, swaying. But
_silent_.

"Fox." She took a step back, laying the gun down out of reach,
then whispered to his side. "It's okay, Fox. I'm here."

He trembled away from her. His breathing was irregular, heaving,
as if he was sobbing silently deep inside.

"It's okay, Fox." She shed all the tears that he couldn't. She
should have _realised_. "You can cry. Forget what she said." A
hand on his hair. "Let it out, Fox. Please."

"I..." A sob. "I can't. If I cry.... Child.... You...."

"I don't care, Fox." She held him tight, whispered into his damp
hair. "I don't care how old you are. I don't care if you cry. I
love you. I'll stay with you. I.... I want to help you."

At the end of winter, the snows turn to running water, cleansing.

*****

"Twenty-four years of my life." His voice was hoarse from hours of
crying, but his eyes were.... reassuring, somehow. He was
_looking_ at her. "Without it, I'm.... I'm a child. I'm twenty-
four years behind Samantha..... my mother. They've moved on, left
me. I need to catch up...."

"By going back?" She touched his arm gently. "That's not catching
up. If you find twenty-four years of a.... a life they didn't
share with you.... Wouldn't that take you further from them? At
least now their memory is close to you, recent."

"Memory." He turned away. He was beyond tears now. "I want more
than...."

"And you can have more, Fox." Her finger brushed his cheek, soft
and teasing. "Samantha has caught up. You can create _new_
memories with her - a future. Shared memories, not twenty-four
years apart."

He was silent, frowning. She chewed her lip, praying he wouldn't
mention his mother.

"Fox?" Scared, now. It was still so precarious.

His lips moved. No words. "And you?"

She smiled. "And me. You have me, and we have the present, and....
and we have a future. Can't you see hope in that?"

He nodded, slowly, but the cloud was still there. "But unless
I...."

"Fox." She forced a laugh, knowing he needed to hear it more than
anything. "You don't need a full thirty-seven years of memory to
be an adult to me. I don't _need_ you to know it." And then the
smile faded, and the tears took its place. "And the condition you
were in when you were returned the first time.... If you had that
memory, would it be good? I would rather have you with a twenty-
four year hole than tormented with twenty-four years of...." She
stopped herself, not wanting to say the word.

"But I never will remember, now." He said it in a monotone, beyond
emotion. "You think that's good?"

She reached for his face, clasping it, holding his gaze. "Yes,"
she said, simply.

His eyes filled with tears, almost anger. "But it's _my_ life."

She held him, shook her head firmly. "No, Fox. Not just yours."

The rain fell.

Dana smiled.

**********

END

Really the end.

Feedback devoutly craved, either on this individual story or on the
series as a whole.

**********

Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk